like mystic dice, or alchemic
skies, metal into liquids—nothing to eat, nothing to say, with everything to
believe in; it must be better, the laws of poverty, pure grit to escape—no more
Welfare, more buckets of faith, in the church line. a brick of cheese, it might
last, cut the mole off. many signs, many symbols, anything silent is a
psychopath. some exaggerate—he must be pliable, reachable, bendable—the plight
of blackness, immediate aberration, simply upon color, ethnicity—they look
differently. ain’t nobody listening, nobody but a few, we adore, nay, love the
few.
faith was rebuilt, try completing
science, try aching in private—the force of the thief, a bag of farm chicken, a
stead of steeds—more laughing, forgetting agony, none fall enlove like those
dying. beautiful, tall black woman, so provocative, too much to conquer; easy
winds, mudslides, grinning under sunshine; too busy to run, too involved to
pretend, so delicate, we trust you. it never ends, it becomes terrific, such
rain on seas, another inch—into sky rise, so low, we need more machines. tragedy
struck. seated in pain; the excuse is terrible.
sirens screaming, a face in itself,
to look, where moons shine; tears against gravity, rather give them to God,
precious sorrow gets us closer.
