we
felt like celebrities. we felt like thieves. we robbed the temple. a table was flipped, coins and paper hit
the floor, the man was raging in his language. this was then, the now is different,
nothing is permanent aside for impermanence.
anxieties rule the night. the days are heavier. lying down in
invisibility. maybe a visitor. it
depends; one disposition, angst, nightmare and symphony. governed by a headache. suspended in a
daze. vacillating between her as perception, and her as person.
blackberry
wine … cherry gin … sober endurance … until?
a soul was created, a sailboat sat in swamps, worms are waiting for a
carcass. the soul is playing a game,
merging with another, dodgeball seems inconvenient.
adoring
is different. we might say it’s nonadherent—to days of our silence, a person so
much a gem, despite, where the body has dwelled.
playing pretend is decent—until it’s no
longer intangible, upon the make-believe—something concrete began to emerge.
sitting
and eating opaque leaves, like sentencing a nun, for the priest has seduced the
holy; soft music, knapweeds, marsh in a city vanishing.
it’s
no more those lights it was when times were cruising and mating and looking for
newness. the armor shedding—the old psychologists,
the new person—her woes and flowers and cares—her damages, tacit ruses, or
overt departures; to have pulled and yanked as told stories, such irony at the
temple, the priests are in confession.
by the diet of the sexual, by the cage of
the under-born, if to come to you asking earnestly—for pleasure, nothing more,
without want of the human in us.
gashing corners, gnashing with teeth, ravished and gnawed and
laughing.
there’s a name or two for the maniacal.
there’s little room for the demented. with deeper wants, deeper frustrations, a
soul will beg to stay coherent.
