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Trekking Through Snow of An-Other

In Bicêtre and Salpêtrière,
folie à deux rage as gyri spine.
Pelicans pine.
Buttocks whine.
Covet thine.
I want, must have.

Chained whispers blew before a fleet of muses – Anne, Gertrude,
Silvia, Virginia – dropping anchors along Ports of Epididymis.
Looking for love in garden-spun germ states,
while Little Hans locked the gates,
to go beat Bonaparte sausage, anxiously.
No mother, it’s not time to come in:
my object has no relation.

Go, play your concertina.
Walk away with your dancing uterus.
Dangle your stitchcraft
within gray women crying
for Little House On The Prairie.

Through it all,
I still hear your cat scratch commentary
your psyche wandering confident
through forested sand dunes,
a sibling to self.

This is such a splendid condition.
As refined as polished cherry wood,
even as comfortable
as grandpa’s stained,
sunken chair.

But after loving you and you and you,
after listening to Cerberus barking,
I still wonder if I am living
ego-bound conditions
of Medusa hissing:
Moderately sad,
essentially mad.