most die at the truths
concerning the universe (human inclination); others hear something
different—others live in a bubble (blind courage). i tried the cocoon, it
hurts, out the concrete blossoms a smarter flower (intuition born); so
appealing in essence, so quiet in person, with so much to compose (a lesbian
author): the novella heart, the novel mind, the memoir intentions.
closer to the fate of the
soul in the essence of the skies; never seen much, aside for a full building,
liquor on asphalt, the building foggy—dice swirling, mathematics blurry, the
deepness is surprising. up all night. class in an hour. “I wore this
yesterday.”
too much to see, as in
failing into ecstasy, I knew she was a billion on a rooftop. much into the
quickness, that feeling, like beauty is at the skies. to rain on our spirits,
to see nakedness, just to give over to a given second. such a hypocrite, so
refunded, so crude at moments; used to live, was raw with life, off in Arizona,
met a tender excellence; indeed, so spectacular, as never
understood, as knowing
the best, and only the best of a person. rumbling, fighting, laughing, so
provocative, if only those three days forever.
aside a towel, or wrapped
in selfsame towel, soft scented, elegant, and recharged. such stubby toes,
sweet, treasured sexuality, the value of a bank owned by the Morgan’s.
crumbling lower, nicotine on his tongue, just fell out with a trillion-dollar
opportunity. moving my mannequins, enlisting my pantomimes, so perfect the way
the harlequin is just rising:
at some atypical
ventriloquist, some inside jury, some type of a problem.
i see the best in skies,
suspended over a navy of vessels, falling into a cup inside heaven; meeting
David, playing chess with Solomon, hearing it clearly, “If I could, I’d do it
better.”
a hunting machine, call
me in contempt, but they seem to need a few monsters; hearing it in silence,
grumbling, so hungry for such as bathed in rain; the road is longer, the
pebbles have voices, the odor used to smell odiferous; never changed, always
changed, looking at a basket of
timecards. amazed to have
met. some are a pleasure to have sung pains with; it seems amazing to want it
forever: such the best of self, the worst in a jar, at our behaviors, nearing
make-believe, too raw for make-believe.
building a penthouse,
such a mansion, many rooms with doves and pigeons and geese, the goose laid an
egg—so golden, such good beginnings.
