he was born to politics—caged—watered
by blossoms, bracts, pain and dreams. the skies were pregnant, a son was born,
immortalized, a place at the table. neither knew peace, both at the temple,
trials, tribulations, mud and underarm odors.
the cycle is a kleptomaniac,
claiming souls, most keep leaving a note for Jesus; many more, going directly
to the Father.
distinction is critical, yes, no,
maybe, order, sequence, reality?
wartime inside. theology inside.
osmosis inside.
spoke with a soul, saw his eyes, he
carries it well.
we juggle in ghettoes. many more to
another ghetto. if political, the battle is like an X.
knotted, kneading, appointed to
have-not status.
the fringe of discomfort—an ability
to turn left—a life with regrets.
many apologetics for disposition
and era. we might gaze at a mistyrose. the pavement is different for people. we
take the helm differently, we endear differently, as humans, we are addressed
differently.
it can’t be said, it must be said,
it feels insoluble—not with access, but the process, bereft of inheritance,
surprised to see so many flowering—the beauty of the chaos.
many become lethargic. the snail is
interesting, but the caiman is respected. the philosophic is in becoming
something lethal—the anger must be monitored.
subterranean love. community
connectedness. upon ageless malaise.
