A Gift Of Hallucination

His mind is shot, blown like an engine
Without oil, seized up, unrepairable.

The human brain is a roiling ball of
Wet grubs. The poet works his fingers

Into those depths, there's a diamond
Hiding somewhere, the pressed &

Perfect words of a priceless, carbon poem.
Do you believe in the diamond?

Have you felt the facets? I believe,
& I've touched the smooth, precious

Stone. But why
Tell you. Why remind

My
Self, pressurized,

Poetry
Is both mother & murderer.

There ain't no goddamn
Diamond in my head anymore.

Grubs & blood & dopamine
Splash in a bone bowl I

Throw at the
Sun.