come
to me the death-table so sweet as I dearly would cough. such humor so dependent
while we would upchuck. such soul to know names with a calendar spewing its
demands. I feel like falling standing on cement while the bed is abstract. tell
me fire, or tell me water, where tepid homes don’t survive. a plate of
beginnings, a pan of familiarity, or oil fried smelling like life. a man died,
God, eyes heavy-warm, but tears are reluctant. to tell his future to exchange
his woman while Jesus would pass out. those dice, Love, those tiles, Fury,
while I know pain, Grass. such tussocks if but a glass-hopper, while a fool
feels emptiness. such hope to make damages where it sounds funny but who loves
a mistake—those uncured sections this mannish sorrow as cut from ghetto slums.
upon a sleigh or gods
tiptoeing such thighs to fret his conscience; while wrong for you or breathing
for you so much a man a damn project! too damn needy too damn human where they say
the man is numb. to feel everything must fragile brains where a man tries to
retreat. a knife so deep a trance in writing where spirits broke through. as a
soul fried such chicken with waffles or deliberate a cross to arrive at an
impasse. so much to feel life, so much to reel-in Christ, as a deadman to
granny; the flex of dynasties those years in dungeons while we know shame; so
intimate, Precious, so lost to deserts, while I’ll die a good man. such mystery
such mystic violence where I’ll appear as one lost to darkness. the padlock or
those set of keys, while a daughter is out the waves—so cured or so demented
while miracles sprinkle mind-gold: an arrow as it spins while we sew by
happenstance!
