A mirror for a battle map.
A diary page for orders.

WAR upon
WAR among
the gang of love
the gang of snoot
the gang of overburden
the gang of falling. 

All in all a free for all,
all in all hands on hilts and handles.  
All inside within
and contained.

How much
expected blood is lacking —
nowhere to run,
no gutter showing
but a gutter is there
and it is full,
making 
drowning
equivalent to
draining.

What harm would there be 
in my falling face down
into a plate of cocaine

if I create just one thing
something sublime, something
world-grabbing, something God-gilded?

If I do end up face down in a plate of blow,
ask why before you shake
your fandom-crippled head.

Maybe the Work took everything
out of me and I was just trying
to blow a hole into the chamber

to make refilling myself easier, 
or doing the last horrible thing  
relieved the pressure of knowing

I would never do a thing again
as wonderful
as the wonderful thing.  Imagine 

that Art stopped working,
and I hurt.  (Truth is, the art 
never really works; it just makes the cocaine

possible.)  Maybe the last high
was the best joy I ever had
and I can finally kiss

the obsessions of Work goodbye knowing
you have the Work.  Enough. I’m content.  
To me it looks like no harm, no foul,

so stop waiting to see what my face looks like
when they gently lift my head.
You’ll not learn anything more from that frozen smile.