the dangers of knowing

The Dangers of Knowing

The normal flow of my psychic aura has been disrupted.

It seemed to be neither male nor female, and it scared the hell out of

the darkness inside his head with the affrighted, speeding brilliance of

their feet clumping and echoing, their shadows long and pallid,

the only thing moving in the whole hot daylight world.

They loved the old black-and-white monsters.

I don't know them and they know it.

I don’t know the word.

She wears the sunglasses and that’s how she visits with

the sounds I heard from the bottom of the mine.

The current crisis seems to have passed, anyway,

emerging gamely from another blast of static,

something to focus your concentration, that’s

planted one foot on either side of the sitting corpse’s body,

past the trademark stained-glass peacocks

while the rusty leprechaun squeaked and spun.

Men as well as women can wound with their tongues, and

the shape on their backs looked vaguely like a country fiddle.

I carry them with me almost everywhere,

crosswise along the tar in east-west lines that looked like

your face when you finish reading this!

To work, it really has to be all of us.

You have to work mighty hard to do it, and most of us know.