the
rain is fire, the dreads are war, the angst is a vase—pouring in, breaking
concrete, an abstract addiction. by a noun strikes flame, “happiness isn’t
free,” battle is with a mirrored glass. backbitten. lakes filled with tetras.
coming closer only aches. if but to swim, if but to efface blindness, so dear
to me for a guarantee. mother’s near, I feel spirit-breath, granny is watching.
how have I loved phantoms—how have I become a ghost—how will I not resurrect? “Too
much his gospel, too many aberrant thoughts, science or nothing!” indeed, we
exaggerate, even in memoirs, like writing a novella. so difficult to speak, so
challenging to compose, so eager to meet a potent verb: asking when it hurts,
laughing through crucibles, coming to eyes with compassion—the giggle of the
immature, as never knowing, kindness is an ingredient. many unphysical nibs,
many shaded skies, falling was once so horrible; looking closer, saw an amulet,
souls blessing their jewelry; a lie to gaze away, a lawn next to a hose, a
mailbox, a letter, I had to die! so romantic at times, such an asshole at
times, such a buffoon at clocks; those dear pegs, those gems, like winning
until days shift. I feel spirit-breath. I confide in a petal. many dragons have
flooded the esoteric. sweet rapture, rhapsodic dice, at tears on
islands—feeling good, or ravished asunder, like lunch in a fiery pool.
