Bring Me an Exorcist

In the Eleventh hour
behind the air curtain
of my cyclone-thoughts,
I am dream-haunted by
a diamond studded
cow-goddess
fused of cysts and bile—
Poured
into a dress
stitched with
Chestnut tree
bark disease.

My Daphne is
a corm to be dissertated
within the dark fields
of the therapist’s
trade journals and
to be measured by the
correlative ceilometers
of abashment
and acknowledgment.

When did I become
A baying chicken
looking for Ahab’s
blow-spray and Marilyn’s
breasts?
Won’t someone please
bring me an Exorcist,
a River God, or a
death-blast from
Morpheus?