Another dimension, saying sadness, without saying sadness: Does
God accept collect calls? Does God favor Oprah?
Last year was a cigarette, ashes into bibles, wondering if death
comes while living.
Mind flashes, flashbulbs, most fierce when unspoken, some myth I
might endorse.
The manuscript needs sheen, luster, sunbeam’n twinkle.
I was up, then down, literally: I was restless. So couth at
moments, underlying a cause, came from what feels like mesmerization;
mini-catastrophe, no bigger than me, the countenance speaks to distrust, a
measure of concern, when eyes shift, jingle, and the tint is spirit.
Jigsaw loudness. Been at it lately. Divesting all ills. If I crossed,
I am apologetic! In proving it, it shall not happen again.
Often, atoning is difficult, and loneliness used to look
different: it’s now comedic, crowded, mind casualties. It was once the absence
of company; it’s now filled with company.
Upon dreamwood, the dreamcatcher, many more are having similar
dreams: collective consciousness.
Visceral emotion. Impious piety. In debating my sanity, another
was acting insane. In hating me, one had to reflect on life—so vulnerable, so
uncertain, trying to outwit another human—in part, offering servitude and serfdom.
At the bottom, eating chicken, giggling over good times.
At the top, mourning excellence, compelled to look a certain
grayness.
I adduced it was favorable. I sabotaged the inevitable. In
needing elements, a soul misses out on evidence;
the wasteland—becomes the riches island, seated and kneeling,
plugging misery into a socket.
