The sickness of the cage. The wicked feels good. Much
terror in satisfaction—asking the skies for a friend. Solace therapy, running
through cottonfields, so light, so steady, my arms reaching.
Many melodies to the crucifixion; many passions to
arrive too late; much compassion in saying, no. The fire in the earth, mixed
with minerals, the devil has a hold on the church.
Falling through cracks, a filthy ground hog, the
furnace was high last night; we sweat feelings, electricity was low, it
flickers at times. Baskets filled with screws, and drivers, and software;
those days and cellophane and frequencies, I wasn’t
the first to assert it. It kills how
they take it, some contradiction, a pillow softer upon concrete, the music
keeps at the soul. And days were forfeited.
Dear America, the news is alarming, the fields full of
survivors. The courage to change, to fight, to tell injustice its name; the
numen is alone, the sink is a vandal, the water has been pilfered—
the last to bathe.
Together the stars are powerful. Separated, each one is
attacked.
The seas were highjacked, a palm grew into a sky
the miracle is the delusion.
Soldiers are splayed, wanted everything, another one
eats dust; I sit around eating illusion, thicker skinned, running through the
pains of tomorrow.
