out
the canister a drip to his mouth, one sip is much more—boxed in at darkness pursuing
skies. dice on its table a trestle in the restroom as all we wanted. bottom
born, bearing burdens, boldly black—a half culture equals a half alien with
more fire to expel. furious flames, favored fevers, framed in fragments;
distressed. listening. something is risky. human tactics, tragic lies, last
soul for tribunal. one day a thousand years, or a thousand years one day—rushed
into trauma care, bleeding his liquids, a mystic woman upon his eyes. it’s not
fancy, the diction is cool, meaning becomes us in perils—driven, naked in
space, torn apart for ten centuries. to cross paths, to feel an explosion, to
sense a knowingness. maybe dissonance destroys, maybe a wife/husband suspends,
like freedom keeps dialing. giving pieces of his brains, unregistered in
spirit, a rebel born rowdy so wicked at inches. ink thirsty, paint electric,
with beer control; dying softly, allergic to nonsense, many call him
intolerant. flaws must be worked out. pain must be harnessed. dangers must be
analyzed. too smart for me. I have no patience. too many inconsistencies. some
are magicians, so treasured, like a call and pain is erased. I think harder,
whom do we go to, as to help the doctor? thunder ties. fireballs mid-winds.
firestorms swooshing into Texas. it can’t be simplistic, it’s too complex,
where in hell do some abide? I do confess, it might be deadly, it might shotgun
a brain, it might pull out a knife mid-motion. it has odors so intoxicating too
advanced to let go. a microphone called powder, an explanation unworkable, atop,
falling into convulsions.
