the mojo is waning
those parts are endless I’ve located you. I need to die, to go low, I need it
to live. too sexy to cry, too raw to invent, too mean to give a damn. black
kenopsia black mesmerism, I have a terrible crush. oh to say it hurts, at birth
again, first words were her name. running through cities, craving like blasted,
at a psych falling into a portal. eating blood-grass, fiddling sweetgrass,
baking marshweed—tumbling in hell as to see your face, so disgraced by behavior—beating
drums, made it tribal, galloping through Los Angeles. pass me a heart, tearing
rubber, a man begs for a child.
31 days to speak
of freedom, to feel freedom fighters, to adore like winning is an option.
backed against a fence, at loud screaming, too much to ask for serenity. so
tranquil. so deceased. making waves in our cultures. chainsawing hostility.
seesawing our romance. such oily oceans—to have died again, to have
resurrection again, a door opens to a smile again. a hat with feathers broken
caves with havens at gates smelling a softer scent.
like a praying mantis,
at tarsier eyes, something still askew. a dream for a peasant a soul on trial
the line has become thin.
a woman is
streetwise riding a streetcar laughing on a little phone. too adorable to
ignore too casual to fret less, as dynamite on an airplane. sickness of a
genius, laying in bed, not one problem in her. a filmed man a camera man no
need for photoshop, Man!
playing amidst
goosegrass laughing like skies are perfect, so turquoise in abandonment.
