Timothy Edmond # 1

You painted the ceiling

enamel black

like the inside of

your bong, like

your brain, like

the inside of your

lungs.

You sat there like

a cemented garden

oracle.

I don’t know what

you said. You don’t

know what you said

but it was good.

I was with you with a

beer as the Sun came

and then a let’s go for a

walk.

There was a bakery

you could get a pie as

the light

interrupted us as we

talked; you not quite

understanding, me oblivious.

You talked through

the morning. You had a

a special chair.

We had many years

before we became

redundant.

The trick was

when to go to bed

and when to have

sex. Maybe Wednesday.

Everything you said

was right.

And he painted the

ceiling black to match the in side

of his brain enamel tar black,

the inside of his bong

the inside of his lungs.

There was a ritual to everything.

He had a special chair like

a levitated pillow on legs.

He was in tune with his body.

There was a communal bowl.

He would write poetry in the

toilet like other people read

the paper.

He could cross his legs

in his lap and touch his

ears with his toes.

He spoke like liquorish.

He would speak to keep out

the walls, holding everything at bay.

“Paranoia is good,

it comes knocking

at the door but

we must reconcile ourselves

to it because one day

it may be the Man

calling us to recompense.

We must look him

in the eye, the mystery

caller Mozart meet, or

the caller from Porlock

Coleridge let in."