Earrings & Necklaces

 

The fantasy was to fly.     To soar.     Like falcons and eagles.     It would come to pass to make its rounds in nature: clashes, cacophonies, life, traumas, and such.

Meeting was made easy, uneasy at points, just for searching.

Mental mops. Brittle thoughts. Trying can cause animosity.     Days wandering crevices—wrinkling the forehead, master of insecurities, winner of the Great Chaos: it remains inaudible.

Asking to receive answers; Knocking to receive entrance; Silent to feel silence—as it looms into loudness.

Removing self before waging complaints: it seems more coherent.     One never needs undo media.

It sounds odd—to dislike the person, and admire the craft in the person; better, to like the person, and disagree with the behavior—like living out paradox, or oxymoronic emotions.     Most can’t analyze the nature, and make it reasonable, nor rational.

The caves are endless—trekking mazes, refused at points, received at other moments, as it appertains to life.

Most terrific association, as it builds resistance, extracting forms of excellence.

Acute vision. Sagelike intellect. Eager to trespass lots,

refusing to transgress mountains.   

Written Into History

 

Couldn’t see self—beauty, nor ugliness, quite young. Time is intimate with aging. Data lagged in space. To locate self, I had to unlock clarity—harder in awakening. Looking for origin, self-splayed, torpor lingering, misery becoming happiness, as defended in philosophy.

While more is seduced, less seems fulfilling, if thought pursues a labyrinth; increased silence, decreased centering, the culture of the winds: too whimsy, defies control.

            Most creative muse—to sound pensive—to redo birth, several times in life. Faced by the machinery     under memories     traipsing into déjàvu     moving into nostalgia.

            No greater triumph—than winning the war of 24 hours—the celebration of those minutes, faced by a galloping monster.

            Out of pessimism comes hope—if willing to train—both thought and faith—to build beyond fear, to outwit despair, on realistic pegs.

            The fever is inherited, becoming familiar, settling into a dynasty: to have been written into creeds.        

Criticism Made Gentle

 

Maybe too resolved, a myth, too aloof, for fear, of some nature, non-cute. Maybe too neat, not filthy enough, somewhat anti-human. Maybe a narcissus, unbeknownst to self, where most sense it. Maybe afraid to be intimate, leaning on masculinity, unknowingly sadomasochistic.

I’ve understood a mechanic: to speak it is to agitate it; and most depend on perception.

            Stairs seem endless. Like rooms keep getting tighter. Like expectation on a safari.

 No attachments—are we still with behavior?

            It’s suggested—the womanizer is wrestling with the first woman; absentness creates dysfunction; and to argue over normality.

Too heady.

Over berries and melons and lemons—the juice of souls made to need alienation; by complaint to have life, by deficit to have fury, by humanity to feel the sun rise.

            At some point, it seems, life became hypothetical: love, sex, religion.

            So much the wind blows to and fro—thunder inside, many reasons to presume estrangement. More to feel awkward; less to rationalize; and senseless to criticize.    

Sol Value

 

I would if I knew. Only by trial.

The wild heaving wilderness.

Part exhausted. Love knew power. I’ve longed

for the frontier.

Like cutting onion, tears wailing, so

delicate, so sincere.    

 

Loving seems dangerous. Violins and pianos and sorts. To have died thinking too much. To have adored, lost as we sing. An unsung aesthetic. A pouty faced ornament. Many at miracle. Many at song. So cleansed, so filthy, such is vicissitudes and vacillation. Supplied as it would hurt hearts; secured in illusion, as it would unhinge dreams. Arms reaching the delusion sure won, certain in uncertainty, abashed at a high state.

 

Age becomes apparent, negotiating

with intellect, and the cello has

memories: logging data, sensing

energies, framing art, as it delivers

a miracle.   

Love Is So Brief

 

Only Father knows! the chaos in sincerity. What I call holy, you call a technique: How do you understand the Faiths? What I adore, you have mastered, with me still learning. Is it lonely?

So righteous—unclothed, cloth in mud, cypress trees as witness; to have died loving her, to need another, to come to anger in you; so experimental, a lecturer, so small, and it always hurts. I don’t want that.

The kiss took place. You shaved your head. You took vows.     I didn’t admit it. Knowing you makes life precious. A man doesn’t wish to die, ever in the breeze.

It doesn’t mean as much as it does with the soul she latched to; pull her nearer, like you feel adamant, watching her shave her intimacy.

So cursed at it. Rebuked and reborn.

Only Father knows the way I want us to become!

Okay!

I’ll become sad and somber.

Looking at you, dying to touch you, so afraid to make love in you.  

Responsive Mirrors

 

The receptive would ask the essential angles—tug at the new soul, in which, you have—with a level of surprise and disdain, with crisis seeming its elevation—more watermelon in the winter, a lemon on something beautiful, with wonder of purpose, so begotten as radiant—the fields made sacred. Receptive mirrors would let live—the agony of existence, those beige deserts, taking pride in family, friends, and insistence. Every letter is a breath. Every anxiety is a response. Each thought drifting into crevices speaks to resistance. No one knows the skies, behind the veil, as to realize Passion in its excellence. The fever is the motive. It’s now the offshoot, with time seeming incredible—as of importance, the falling of mirrors; receptive creatures, many skills, losing something vital, in gaining discomfort, with existence seeming to crosspollinate.  

