such whispering wilderness, such knotted kisses, an antiphon of angels. we need dissonance if but for growth where spurts appear to their carcasses. sweet annihilation or sweeter alienation, where a man ponders his sanity. those souls we keep, those gate-reapers, while Lazarus attends to spirits. Elijah might fly today. Elisha might win today. we see authority conditions miracles. it was love, those cries, it was convergence those years, it became quasi-mastery. so heated by you such courage in you while sipping something hectic. I know, Grandpa, it has churned like sulfur, we sense something goes deeper. but winds gust into evidence, or immersion suffuses temperaments, while we attend our understanding. so lost those days while fretting a woman where nothing related to sanity. to aspire to tell a story. or to live in America’s Africa, or to be stuck in 1860—for souls are redundant with a need to assert indifference, while someone must be appointed to lower ranks.
I deploy a spirit as social science
appears to me while I insist on miracles. those feuds in us those misfits
ruining perception or Catholic School to un-sturdy a child’s security.
I performed in clarinet. I died in
violin. it was hard to ignore her color. such anonymity or boarder those ridges
where a mulatto might turn towards something infectious. at some core disaster while
appealing best he could, where souls are devastated by a perfect image. it
seems deranged, to be so fluid, expecting souls to ignore what we need, those
rumors. so late in life so gifted with ink or so determined to feel normal.
such a crazy ass plan. where mental health is mandatory. while a person would
blame disease for a perception. those silken apologies or expected to fail
where success disappointed a certain crowd. those deeper epithets while it
comes with a charge where racial nuggets linger in each person.
so close to your furnace so astounded
by your wealth so far apart by our colors.
I can’t stop writing. something is
killing itself. but nothing changes with permanence. we know it’s wrong, or we
know it’s our doing, while we sell an image most are not ascribing to. such
deaths in our hands, to try to take this rain, & still feel beautiful.
