TREPANATION

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First will emerge

the imps of shame,

walking clots of dark

muscle that will turn

to mewling, pleading things

in the earthly atmosphere.

Then gouts of tears

from the watershed

betrothed to us all,

in the relentless beams

of the sun the rainbows

that will play around you

will have an eighth color,

not from outer space

but the inner crazy

aquifers of doubt.

The unreasonable animals

that will come to drink

from the resulting pools

are not to be trusted.

& then the very owl

of Athena, whom we believed

to be so rare, pinions

slicing the ordinary air,

will alight on a powerline,

incredulous she is there at all;

goddamn—you have no idea.

No, really, she flew off with them all.

The comes the infernal piping,

a single note

through the aperture,

it is the bean sidhe’s shriek,

but don’t be afraid, she’s

out of context here—

your hairdresser

on the cross-town bus—

beware beware beware

beware beware, etc.

Are you finished now?

Good.

At last there’s only a creepy

drain-gurgle, a last squirt

of television static, a few earworms,

goodbye Fernando,

& then nothing but a dull,

wholesome ache.

Well, what did you expect?

It should come as no surprise

that these effects are only temporary;

any idiot, after all, can drill a hole

in their skull.  The sublime transformation

of death is reserved for death.  Duh.

Look on the bright side,

now you’ll always have a spot

to store a cork.