3 AM (January the Second)

I can’t relate to what
the troubadours have to say:

Stories of loves lost,
unrequited; dreams
of memories past.

They sing their songs
to harmonica, guitar.

Tunes that bring peace
to the mind, quiet to
the soul. I wish…

(At church last Sunday, you
prayed to Mary Magdalene,
asked forgiveness for Mother
Mary, cursed the Sun and
made love to His Father.)

You tried playing their thoughts
for me; their lives tried on me

as I rubbed your back (so sweet,
so painful) in your satin kimono:
red like the blood of my soul.

My brain is a sponge
filled of psychology,

philosophy, mythology,
science, math: art. It hurts
even when I caress your flesh.

(Two weird sisters sat on
the right hand of God:
vixens, jewels for the crown
surveying its domain,
a dowry: flesh for fantasy.)

I’m a drunk. I’m insane.
I’m an addict addicted…

Your body; your mind;
this concoction –
chemicals, fermentation.

I can’t write my life,
embarrassed at what you’ll find,

embarrassed at what I’ve
already discovered, what’s
never been understood.

(Madness leads to madness,
insanity to insanity, another
course, another vein, another
drink, another thing to explain
to the therapist – understand?)

Beautiful, I still smell
Asian currents on European

skin, but your scent can’t
be touched; can’t touch me.
I need to feel – Pangaea.

I want nothing, to die
tonight in my sleep.

My brain is my pain.
My mind is my loneliness.
My soul does not exist.

(None of this is real…
there are no words after
their formation, but even
in such an embryonic state,
I still can’t get to the truth.)

2 AM, my hotel light
burned on… 3 AM,

my nightstand overflows
with cigarette butts, trash,
books, notepads… alarm!

I can’t relate to what
the troubadours have to say:

My love never came to be,
requited by nobody since
I cut down the tree of life.

By Michael Anthony Adams, Jr.
From his collection Recipe for a Future Theogony.