I spent a lifetime building up my craft
of building, learning my materials,
and how to join, and so I built high walls
around myself without a crack or rift,
till, trapped in the material, my mind
took on the architecture of the tower.
I built a life, but didn’t have the power
to speak or see my own stone walls: two blind
windows for eyes, door of a mouth clapped shut,
a basement full of monsters and an attic
of dusty paradigms, so when my static
life was electrified, was lightning-struck,
a plank in reason broke, I dropped through worlds
with every plunge. Who spoke then, without words?
The Tower (Reversed)
I dropped through worlds. The plank of reason broke
as if the tower of words were struck by lightning,
so that cast down and babbling I spoke
a tongue I didn’t know, the way you might sing
in dream. “My god,” I called, “what’s happening?”
Was it a nightmare, acid trip gone wrong?
Perhaps I’ve had a schitzoid break? I sing
while driving, washing dishes, but this song
of silly syllables, this Holy Roller
snake-handling stuff, this crazy-making won’t
do, it just won’t. See, I believe in caller
ID. God, if you’re calling what’s this rant?
I guess they call it ecstasy. I don’t
trust it. Enlightenment won’t pay the rent.