Nobody knows who I am or what I do. Not even I.
Don Juan Matus in Journey to Ixtlan by Carlos Castaneda
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ON SUCH DAYS
by
Jamie Dedes
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On such days we come crashing at the rough edges
of narrow channels and wide open oceans till we are
caught between moon-sight and sun-gold distortions,
fickle changelings of dark and light and shadows
pregnant with dream demons and wicked illusions
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How successfully we manage to precipitate chaos in the
hoary hibernation of our soul’s winter, denying the warmth
of our own voice and the god-awful finiti of our bodies,
So here we are, sleep-walking our rocky, rebel road and
serving our spiny poetry like Don Juan his peyote buttons
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The BeZine 