Imaginations of Intoxication;

A man, lost - wandering
a decade of years - found his way
home tonight.

Barely visiting, he left again almost before
finding that hearth of myth
we all long to return to - that place
many can describe - but have never been.

That peace
this man may never know -
but these thirty minutes?
An eternity of heaven
in one mind.

Forgotten
was the now hardly remembered
tingle crawling gently along skin
pulled drum-tight over cheekbone,
ears buzzing silent and the flushed flesh
cooking
soft under thick
walrus whiskers.

Forgotten -
but not forgot; the fire
of a grandmother's applesauce
gone to the "high" end
sliding done a quiet man's throat
collecting in a molten lump
in the belly until, bowl consumed, fire
explodes within washing body
in the heat, light, relaxation

of intoxication.

Those he knows
he knows will not
understand - will condemn
without hearing his words, hearing
the transient relief in voice
and muscle and spirit.

Those are the ones
he would ask - is it so wrong
to give an old woman the joy
of feeding a grandchild?

So wrong
to be who he really is
inside for just a moment?

To steal a second
of forbidden pleasure, peace,
from the fingers of the gods?

What is so terrible
about stealing a buzz
from the applesauce
cooked
in the kitchen of time?

Served in a bowl
replete with banana bread,
a passing joy to a young man
grown old in soul,
fire fades
and only memory
asks if it was imagined.

_{(To A Friend; Oct 11, 2010; 22:57)}