You can pry open
the hidden gates
of my elusive
suffering
by snapping
your fingers
to the rhythm
of my electrocardiogram,
you're the keeper
of secrets
on the windy
mountain top,
I don't know
how you
got up there,
but you're so
natural
in your role
as the village
shaman,
you shape
rather than follow
literary taste,
you move
and mountains follow,
it's beyond me,
but I remember
the first time
that I read
Howl
by Allen Ginsberg,
it took me almost
thirty minutes,
and it also took me
to a place
where millennia
pass by
so gently
in the time
it takes
for your
spellworking
eyelids
to flash
effortlessly
only once,
but the all-seeing eye
didn't see
eye to eye,
you have an iris
in your hand,
it's invoking
your clairvoyant
powers,
on a Wednesday
afternoon,
landscapes so vivid
while memories be lucid,
Ursula K. Le Guin
as a force of nature,
there's a thick mist
in the evergreen
forest,
and you're stepping
right through it,
eyes moving
frantically,
neurons firing
in contempt,
your muscles,
paralyzed,
preventing you from
acting out
the innermost
thoughts,
disentangled
hallucinations,
commonly
referred to
as dreams,
your own
brainstem
is inhibiting
the neurotransmitters,
you're constantly
held back
by the medulla
from using your vision
in the midst
of this kaleidoscopic
simulacrum,
call it whatever you want,
you're the high priestess,
the bioluminescent
sea sparkle
in the universe
of things,
your mind travels
to Alpha Centauri
and back,
while I take
a short stroll
to my local
supermarket
in the middle
of the night,
looking for a cure
for my nocturnal
scribbling,
but instead
I return home
with some instant
ramen noodles,
walking with my two legs
while you're warping
space beneath you,
and I'm more than
okay with that,
because
I'll let you
be in my dream
if I can be in yours,
and you might
remember
who once said
something like that.