you die harder than many. you try
to postpone analyses. those hours seeping into my bark. much trepidation, more
skilled than others, such the works of a dozen others. harvesting sunshine,
watering batter, fluffing cakes with flour; more specific, running through my
heart, looking for grandiosity, or needing some semblance of one in need of
services, or something deeper, something up in arms, the philosophy of the
warriors. come to my little kitchen, cooking many noodles, the brains are in
observation. another has watched for longer, a fair person, making connection
in the interior. another is newer, seeking some goodness, moved by the pains
that aren’t mentioned. you die harder than many. you know the communion paths
with precision. you can inflame anyone, at a given second. you know a secret i
shared—the gauge, i now let it go.
i haven’t been in Spain, nor the
Vatican, but i have been in both Spain and the Vatican—loving an image, one
made universal, at tears a friend had to crossover. i haven’t been in Greece, i
haven’t a foot in Africa, but i have been embraced by Greece, i have been
considered by Africa.
i sense Jerusalem. i sense Judah.
it has been years now, what is the fear?
you die harder than many.
upon a cookie sheet, i place cookie
dough, the result is something cooked, delicious, pleasing to the senses. this
is somewhat what we have created, but it’s hard to trust, harder to accept, for
its built-in pain, its foundation is sediments, the grime of the jutted
disposition.
another is watching. as in taking
mental notation. discerning some elements as true.
you sense it is realness. you need
something. that something, right here, is granted. in this, you feel ignored,
or some crazy element, whereat, in you live the greatest beauties.
the seasons are steady in passing.
love is something civilized—the way we haunt each other.
if it seems authentic, let is rest,
or engage it, while silence seems Phoenician.
