Chapter 12

Split

I

I am ◦ xenakaaii
My ◦ twisted twin
My delirious doppleganger
Drunk in delight
For being more than imaginary.

Thát ◦ clack of tap shoes and tacks
Against the concrete
That ◦ chilly breath that ◦
Tickles the hair on the back of your neck
The ◦ conscience to ask for direction,
These things are me,
Because,
The mechanics of the mind are mine
To control. There-fóre I can
Drop people, like flies,
Like … like kicking rocks in the lake
(cause that's how I see it at least)

If you're seeking me, I am ◦
The man in the crown or the empty room.
I am the man who wears his top hat down
To cover the seven stigma,
The scars etched for every sin
Into an already frailing forehead.
And after all that other shit I've said
I was the one to whom the wild,
Matted wolf named Evandse appeared
Because I called him for my company
And crafted him from clearer shadows than I'm clad
In and then I listened to the cherished earthbound chattering that rang

II

I am ◦ an eternal beast
With teeth bared and eyes chiseled from coal -
Darker than black beneath the night-come sky and
Colder than caves deeply buried in arctic lakes.
With cheeks contorted in chagrin, I preen my chaos-covered limbs
To cleanse the deep, green cuts of sweet and sacred sacrificial fights.

Then, adjusting every muscle, fiber, joint, and bone,
And throwing back my chin, I moan!
I moan the age-old chant, the screeching hymn,
The same as ev'ry sailor knows. The song he sings on sinking ships
(And in the eye of violent storms this song is sung by nature and by man alike.)
And I moan the battle cry of cats,
The one they cry when leaping on their chosen catch
(Not now the grumble for aggressors in the nest
And not the hush for hunters holding guns.)

I moan the wisdom of the sages with the power of forgotten gods.
And when my master comes to calm my soul and comb my wild coat,
I sing the contradicting song of Cel and into him transform.

III

I am the child clad in white sitting on the floor,
Crouching with my cars and blocks, and
Grinning with a toothy smile, and
Catching fireflies in cans,
And then carrying my catch to light my chilly room
In the eerie, greying night.

I am ◦ a prodigy at three years old
Because I laugh in glee and take delight
Despite the wicked world alight with with war;
Maybe I'm still just too young to understand to poor and the tyrants,
Because I'm still too young to be•bent with apathy,
My soul is filled with random sympathy,
And needless joy, and curiosity.

Regardless, I prefer my caring, sympathetic world to the
Concrete chaos constantly on magazines and television screens.

It's not wrong, for me, to be ageless for eternity,
To always be the child thinking that he's clad in light,
To always laugh, and to always, with everyone, delight.
Because despite the wicked world alight with hate and fear,
Despair, insanities, lust, wrath, and greed,
I still believe that every greying night
Is lit by fireflies
In summer.