what came first, being here, or breathing? if being here,
spirits don’t breathe. the wind passage of the other, the force, the dynamite—in
one so foreign, a mere thought, so seductive, more so in absence. so much in
spirit, visiting from cascades to waterfalls, into cities. the pity of gods—the
measure of the beasts, the fly into a tiger, a head on a griffin. the challenge
of the mercy—the woman too much to leave—the reality, so hurtful, it must not
be resisted. from NYC to Chicago—roaming corners, arriving in California; the
Big Body Soul, the mid-body spirit, the feeling into its feelings. at an inlet,
shaking hands, just talked to a lemur. the lawn next door, so immaculate, so
irrelevant. the staircase, leading into the ceiling, the normal two-year-old—the
mother tugging her hair roots—sweating, intense, doing right. so scarlet, a
camera missing the sentiment, a soul siphoned for its love. (so determined to
walk away, so clear on the boundaries, no mistake, the clause is spectacular.)
clad in Godhead fury, a true star, at the banking sociality, at the concrete
liquor. so many wins, after so many loses, we hustled like gremlins—greedy for
a feast. the neural-nacreous pain, the sagebrush, the underbrush, the fever for
the bomb taller tales; in a bycatch, insanity for her mothering, her sweetness,
to do for us what none did for Jesus. the feeling inside, the bridge-scape—the refugee,
as never one friend, so claustrophobic, running come the next ingredient. so
many mittens, so tight the advantage, so core the truth, once she becomes her
soul, we might lose her.
