the
lakes are eyes, the tears are sulfuric, the hallowed is internal; such real
fashion, dressing souls, most died those years; blank pains, trickling into
brains, weed to cocaine and ecstasy; most is segued into something—just imagine
a bad-lethal woman. believing in what i see, in what i feel, Love sits deeper
than most, but treasure is more creative—the ghosts in the shadow, talking one
down, wondering why he withstood—the mathematics, the geology, the graphics; fluids
hit pages, speaking in Arabic, trying to get close to Israel. an old
Phoenician, out of fevers, it comes like a novice on stage. and Love was
sicker, crazed, on edge—to become devilish, the hungry skies, everything came
with an issue. took many loses, it hardened the skin, made it easier to obey—myth,
curse, arranged that way—white or color, or none of the above—my image in my
seed, our penalty for ancient existence, most genetics must be related. thinking
more, in my ignorance, asking where chimpanzees descended from?
