John Knoll

WHITE ON WHITE

I’m schizophrenic. I’m on TV, watching myself watching me. Persuaded by amoeba mind to rhythm time’s new measure I look for love in cold desert winds of prehistoric pleasure. A classic toy of delight the dildo I prescribe covered by a black mantilla and a fog-shrouded valentine.

Cancer cells chaotically repeat themselves in the clouds above my shoe. Adapted to catastrophe I dream lost cities and biodegradable mystical emptiness.

A disappearing trail through a nonlinear series of juniper arroyos where a mountain lion roars diaphanous screeches that magnify a zoo adjacent a red box in a cathedral of gothic sound where I crisscross space four times and with a perfumed delicacy fly into a dragon’s winged shadow nailed to a crucifix.

Distance disappears within my last breath a presence sensed there not there. Words pile up create a rattlesnake’s lexicon. A blind raven is my totem. I eat organic skunk. Road kill embellished with Ayurvedic herbs. Framed by sun splashed chrysanthemums, I barbecue the Holy Ghost. Blind with love I walk out the front door into the fresh rivers of morning.

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