the mat is froth
with mud. the screen gate is rusting. the wooden oak is decaying. small things,
in a small ocean, like the heavens would clear time. a terrible person, a
frightening history, never as much as such-and-such. we say that, like it’s
measured that way, like I only did x this month.
I have an issue,
many don’t confess it, I imagine the worlds in her seduction—flames at bottom,
benthic skies, wild ass tornadoes.
memories are
sketchy, it’s rarely a one-to-one correlation, despite sobriety.
problems pop up.
we can’t believe it. everything we endear, as if it never happened. looking at
seven-four Impalas, looking at Big Body Women, seeing what life is advertising.
behind doors, to catch a glimpse, looking at a bad ass machine. the lakes are
drained, a pill was popped, we never understand until the soul unlocks. so
close to losing, so near to winning, like a linchpin giving into lusts. a
miracle—while hankering—everyday an addiction screaming from the tablets. an
angel to sin, a body flying, a ghost at woes.
I see Lizzo,
dealing with an issue—as to adore self in a world denying that self. each has a
war, a tear as bellicose, many will despise color—including color.
moving into caves,
mind-fire flipping into orbits, the love we sin. skin to brains, a sensuous
touch, so much to desire the right miracle.
whom to trust? —like
wilder animals, too close to losing sanity—the gift of the seas the water of
the falling, so free it feels like chained-liberty.
I achieve no more
than I give. I receive no more than the upshot. I must predict the weather.
