in a brush of wits, much
flame in wilderness, like monks with esoteria pangs; a soul made fierce, bumps,
bandages, a cup brimming over—those wires, as waxing, vines push up from soil—a
cemetery in dreams, bones walking, facing Ezekiel; a soul screaming, pausing at
an anthill, fretting becoming a sluggard. in a brush of wits, much flame in
wilderness, like monks with esoteria pangs; much in trials, much in
tribulation, pure beauty to maintain perspective. looking, listless, warn down—bold
ballads, brief encounters, I became amazed to understand their dynamic; a daisy
as a sign, a rose beneath concrete, surefire manipulation. in terms made
easier, one deceives, the other might know, might enjoy it, need it, beg for
disgrace. life is put into perspective, listening, watching, hearing something
foreign; vigil, alert, while it never mattered.
out deepness of clouds,
murky waters, anacondas, serpents, cobras—the lies of the grains, those
embedded sediments, eating raw behaviors. so quick to see, quicker to manage,
if but to do as one wills, and claim sorrow; the complication of the human, the
gigolo running, the measure of the social pressure. a man raving, a woman like
deserts, a cactus taking notation. a soul on fire, treading a mistake, seeing it
becomes his treasury.
