like a phantom, racing to ask
favor, waiting like pigeons. i say it plainly, rolling the interstate 5, just
passed a mind exhibit. many portraits, much in the promise, it just can’t
happen that way. we see the monopoly, credentials are in question, like racing
the mind-shaft. the junior league, the big league, such slavery in our
postmodernity. i enjoy the roses, the miniature orbits, between souls, asking
for acceptance. it will not, maybe it
will, in-between time, roaming, meanwhile, at the dungeon, wowing the audience.
so much for the bathwater, holding to
the progeny, just rinsed the mire, just swaddled the poetry. Covid came, it destroyed, each life was
touched. i keep at the expression,
often on point, goodness to the Good News. most need more, albeit, we adore the baby,
the promise, the interior Jerusalem.
took it as a joke, i got it, discovered one is lethal. class in the morning, ideographs and
ideals, looking at one, made profound in my perception. like a phantom, swooshing, as she lives,
letting go, found redemption. it
doesn’t happen that way. where it might happen that way. such meaning in a
different daffodil. the stove was fraught
with dreams; the rug told a story; made it in, or making it out, this becomes
the constant chase. had a feeling,
looked at me, it was a sad day; it amazes this way, a split second, always
concerned with what could take place; the mind family, the banshee group, the
noetic kingdom—
