lacing my boots: no one is dying,
everyone is resurrecting, the doctrine we digested.
needing baptism, like the
stillborn, asking for mercy;
deep in purgatory, liquor talk,
pill walkers.
mad in spirit, the order is off,
another sentenced
—blacks are resurrecting.
sameness to us. reality specialized
at unreality. such and such—it got to a point—we all stuttered.
stuck in the situation—the head I
hope, the tail I see; more tetras—over literature, the local magazine neglected
the story.
myriad similarities, bodies at the
Jordan, a witness to certain eschatology;
much soteriology, more to spunk
like fire, so proud of our souls.
most wakeful, it was by accident,
getting into emotions; most unorthodox, fine as the foreign lady, pockets
filled with paraphernalia.
do forgive the weak. do forgive my
spirit. the next flight is to Harvard, the last flight was from Atlanta; a palm
of leaves, deeper depression, but—why—so resurrected?
know the government, my checks and
balances, most fishing at the social pool.
most incomplete, resting in
sorrows, hearts leaping.
never felt resurrected. walking
into the cave. rags rinsed, placed on the clothesline.
it was days, listening to problems,
inside the dome, giggling for reasons unknown.
I felt unseated, unfitted, a loose
screw, a broken bolt.
they—or, a few—trying, or at it, if
but to silence—the re-filtered.
why did he perish?
flipping the sails. he bought
another beer.
the group moving, as we suggest,
the pain to the wisdom.
