there’s a shoebox
with me in it. there’s a polaroid with facts, indisputable realities, inner
psychiatry. likeness to a dying breeze, sirens aloof, soundness in fire. the
rose was bleeding. a jamesia grieving. I was lost for years—maybe unfounded,
maybe grounded in pepper. to steer into limbo; to die for rivers; mechanics
bolted to immateriality. such math in a person, such censorship in self, to
witness the best of us making mistakes. so on schedule, sore high agendas, a
man may envelope a trillion-dollar essence. if to live in billions—as on a
cliff, to leap into arms, killing stability. if to believe in a million-skilled
mission, bullets in mannequins, death in pantomimes, to then believe in unbelievability.
her nose is cold. her warmth in dilemmas. so captured, sore gunning, a trillion
homicides, in a foreign country. we love in sewers, kicking rats, filmed in
terrors; nakedness, climaxes, cleaving into sunrise. so in each moment, a
person grows into dumbness, numbness is executed, hung on high, disputed by raving
emotion. to cherish, running from bullets, breaking essence, as lodged into a
coma.
I ate a bug, some terminal flu, it belongs to an inescapable clutch; to live in a dream, to feud intestines, in inordinance, in devilish hay-air, as souls rebuked into loving. by the frame of its disaster, by a curse in its fever, painted, into a stew, pierces making humans. never as close as it lives in pains—the fleshing of insanity, to adore in excellence, to ask for a friend, no greater schematic, in devilry, doing best for a wellbeloved.
