Although many magi I admire do not.
This warm hand upon my leg as I drive
Without windows in the summer sun,
These lips mashed against my own
Mellowed with the morning's fermentation,
This bloody patch between my fingers
Where my skin wore away,
Resigning the webbing to ground flesh and bright blood,
This is vital
More so than whispered promises
Of possible worlds
Or the poetic words of Krishna
Endeavoring to ennoble
The slaughter of brothers
With the glory of eternity.
This may have been before.
This may be again.
I do not know.
I know, though,
That this is.
Mythology will never pick the pockets
Of my dear days.
This quicksilver thought
Moving my hairy limbs
Is my eternal incarnation,
My savory sacrifice breathing in the burn of offering.
This sanguine torn tissue