by Ben Koch
In every village of his life he was the white
demon, even friends pressing him with spear-like shards,
cutting shanks of memory’s glass walls at certain veins.
Many expeditions end in fever, lightly
heeded last utterances with a child’s bursting
look across the face,
Disintegrating stories leave spaces where light
soaks through to clean cancers from the eyes, old burdens
like the body, having a name, no longer hold.
White buzzing circularly opens the chest of
space treasures from the mouth, hearty laughs, rumble bells
of bliss shining sweetness of things in rainbow echo.
The natives closed in on his spatter of phonemes;
the sane raised weapons in case he spoke heresies:
“There are things flashing so quickly you don’t believe,
There are things decaying so slowly you do, that’s