i was desire inside, the
father inside, never knew the curse inside; sliding into myself, edging the
cliff, they barely hear the bipolar—he becomes nonchalance, while needing his
full attention.
getting to the lead timpani, the
round in the sand, the pit of snakes, a ladder for Jesus, or better, Joseph,
getting better at ignoring myself, such a penalty, a problem, an incident
inside.
chirpsing with deaths.
laughing unseen. looking around, seeing culminations.
life is a striptease,
once addicted, each person is yearning for glory, the map inside, looking at
apples, having thoughts, the jewel is the taint; a palm of ink, dying in the
streets, much indebted to the ones in rain.
i read what she wrote—it seems easy—once
the soul becomes the spirit—of the person.
eating vintage, antiquity,
rereading myself, rereading the audience, knowing it comes with a blessing—as afore,
or ahead, to become prized as a voice.
i would swear i felt her. yes, I know:
too metaphysical.
so gummy. so geared in direction.
at some point, men begin to calculate what we can’t do.
aside luminaries,
next to trains, at a depth in flowers—to adore what was said, much more what’s
said lately—and i have my responsibility—i take it seriously.
