going at it,
rebaptized, speaking tongues—a tale dangerous, hands trembling, eyes screaming,
demented, hard on sanity, like bent in atmosphere. eating beasts, running through
mirrors, aside an hourglass, mumbling sands. living close at it, hoodie tight, a
pair of new Asics—the respect I give, if but reciprocation, it’s astonishing.
dearest
distraction, minds laminated—with chills, pagans, pure, raw dislocation.
roll one for me,
inhale one for me, look possessed for me; life at it, Rick James at it, a young
Teena Marie at it.
a slice of
cornbread, a glass of futuristic, watching how souls break free. blocks imploding, homes trampled, most art is
made from gut—living like desperate, the value of the artisan, many can’t feel
too much nuance.
I listen—it sounds
like make-believe, it’s remarkable; a poet bungee jumping, a metaphor, in midst
a jungle supplied with inkpots. to dip in gold, to explode like disappearing,
seated at the foot of a mountain. all these trees like paper is free, I nibble
leaves, I count veins, I shake ideas like dice.
turning away, like
curious a dream, I wish I could; to invest much time, to dance with affection,
purely moved by a harmonica. losing youth, rough in time, against a strawberry
patch; sensing it’s a trial, living with intention, aside from running like shrews.
a new energy. I must
grow. you can tell we're all possessed. it’s a fear, the wrong one unlocked, and
hell will shine.
at a different
dialogue, most mythic sagas, suffering the succession of struggle.
