such
a feeling, an all day feeling, with communion alive its deliberation. it was
sullen into an art while such fire into a soul. where have we gone, where it
feels normal, such evidence of a delicate ideal? a man shovels dirt, he
imagines an audience, where someone utters, “You aren’t here!” I root for you
in silence I root where it might get crappy: our contagion to live, our
understandings, where truth existence is said as bliss; so absent of shame, so
void of punishment, where our god is a source of devastating happiness. what
has a woman longed for? what is this huge picture? it’s matchboxes, whetstones,
or such to hewn our skin. I rewind self, into a dear trauma, seated in deep
reflection. I head to the kitchen. I grab a cigar. she checks in if too much
time passes. I’m mad at me. I’m mad at you. I feel a bit of uneasiness. space
is different or casual while mirrors determine dishonesty: “It’s well. No one
knows”; where I love this one: “It’s not your fault.” somewhat hard on self,
for it distinguishes realities, while souls are living—such beauty, such
underpinnings, such trenchant mistakes. to imagine a life, sure purity, as
never an indiscretion: (I sense such monsters.)
our prayers
bleeding as sweat trickles while heaving into a handkerchief. or coughing
ghosts alert but unseen where a demon is relentless: such nails or guts or five
determined scarves—as never but more tears, where eyes just water, while
reading or raking or scraping brains intensifies angst or augments sensation.
but orison, noetic orison, such as it comes by heart orison! those abandoned
fences those tall ladders while a man has an excuse—those fair cries, his last
reality, while most hold to what we have learned.
