The Shaman

Rich with heaven and hell

bones engraved by history’s

endless column of gray misty pain

skin like a Great War battlefield

nacreous skull tall

and filled with stained glass windows

light warming 
the brain of his butterfly through

stomach full of taste buds

his head a seamless aigrette

bars of ice in his throat

holding the fire within

and blood the flavor of cherry

He could confuse the laws of karma.

Could play the chords correctly incorrect

earn a robber peace

or twist justice out of lies

and monsters with static for a face.

Smarter than the elders and dumb

to the universe

badly weakened, barely able to breathe

unable to procreate.

Language did not restrict him.

Thoughts did not govern him.

Dreams did not stop.

He came this way one time.

I invited him in for gumbo and whiskey.

He left and now all is well.