Gomden Hill

This evening I sit on Gomden Hill;
I can see everything from here,
the world laid bare at my feet
as I float belly up toward infinity.
Strange, but not perverse,
there is a glass of whiskey by my side.
I ingest this poison,
laughing at the taste
and counting the breaths it takes for me to die.
One…two…three…four…five…

I laugh again, collapsing into diamond dust
and refracting the light of dawn into rainbows of emptiness.
What a wonder!
A dog barks as the neighbors fight and someone coughs with dis-ease.
The sky turns pink in response, answering suffering
with prismatic sparks of atmospheric color.
The whiskey pumps through veins.
Mine maybe.
Thank Christ for livers!
and whiskey.
No poison, no wisdom.

This evening I am drunk on Gomden Hill;
not on whiskey but wisdom,
coursing through the liver of pure being
to be transformed from dust to diamonds,
in love with nothing but the view
from Gomden Hill.