it must have been
a miracle—a bipolar baby—the words breaking silence—the curse as generational,
five aches, six seasons, each person, carrying a phantom: some unique, still
coherent, others, vain, crazed, grandiose—of course, we touched, of course, we
cried, of course, we felt remorse.
over a scented
candle, over miles trekking through dung, to find my own, to be understood, to
live on edges, meant for rodents; most photic elegance, it never mattered, she
could have killed me—so cultic, the vein popping, big blue billiards, as
diamonds, Love, as quarters, Love, what have I said, Love!
gravid fire,
heart-mixtures, framed as cursed—I must admit, she never accepted me, she
helped me, I laugh to try a kosher exchange.
pure splendor in
disguise, aching over mishaps, we each seem sensitive.
I never knew until
it came out. it came out like venom. it guided a soul, a listening soul,
through his desert.
three canteens,
five wounds, a sixth sense—an antiquitous phantom;
it becomes graves,
tombs, sky fevers.
so great his
brains, so much missing, if to know my own—the perils, pleasurous depression,
never pull me out of myself!
more to finding a person, coarse in
praise, toned in agony, ink splattering into sunshine—a rainbow, bleeding me,
touching like Armageddon, like fruition come to pass, releasing with claws,
teethe, screaming, “Bloody Jesus!”
slow burning lumber, aside an
ember, fluorescent prayers—as bent, spent, understood—those waves, clashing
tides, more respect to a phantom.
she will never be mine, as an exclusive
gift—too fiery, too receptive, a creature desiring a susceptive universe—words breaking
arcs, as so much a killing, along a seashore—bottled oxygen, a true reality,
gripping last years, fumes in back locations; a puff of a cigarette, memories
in some home, patience aloft surrendering.
