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I dreamed that Joni Mitchell and Leonard Cohen had a son
destined, preordained, the artist-savior
He dreamed in brush strokes and spoke in liquids
danced in tangles and flowed in tremors
an angel-perfect banquet of honey and acid
and his truth Murdered you by half
and He reminded you that the dying part was the part that needed dying
He cried with you, for you.
He loved you without ever looking into your eyes, apologized without sensing you in the room
internal, omniscient
and the world celebrated Him
and they knew He would save them because of the gates from which he burst
and they swooned, tangled
hungry for his killing
begging for release
like me.

and I wake to meet Him
tangles and tremors and brush strokes and liquids
murdering me by half
but just the part that needs killing
crying with me, for me
loving me
and I curse Him because of the gates from which he burst
and I drop my mic at a wink of normal
as I kill the part of Him that needs dying
and begging for release
from my artist-savior

from my Tom