by John Kendall Hawkins
.
A small army of minotaurs chases me
like Jack Nicholson in the labyrinth
of my mind, baroque and broken, can't see --
hydra-encephalites, heads on a plinth --
a bouquet spray, little shops of horror
on two legs. Try and try to get away --
oh my, if I only had a dollar
for each time they told me that I will pay.
If you listen to silence carefully,
you can find a crawl space between the stars
of being and nothing: wait there for me:
I just need to dodge a few cars.
If the monsters get you you are finished;
but if not, they themselves are diminished.
(Article changed on Aug 29, 2021 at 3:32 AM EDT)
