In

[rowens]

In

Mind limber, ready, whole body,
raining on the Black Lodge,
same feeling as rain on roof,
imagination sated and flowing on red, and ziggly lines,
the creation comes like sleep,
brain-rinsing, baptized with dream,
dark lines down a page,
images concrete, stable, breaking
like pouring ink on a canvas,
piss on warm snow.

Not thinking before speech,
gathering the sources round,
not blind effort, keys
are poked about, settling
innocently in lines.
And out, no opening doors
or exits, entries,
here, another place,
same without the Lodge.