I
knit a vice-letter, I taped it up, I sent it to Mr. Invisible—as fire the
instructor those realms so ghostly such shadow where death sees himself. it was
haven-hells, it was sharp churns, those blueberry lights; a friend so close a
rope so high or too much cotton: a daughter its agonies a mother such ripples
if but to forget our woes! so darling so contrite so gothic, our darkness
behavior, our talisman personalities, while most things irritate—to die a sepulcher
to reunite with helium to float or skate to have such convergence—those nectar
trials or obituaries from self while one would not suffice; every aspect in you
every odor in us while such water drips into spirit; our graves our elegies or
this late night note to Mary—those elastic prayers those three day meditations
while I met Love on retreat; a man hiking a man dying but too far in to return.
by tender amore to confess feelings where one has no origin; it’s granny or grandpa
it’s chicken with links it’s deacons or pastors or subtle influence; it’s dice
with liquor it’s grants or loans where one is swooshing or strumming or begging
for acceptance; it’s fervor or castles it’s mystic or cultic or it’s
anti-hierarchy. I don’t need segue, or intervention, or an invite to kneel,
grovel and become filled with ecstasy: so passive, so numb or so expectant
where naivety chokes up its ghosts.
