I filmed the grass, looking uneasy,
thinking of the desert. at a trail for years, the land nearby, the plight of Moses.
churning earlobes, mystic the
dance, the yogi would listen—I, too, would listen.
days to islands. orphans like older
issues, many occurrences, more pressure.
the plague of palmer-wood; the
universe is growling, reality is shifting.
it’s strange to undergo it,
stranger to intuit its touch, forbidden to discuss it.
fasting might open reservoirs. it’s best to approach
the chalkboard. to place the pieces into cohesion.
if it
never adds up, it might become too much—it might be something to let go of.
water is one. souls are plural. spirits
are similar.
over sour apricots, the
sophisticated chase, music presuming silence.
the story will amplify the principle—toils
warming, incense wafting, a person made to see.
symbols are like chimes, they keep
at the mind, they demand attention; the same channel, deeper beliefs, to hear a
young David play the harp.
resilience. a powerful notion, an
unreasonable reality. a peer and overseer.
the countenance made haggard. the
mind chapfallen. the face chagrin.
where is beauty? she is in forethoughts.
her anxiety is warranted.
the inner doubter, that advisor, where
has he come from?
life makes us doubt. pores pour out
patience. but knitting knots us into knuckles.
steep inside is a craving, to have
what understands—the cadence in rhythm, the universe held sacred, the
sacraments appointed to duty.
one gave me a phobia. I gave in
return, an anxiety. the order doesn’t register.
they call it nonsense, falderal, to
make a claim about winds—some mystic enchantment.
many will protect the claim.
