Spelunking.

I love it,
love it,
when you come eagerly
through the dark mouth
spelunking down the bat cave.

Stirring curiously the shivering nakedness
where no one's welcome
and not one has ever been suffered,
but you...

Nailing carabiners at every fracture, you enter
the bowels of gloom even I dare not peep into,
and carve on the fleshy tender inside walls,
so gently with your scalpel of care and your eyes closed
the meditative chants about others and their suffering.

I love it... And you ?

Beat it, Milksop.

Fears,
well crafted in the curdled underneath,
suckling on years of circumspection.

Dreams sequester in the wrinkle slowly creeping
on the well moisturized brow,
struggling to dissipate the "what if" perspiration.

Fears,
persuasive, that one can always
close the venetians,
slouch in the subdued plaid
scraps of the sun,
flip the incandescent bulb,
and continue reading.


Well... I don't think so.