Some say walk through one you’ve never walked through before
and I’d like to do just that
travel to the Western Desert of Egypt
slip myself into some ancient geometry
a pyramid or dune—all that time made
of sand of centuries rushing through me
my body a small glass sun extinguishing— 
searing a hole through epochs
and truth—Cleopatra and radical
blunt-trimmed brunettes
their fabricated hairdos
in Hollywood Boulevard windows
where The Doors used to wander
after their epic sets at The Whiskey
Jim Morrison straddling the mic
in his skin-seared jeans
a human tube of lip gloss
rising from the sea
of salivating fans—peanuts on the half shell 
Surely he knew something about
clicking cosmic doorknobs
floating godlike in the passageways
like in the cisterns of Istanbul where
you can walk to the end of one dim-lit plank
find the giant carved head of an inverted Medusa 
and feel like maybe you do now
right side up in the upside down
where we’re not supposed to be
sharing cans of salvaged integrity
the last meaty bits passed around a shadow fire 
to keep blood and spirit flowing
freedom or death that depends on timing
on truth on who’s in charge or I suppose
how many drugs you might take
to feel like a rock star
Jim’s frame
or a Ptolemaic queen
just passing ships
launched in the watery Nekyia
of a Parisian bath tub
of a civilization for instance
the body is sacred
worthy of fighting Pharaohs for
of lighting candles to
never mind ripples gathering
on the face—its tint origin or shape 
which are just measurements
of the physical world
reflected by light and time
but are not light itself