The roof is becoming the recovery—in
its art—its symbol, simile, vice and disgrace. The geography of tenets,
precepts, convincing concepts—upon the dream, or the nightmare, wide awake and
sleeping.
Souls going viral, the ontology of
the discontentment, the metaphysics behind the floating, frequent animosity.
God has been given a polygraph. Some elements are hazy—amid a fog, the terror
is found in the indecision.
Loving might not be, it might not
come, it might have never been, or become an idea/ideal. Couldn’t be me. Must
be another. Never able to point a finger. Never the anxiety of wondering. The
spirit, albeit, more to rights, secrets, to utter a name, and disappear.
In the background, deep in Africa,
we hear tambourines—we see sawdust, we feel ourselves slipping into a desire to
believe. The unhappy freedom, searching for the guarantee, with omission
serving as priority. Not at all comfortable, please know the dynamics, he was
chewed up.
And mother was running—the genealogy
is haunted, the world, secret service workers, are harboring a deeper
understanding of human capacity. The connectivity. The pain. Let Jesus rest!
It’s time to refocus, tap into the Power,
take the baton.
Jesus woke up—took the world—it’s
amazing how people locate, negotiate, and train each other.
Most are trying to be hand’s off—like
the terror isn’t a sylvan, rushing into another, miles away from what
transpired. A long ways for us—might see me there in ten years, if lucky, if
balanced, like Love isn’t riding the outskirts of the dementia.
The fertile cheetah, the omega
tiger, the alpha jaguar—fox following, kept it vocal, kept it silent, ran with
the soul of an ape.
Oceans out for kilometers. Covid
damn near a tradition. Getting it together is like becoming recovery.
Assigned a twin, rummaging the
interior, like connectivity isn’t the leading threat.
From shaman to swami, from Christian
to Buddhist, no one is saying it, they only induce it, the receiver extrapolates
what appears as obvious; concrete is present, supervision is possible, many are
living to turn soul the mess out.
So much shapeless knowledge, made
into sky realities, as it pours into the distorted perception.
In want to speak it, unorthodox
lovers, such as said to hurt us—the black man, those ethnicities, while it has
become bigger than Europe. It served its purpose, it was said, it was uncouth—the
city of the lights of the souls running where the lights no longer count;
upon Woodstock, a slam into his
heart, a god in his dominion—the block is watching, the deaths are dripping,
like fear was a new beginning.
Gave like a lemur—gorilla like a mathematician—or
critical like one holding back; sure outstanding enthusiasm—the Queen of the
Kingdom, a man has a problem in understanding he doesn’t have a crush—so much
Power, so much Prowess, the return of the conscience mind—the unconscious
goodness—or the subliminal feeling struck into a knot.
(Let her soul hit orbit, in death
may each receive her spirit, may our kids take the torch and find something unlocatable.)
They say a trillion are roaming the
high lands, a billion in the deserts, and too many to count in Ezekiel.
It came to a head. She would carry
the affectation of hands buried in esoteria. Wavering at the gates—picked apart—like
it never truly mattered—for it came with truths—where one is conscious enough
to answer the silent challenge—pure clarity!
One might watch, see force, and
slam a confirmation—as it pours in, the miracle of the good person—for it
aches, for it hurts, like sharing the only person—one thought to die with—or passing
a child into Christ’s crucifixion.
We might know it lives, we’ve
unpaved the tumbleweed, but the process is so excruciating;
sound into the recovery, so
astounded by its reality, in reaching a state where today is the only claim.
