Walking into the dungeon zone. It’s
been a long morning. Tried to love her. She was sickened, hated my guts, hated
my father—and I look like pops. The danger zone, the answer we gave, it calmed
the apparent. Believing in sanity—it helps like hell, asked her—her real name—the
spirit inside, that inner woman, the baptized soul, and given fire—the Ghost’s
child. She looks like royalty—often treated with disdain—a soul is late in his
horizon. The morning has been long—getting to the material—contemplating old
professors—wondering about what we share. The last few years—a man growing, an
American Politic; drinking like a fish, just slowed down, mother kept popping
up; those terrors, the absent sun, the angel beating his wife—the game inside,
the dead brother, the other followed—big bricks, a few problems, laughing and
shedding more scales. Feeling like Judah, living like Levites, at a question
about the vegetation, the Hittites, the Canaanites: If I’m coming after what
you have accomplished, as a new Promise, Were you here first? Back when, a cigarette hanging, stabbing
through ghosts, seeing visions, like a fool on his pedigree. Seas inside, the waves carrying roses, the
ships ignoring sirens; as a younger spirit those cries, gaining age these
frequencies, fretting the love a man might have for an addiction.
