Wanton Blue

by Jerry Fishman

When I drifted
Out of mind,
I dwindled down
Through body;
I vortexed down
Into Soul.
Did not linger long.
Moved deeper
And deeper in.
Realized then
I was tasting the forty-two
Flavors of death.
Each flavor
A cold, chaste kiss
On my numbing lips.

I drifted
Down
Ebony staircases:
My bare, wet feet
Walking down
Steps of living spiders
That slithered my feet.

Down, down
Unrelenting, shivery
  darkness.
I drifted into
Each death harbor
Where only giant rats
Sat discussing Kant
On rotten wharves.
Each harbor
Was the wrong one.
And so down I drifted into
  newer, Stygian hang-outs.

Down at last
To the end of the journey
From mind to essence.
There
At the end
Lay only a pile of blue
Leaves:
Blue wanton leaves.
Each one rubbery,
Chilly to the touch.
Each one giving off
A small music
That moved
From violin to angel wing.
And touching
Each wanton leaf,
The faces
Of ancestors rose
And I became
Not me, at last,
But the last
One.
Unbroken chain
Of Ancestors.
Blessed be
The ancestors
Who birthed me.
And so I became
But one of them.

The newest blue leaf
On the endless
Human tree.
And death
Then
Was my home
On the endless tree.
I leaf now
Among the wanton blue
Leaves.
I too
Am ancestor.