Bouncing
by lyrics, a sinner, in the fifth degree. Can’t change what was done, the
fences leaped, the persons hurt; adversity and aversion, the level in the
flower, the pain in the gin; spirit might be real, immortal, the depth of the
powers; the woman he loved, the singing in church, the tower meaning more. I was
wrong, I carry that, fuck the dealing of the ghosts—if it fits, make it good! The
true Ghost, we keep immortality, I swish back at times. Must admit it, some are
more powerful, to imagine inside a woman like Mariam. Maybe Deborah of Huldah,
or the last psychoanalyst—that feminine dream, the fact it kills, maybe a need
to subjugate inhumanity; a real problem, skating to the tracks, just left the
poolhall. Love sat alone, I asked to attend, I was met with venom, fuck it,
some love the lonely path—more math, more love, asked to come home. I’ll be
livid in an instance, or compassion for an infant, at pains to the grave—ain’t no
coming back!
