a woman’s
pendulum, many interruptions, willing participation. so damn heavy, so damn
lit, it was Jesus.
harvest me. plant
me. harvest me again. so ripe for romance, so cursed by romance, say it one
time. call on eternity melt when blood trickles bounce like trying to die.
the wound is
emotion, which drives learning, marriage to knowledge
—so caught so
gutter, divorcing ignorance
—trying harder in
a hard space so hard to invite myself to healing
—a fret in
mountains like changing personality—drastic poets, tragic causes, in favor of
mind-cache.
too close to
dying, a need to right wrongs, please cleanse his soul; generations of madness,
treble in kindness, it’s hard to ignore folks.
“nix” means “nothing,”
something lingers, I must knit my name—father was good, Nancy was life, I drop
a tear for us.
too dear to strife
those crayons with scribbling more meaning.
a man is devilish,
a woman might be heinous, too damned as it lives poison.
I praise the
mural, lost in Los Angeles, heaving havens, no good it breaks.
the line is gas,
the blast is passion such a scent it must insist.
sit into a wall on
floors nearby doors a tile a carpet soft into damnation.
washed in water,
given baptismal, I know science—it felt like spirit.
I must confess,
using Lyn as confession, I undertook to resurrect mother!
so addicted to
mists, so far it never dies, so southern in his religion.
