after the Rubicon

This morning, stigmata,
somewhat a surprise.
Drank a few beers, bled,
watched the blood trickle down
pitter-patter to the floor,
Rorschach test patterns.
Or Chinese ideograms?

Wrapped my hands in gauze,
brushed the teeth in the tub because
the sink was again clogged --
constipated? A metaphor?
I squatted there, brushing,
like a mendicant praying,
imagining giving myself up
to a higher power, up to
something or someone higher.
Mind tends to wander,
while squatting, wandering far,
yet always coming back.
Thank goodness.

Biscuits in the oven,
I read Plath
until it was time for work.
Glorious work!
I sent a text message to a friend:
Middle aged man prepares for day,
stumbles over empty bottles.

Clean shirt, jeans and sandals,
unsubmerged from the pile
heaped in faith on a chair
near the closet.

Outside, sky high,
seagulls wheeled,
alight in pentecostal grace.

The streets were full of young horses.