bundled in self, burning
sage alongside Frankincense—a region in a semi-zealot, some numen anchor, a
channel she identified. I resist. too many soul-eaters—too much power.
things haven’t
changed fire it flames into a wick a harness on our skies. backwoods cauldrons.
fierceness inside. our minds feel anguish.
in a nutshell,
humans are energies, a mantis would say it if he could. I resist. too many
spirit-deceivers—too many powers. “It must be lonely, albeit, never alone, but
we need humans.”
it trumps me. it
becomes observation. it makes me sick, dizzy, un-tempered.
peacekeeping.
sweeping a laundry room. ironing frustrations.
it grows into a
well, leaning on campfire, zipping through spheres. a channel she identified, a
pain underwater, religious rags.
we sawed all day.
it lit by furnace. she was waiting.
I felt reframed,
restless, surreal.
it was usual to
meet resistance. it was unusual to meet a sphinx. I wonder how we’d act in
Tibet.
lots of sparks
swooping atmosphere uncursed facing gray winds.
we might speak it,
we might unfeel it, we never speak to the nuances of spirits.
pure lightning
romantic thunder the realness of multiple channels. black verses white the
fuses of magic, the curses of our churches.
a bit aloof. a man
known to see. watching angers some people.
like seasick
filled with nausea, too many are soul-eaters. we never say it, what occupies us
inside
music made sexual.
a channel we’ve identified.
a reason it seemed fluid. a tale of two mysteries.
