we see in parts, faces
blurry, dying the resurrection; —dipped in memories, smoke filled skies, the
independence is unreal. the body was pierced, Thomas had questions, imagine
bloody fingers — (was it dripping?) i believe without seeing, like a good shepherd,
i flip pages, reading deeper, to feel the faith of the Border. the seas of men,
the deserts of women, nor to mention colonialization. the bad doesn’t outweigh
goodness. humankind has ideas/ideals. the burden bearer, the beasts, couldn’t
be the ethnic warriors; big resistance, trickling theorems, drinking our way
out. the mind running, is the mind restricted? and head on—it chuckles—it hurts—too
much to ask those questions; a man at chances, dying in an old Cadillac, resurrected
in Christ. to break it down: we speak to mystery; we speak to an ancient
esoteria; we give it to God—another gives it to something otherwise, including
self. by participation alone, ask the antiquated mountains—how does a mortal
shine, becoming immortal, transcending elements? i know a guy, so sick at it, his
countenance just shifts—smoking tobacco, sipping war, at vices and triumphs.
the piccolo sits harnessed. the violin spelled my name. the fugue is something
big.
