Wither
but holiness so weathered so fevered so lucky; those dancing cymbals those
anchors we see or something accusing our souls; but a leaf to you or but a
faint whisper so acoustic so crucial so barred; at a small inclination a nation
filled with reasons at kleptic anniversaries. Those graffiti vines this child
growing while many were held captive by reflection; our battles with spirits
our demon juice while our women lost more respect; so close those days while a
man is perfection where it depends upon perfection; our jabs and javelins our
jars of jelly at something jagged and jigsaw; to sense in another soul this
created interior or to stand close enough to ignite; this fire in versed souls
this religiosity in eyes while many women are running from that anchor; to
become familiar or to adore with patience this thing has gathered its petals;
our daughters watching life those magazines determining life while mother is
fiddling through a catalogue. I must admit to beauty this fair machine while
such becomes, at times, neuroses: this hard won umbrella, this heartless
adversary, while a brain folds into itself; to desire admiration in this world
of indifference where more is but a fishing net; as curious lost and endangered
souls—so holy a line so enthralled by riches so acute and so darkened; those
intense seconds, laughing and losing giggles, at eye-mind reminiscent of
something incredible.
I
see a ghost. It stands in motion. I remember its pain. It lives with me. It watches
me. And it caresses my interior heart. This essence as a creature—so filled
with memories—so caged inside of me. I see cedarchests and lawnmowers as they
evaporate. I heard a granny tugging a cigar and yelling at something in there:
this place we can’t see this dungeon our remnants or this voice untamed and
training itself. This secret they know. This village of yogis. While some are
too faraway to return. This ghost is fire. This ghost is sorrow. And this ghost
is retaliatory.
I
must be mindful as I trek a darker light for phantoms appear; they speak to
mistakes they conjure up fancies and they respond for others. This interpretive
reason so unlaced while true matter has a kick.
It
was 9 a.m. when music was violent or tumult was rising and sudden into a spell.
I looked around and saw a lady and figured it was part her doing. I was ripe
for extraterrestrial activity. The waves of the seas were hectic. In a distant
fever something was calling. Good morning, Mystique. The lights were
winking, Ms. Mystique was in all black, and so faraway in this small decorated
room. How are you? I responded in earnest, but it was designed to meet
me. The chair seemed so important, the window seemed so foggy, but reality was
upon the phone. This address we report. This essence we unknit, or provoke it
so much it goes asleep. It’s a sure reality, this vest of agonies, where one
goes so deeply something manifests. I have naught to grip to—I’m carrying on
with life—while cautious about this ghost. As younger fire in this harpooned
whale while something is prying at my cold hands. I’m covered in slime this is
my third birth and Ms. Mystique is hesitant to get close. She has seen it too
much she knows its potential and it hasn’t, at this time, been determined as
good or bad. I looked at Mystique; I nodded a little as forward while casting a
dismayed smile; we soon departed in a spectrum of minutes.
