you open
with wings, digging deeper, growing feathers; the long-distance kiss, the fever
grieving, the filled pockets—and everyone is watching. the first meeting, the second loss, the
rehabilitated excellence; open further, do eight years on one poem, live
according to a California life—the yogi—gone deeper, the inrush in night
vessels, the curves and corners, an all-life destructive passion. digging deeper for Christ, i see Lucifer, i
heard it was good to see bible figures; such silence in deserts, so metaphorical,
like living isn’t difficult; cold at times, warmth of a thousand bulls, at the
airport in Egypt. what’s the missing
link, focused on a maskless life? running
into myself, confronting his excellence, asking for full accountability. and
Love sits there, right inside, as i become more detached from myself. moving so
fast, like a NY minute, so bioluminescent—such a metamorphosis; the gunning
empires, the oxygen she spoke about, the anxiety in the infant—born with PTSD. a new scarf, a holy handkerchief, everyone
must heal—so optimistic, i heard Jesus is walking, they must learn to churn the
cycle. a new California, known for
revamping, known for immigrants, fast cars, porn, and religiosity.
each
mission comes with resistance. the whole world is watching. failing felt like
starting over. succeeding felt like the most gracious of all detriments.
