Gaslit: A phenominological poem in three parts

Part 1


I walk through the dark valley of perception

with fingers stretched before me,

feeling for signs of life.

I need all my fingers

and palms open to do this,

to guide myself on this untrodden path,

to pass safely through shadows

of hungry lionesses

and stones thrown by angry giants

larger than reality.

I need open hands to do this.

If we only use two fingers to guide ourselves,

pointing at things we feel but can not see,

we will miss the trail we were seeking

or fall into the lion’s den.

And so, therefore, we can not see

with our pointing fingers.

No, we need open hands.

We will not see past the massive stones that were cast,

and will lose ourselves in their shadows

without open hands.


Part 2

I wanted to tell you what a good person I am,
but there was a cloud inversion instead.
Dense, smoggy attitudes
trapped ice cold opinions,
because of all the hot air
someone else was blowing
out of their giant asshole.

Part 3

I can sense the eyes

like coyotes in a dark forest

when the moon is new,

and batteries in your headlamp stop working,

just as you’ve arrived at the rim of a canyon

at midnight,

barefoot and alone.

I can sense the eyes,

waiting for me to write something.

They want my power

and they want

to accuse me of giving it away.

They want something to yip about,

and it will always be about something

they will try to make my fault.

They want to misinterpret

what I say

and they will,

they always do.

They want me to doubt myself,

and if I don’t,

they will keep up their

Machiavellian dog warfare

for years if they have to,

until I cave,

until I forget who I am.

They want me to look away

so they can snatch up my words,

like a pack of coyotes

preying on a lone wolf.

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