Smug as a bug

They haven’t turned up the heat yet, or held my feet to the fire. So, still I stay smugly detached from nervous bristlings meant to alarm. And time I have to consider the Shaman who walks, entranced in faith, on beds of glowing coals.



It’s curious. In this incestuous head, bone is squeezing too tightly. Turned one way, what’s real is swirled. Degrees aft or starboard, things will gel, but sound is suddenly smothered. Venous rivers are imagined, and the heart’s voice is a drum. The ghost may be giving up.