Sermons to the portal

by Ryan King

I was drunk in a cornfield
laughing at the clouds
who were only passing by

I spent the day shadowing flying birds,
gliding as reflections over sparkling rivers,
singing mantras with droning insects –
prayers for sprouting spring

In spite of the warm sunshine
and fresh air
I soaked in the brandy,
lied to my liver about the state of the world,
retching all over the first flower –
the (l)on(e)ly blossom

I disconnected from the moment,
and began to bleed out of the lines
like watercolors’ bloom

Find something nonexistent

Produce a way to let it breathe

Watch it bring itself to life

Last week
I was sober in the coldness of my mind
I looked through the clouds,
stone-faced and cruel,
picking at cuticles 
already so ragged

Cut loose from that memory…

A month ago
I was on acid
I remember saying I’d never tread that fine line again
Tight rope walking over world war III
as imaginary voices came to life
chattering sermons to the portal

…never come back…
…let us slipaway…

a someday haze of never and its memories

I’ll be sleeping…
drunk with dreams
of knives that part the nervous sea
of blemished skin…

…eyes closed…
…keeping distance

Ryan King is an artist just trying to make it through this life. He is a songwriter/musician, poet and a painter. He has recorded a few albums worth of songs independently. He has had poetry published by 48th Street press, Rad Publishing Co., and most recently, a chapbook published by Between Shadows Press. @vayouking (IG)

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