it’s been three lives, in three
features, each with characteristics; a series of events, a thankful ride, momma
wasn’t all bad, all grace, much in defense for that. many apologetics—discussing
habitat, social acreage, physiological responses; looking for a rainbow,
something to authenticate the carnival, something to prove worthy—looking for
acceptance … such rage inside, such a lonely map, an eager appetite; a need for
souls, a gentle palm, fingers denoting caress and fret, over chain and love …
if but non-coerced, a want to ensure a soul in pain, too many chasing the first
phantom; to jeopardize nightingales, so benighted in the valley, associated
with living and dying. many tragic clowns, alcoholic clouds, by reason to make
it to wrath—much rain inside, muddy lakes in skies, salting my knapweed; if but
to tumble-glow, cacti rumination, bleeding into the realm of ghosts. and we
spoke lies, even unto the elders, at the evening gates; benches for drunk men,
dissolvent for poisoned men, anything might sound like sweet licorice. such russet
pride, rustic passion, a rush for more privilege;
aside in me, ain’t been me, quick
to stick an image in my face; quick to say—he bleeped up, in a design—carrying its
storm.
