by the expensive autograph, the expensive rain, the soul on auction;
eating excellence, remembering it hurts—like hell is illegal—the times it was
us, grieving the tussle, edging many futures. into the melody, listening for
content, it’s been a longer run; the maps wheeze, the almanac is a miracle, one
palm on the steering skies. such a gulf in us, religious country, atheistic
sciences, been silent to it; never told his secret, his concerns, a nation Latin
like sandals. was given nothing, born
with schizophrenia, as far back as she could remember; bawling over riches,
died in poverty, left us two daughters, a granddaughter and one lizard sinning
out on hell. much tugging to get
attention. more a recipe for dying softly. looking at a woman i admire, i’de
croak with, living with illness. it creeps in, it can’t break from us, it
abides in suspense—the affection for a few, the love for everyone, the distance
from self above all things—screaming out at identity. tell me, “Serenity,” passing by, living for
family, wife, friends, and kids. tell me, “It churns,” the quest for the
future, rapid into a cycle, the system correcting its mistakes and fears, too
many becoming the new 2pac.
so many hungry, so many tentacles, mental millipedes—striking out, into
furious lands, so many more the native sunrise; the tongue born here, the PTSD
inside here, the grim-reaper, when it’s done, they’ll say something famous.
