Each day split in two, the day and its penumbra. This is the part where I'm alone. Living diurnally, give me two names: the one that is called & the one that is never, ever spoken. The basin fills with glowing blue water. I'm no match for the tusks of the world. I cower mostly before literature. Before literature & the face in the mirror. The feet of those crows, an ocean of hair. My room fills with toenail clippings. They look like the moon tonight. I don't give a damn. When even the sacred wine is my enemy. Can't buy a Jag with all the dead poets in the world, or get no satisfaction. Even that's not sexy here. A monk who loses his god becomes a medium. I move the table with my feet because you'd never believe me what the spirits are really doing.