the
palm is itching. such superstition. the gates guarded by gnarms. so succinctly
one has sacrificed. the knee has the ink pen, writing prayers to God. the baby
drinking sawdust—the gelid father puffing cigars, the last days have come: mudpies,
insects, fevers. the baby wailing, emaciated, mind foggy with hunger—the father
puffing, in tears, nearly violent. the mother is in pain, calm, near
hysterical, rashes inside, a helicopter outside, to the brink of insanity, then
saved again. each month, by the graces of a slow force, a slower process, the
breasts aren’t producing milk. how to placate a child—so eerie inside, the
haunt, the house, the way it makes nudges? the dreamy, feared eyes, the deeper
gaze, so desperate for relief; wild mosquitoes, disbelief by the hell they
cause, unfiltered by the way existence is constant negotiation. weathered by
struggle. it must be complicated. it has to be difficult. the crops ruined by
locusts. the blight reaching the entire land. children eating the locusts. around the world, rivers polluted, olden
countries plagued by pestilence. the faith makes self-deception tolerable. if
something isn’t right, the human must have done something wrong. if fawning, it
must work, while souls know, it’s full-on participation—can’t be disappointed
when the bulk of the responsibility, the onus, is on the seeker. a vulture followed an emaciated African
boy. the vulture didn’t care. someone should have destroyed the outcome. so barefaced, so blatant, the souls are
buried!
