I am not here
in the seperation of roots,
by the neck of the speed.
If I have to go today
I am not ready,
I will not ever be ready.
I am not in rain,
not in wind,
not in fire,
not in legs,
not in moods,
not in coupling breasts.
I am not in this city,
I am not in the sufferings of mingling creatures,
I am not in the eyes of dissipation.
There’s a story of vendors
and there’s a story of an intercourse for a mugged hysteria…
Once you have a void
and once after a wild trek you become a void.
I am not here,
don’t stand on me,
don’t find me,
don’t look at my smoke.
I am the hush of a mountain,
I am the silence of a road,
I am the dark room,
and I am the chair that rattles in familiar and dying retrospection.

…………………………………………………………….

Photograph: Bob Black.