Channels

There you are

Clear

As air

Ice cold as a winter morning in Central Park

Or snow-bound on the mainstreet of Oslo

I am crying and it’s not me

It’s you

I am channeling you

You are cold

To me you are cold

You bring no sweet release

Only sustenance

Soul food

Your pain I can taste

I am in your pain, but I am not of your pain

I have not caused your pain

I am the art of your pain

The overflow of your agony

I am the wasteful world of your Christ ecstasy

You bring you

You send you

I am you but do not become you

I do not ‘become’ anyone (that’s a joke)

Yet I am your adornment

For now

The bucket for your ectoplasmic superfluity

Afterwards

I just subside

Subdued

Emptyish

I think and suspect you don’t even know

My tears

However

Are of you

For you

By you

And

Are

You

Yes, there is a manic me

Yes, there is a melancholic too

Yes to this is me

I am what I am

(Sings Harry)

I am what you are too

And

Proud

To be of you