I got sin long
wages of transgression like a demon turned angel. I sense it at a distance so
bedded in intuition. friends died. dirt, mud, grime, soul. a team indestructible,
invincible, trapped in a gnat. Love is fire, I feel holy, she demands a god—the
life of father, those regions in mother, I have nothing to give. chasing
visions so close to you it must feel like existence—touching womb touching tomb
so damn unseeable. richness at pathetic tragedies so many dying in Georgia. I was
needing us I was screaming at us I was trespassing us. white flesh a black soul
on a flute like a guitar. white on white like sunshine on moons so much a flame
into space. it makes no sense, holding you hostage, like some pathetic tragedy—couldn’t
let her go, begged to get rid of another, with pain in something never the
great prison. south riding north working an eastern region—a cloud with rain a
field with bleeding a woman he would never mate—as critical functioning so
critical in waves, like looking, giggling, filled with treacherous betrayal.
what has you in a
wheel inside sawdust blanking out?
I imagine he
dances like weather so tender still at lusts—driven into ghosts so underground
another home for concrete bleeding.
so in between so
many flights with lovemaking sheltering longevity.
another bastille
another’s intuition, at blockage carrying bags of indecision.
as a last thought.
it’s not love. something in a strange dominion.
