the complex dice, thus, a rival
inside
as hating itself; redwood crosses,
bones
in guts, the marrow for the
deadman;
the meter meant much, the touch was
iambic, the force was in fire, an
exchange for water, brought together
to boil. doing like 70 mph, swerve
the
lanes, frightened to breathe, like
pain
in its casket—forget the meter. i
can’t, feel the accent, so syllabic,
a
toss between dying, and living. i came
i saw, i tried harder, never
conquered?
the spirit became a pharmacy. a
palm filled with coldness, no
converse
plotting like a crazed man, like
Alcatraz
is back; (days of dimness): she
came, she
swept, she vanished. i try to
fathom the
veins, the reigns, the ghosts, on a
beam.
the reward was passed over, an
anarchist
resisted, like running for gems, to
get
the diamond, and turn by fiercer
gusts.
the bridle was removed. the horse
went
wild, just follow the corners, the
emptiness is blank, sense self,
eating
more garlic, made it in, paid the
fee, art
became the garden; either hustle,
enter
the Army, or so unique the world is
seeking its vengeances. busting
rhyme,
shooting hoop, doing something with
a
football. we read the handwriting.
we
asked to repent, should have
danced, the
booth was filled with nakedness,
jumping
into rawness, the shift unto, the
leap
to soar; souls bleeding prisms,
announced
as last in line—the fields on fire,
decorated to die; mother addicted,
father found in eleven syllables.
beguiling winter the blotted memory—
preempting the discomfort; the
endless
sheets, symbolic dice, forks and
fires; as
suggested somewhere, nausea and
wigs.
