i was all quite happy, contented till –

lust said: this is dull, flat

then added a fork, an altitude, a mountain

on top of the sky; afloat without support

and that looked pretty cool to me, that

captivating sight burned through my vision

till i was the sky enveloping mists

i took for real. then they parted, cloudy verticals

dissipating with the heat,

and i was falling from the stars back to earth

with a bump.

then got quite sleepy with the hit, so took a nibble

at grasses prickly, a bratty goat kicked hooves and

all – buttercups, daffodils fell softly upon my bruised

aching body. i thought of curd in my mouth, still masticating

ruthlessly, spat out that green slime

found noble pursuits on a canvas quite to my liking

so i stomped away, chased those ideals, youth and friendship

that fell apart when a horny goat

told me green was i, with long horns fully grown –

sliced me away, for while i chased dreams, the goat got the grass.

fragmented, distilled, chastened – i tried to tell my

story to wandering ghosts that failed to listen

to my woes. they had plenty to tell too, then i found

a niche, became more mournful, more insightful on the wrong things,

dead ends, lamentations became my quiet prayer

that go no where because i was simply following empty

roads leading to more empty rooms.

voided, like a bounced check trying to find meaning

to rejections: held my clammy hands tights. fist full of

long nails digging into flesh, flesh that seemed alarmed

that my soul tried to speak of other worldly things,

taken for real. it’s not. what is not? the headless goat tried to prod

me towards those misty castles, hanging on nothing, like playing

catch up – i found it’s horny head lying in an empty

room, dead eyes still glazed away as if life could be relived.

would not have that! the flesh shrunk back at horns

still writhing away; trying to penetrate that thin veil between

here and now. one real, the other pressing to make an impression,

a dent to my free will deciding. what’s real?

obviously the puncture that came along when horns broke

skin. like a balloon getting all the air sucked out –

giving up earth for the sky not mine,

giving up plenty of green grass for a chase,

giving up – the meanders, the turns, the goat whose

other name is greed and marked.

the mark of now, hurried, always sweet, persistent, forceful,

an invader bent to conquer here. till here and now makes no difference.