Non-Responsive Mirrors

 

Concentration throughout the cosmos—extended selves, sore involved, undercut, flowing light. If thought is similar the gravity made heavy, assumed as true—the cage inside, the broken bars the bold beautiful spirits. Couldn’t escape it. Couldn’t see it. I just sensed the loss, the leniency, the essence blowing in the breeze. More ashes, rolled mud, like living was possible—the culture of the cat, the nature of the dog, the hassle of the sage. Amazed to have been there, with blueberries growing, made purple and blue; frozen over, like glaciers, looking at the same paragraph; shocked by philosophies, rereading sentences, looking at structure; the man walking, is the man sitting, the final resting is the coffin. I just sensed the loss, to see it in atmosphere, while neither reckoned fully with time. The soul made hectic, the hills howling, the want that never comes to fruition. The agitation!   

The Need Is In Itself

 

I don’t understand a feeling inside seeking what it presumes to possess; chasing meals, eating in despair, filled with happiness; one tear in fall, one smile in winter, one escapade inside of helium. Assuming pleasures. Afforded great sorrow. The joy of the miracle, in which the ecstasy fell. I can’t eat. I rub the top of my scalp. I claim the last of love’s heartbeats. Would I need more? Have I felt it in totality? Was it the deficit, the dearth, the presence, as it failed its successors?     I wander islands on a land filled with chemistry—looking like misery, overwhelmed by aesthetic, killing innocence, searching for sincerity—as it bends corners, not at all friendly, just honest; to have deeper memories, visceral dreams, violent emotion. Some grandiose crisis—shaving my garden, too aloof to claim ecstasy: so easy to have love, as it fits compartments, as it satisfies society.   

It’s Not About Eternity?

 

The density of diligence, the perfect imperfection, asking eyes to redeem the radiance. So aloof, so afraid, Love has passion pegged, pleasures mastered—a true human, a decent friend, with ethics at the peak of the pride. It should be—as it was, humans have come so far; the breath of the beat, the behavior of the bandage, the light of love; so afar we grow closer, so alive we find waves, such is the grace of gravity. Coming to see a little, it isn’t about eternity, (as it is), more to peace of soul—with another human being; some atypical myth, too complicated, most are running from mirrors—the few getting it right—are protecting their inheritance. The soul bends wind—the spirit braves Descartes’ wax—the soldier beholds the wealth: iron-minded, another myth-base, while still above the seas—amazed to see angels, so much satire afar, so close, yearning for comforts. To have felt her aura—to announce it inside, facing multiple ideologies.   

Wheat & Milk

 

Let it flame—the churn—lost in fancy; approaching eyes, steeped in deaths, to imagine one night filled with falling—as bent into memories, as accursed in love, to walk away, for it hurt too much; to come back, life ruined, irritable, snapping, needing completion. Toes in sand. Palms to earth. Hearing it, it keeps with dialogue, your face on my map—to long and die, to rise in resurrection, those fields, those chains, they seem to intensify. The God in me, as one leader, so supposed in freedom of choice—the selection of the Judah Tribe, more to fret imagination, more to be a queen, the last to understand what occurred—the mind giggled, I paused, it was an announcement; headed to church, haven’t left, still rolling into the nightmare—the baptism, it helped at first glance, it tore me, it opened me for the turmoil of salvation; many think it’s a joke, it’s an indoctrination, it’s a war, a world, a wilderness. Let it flame—the churn—lost in fancy.            

The Kitchen Is Home

 

Over cornbread and wine, sweet biscuits and tears, to love as abused, only one gentle palm—to have known serenity, to have felt sincerity, over soul food and damages. A spirit dies in absurdity, so Camus, trying to undo self as a stranger. The way the wildness rolls over hills; the sin as it pleasures unto passion; the variety in the person trying to adore us. It seems like hell, looking at the love in you, attempting to match something surreal—the fight of the lion, the majesty of the wilderness, the coppice as a pledge for survival. So much motion—so many waffles—breakfast is better with you. Right hand to my heart, left palm to my forehead, too afraid to go with inclination. Right knee to concrete. Ring between fingers. Asking for eternity to bless a small soul like me. Two palms together, both knees bent, forehead to dirt, savior, and sanity.  

Feathers In The Fields

 

Three hours after I passed away, they

became an item. It was sorrow aching,

melancholy needing, they laughed and cried

over my foibles. The pain was cement,

delicate anguish, reaching desperately.

I didn’t pass away; I was beside a

cliff, pushed by the beloved, given a small

violin. They had an arrangement: they

loved in proximity, freedom of love

afar. A person never sees what is

unspoken, never realizes tolerance,

keys to behaviors, assessing what one

will practice. Many walk aside a

stranger, a story, unbeknownst flame.  

About The Age of 13

 

I’m a common soul, in an uncommon land, trying to outdo my image. I’m a found artifact, appraised, and stored away. I’m the one in the crowd, unseen, standing in front of myriads.

The blackness in me the noncolor in me, so spatial, so unclaimed, straying as we do.

I was interested in gold. I was a man of silver. Lately, I’ve been made of bronze.     Hoping the measure will satisfy the debt.

It takes a long time for some—to get things in order, at the cherry tree squeezing grapefruit; times it could have destroyed us, those longer roads, repenting with six senses.

In most situations—one possesses as top tier: it isn’t me.

Invest in something. Give it devotion. Watch it flourish.

Over apricots and grapes, we might confide in essence, forced to let go; eyes wide, partaking of the Bread, sipping the Wine—analyzed as souls in the makings.

I remain a common soul.

Many are exercised at something extraordinary. They sway into different realities. They balance out as imbalanced souls.

The portrait of the self, as it is, versus, as it’s wished upon—soul music, several ceilings, both palms grappling skies.     

Gather The Pieces

 

I had to go further into memory. I never said a name. I had to analyze the broaching. The mind of one moving through strategies, if but to hurt a soul, pulling at emotions. I ache the love of the two that hate me. Boundaries like myths. Allegories like havens. The cave like iconic. Don’t think like me. A warrior at battle—can’t see the light. I save a prayer for the living, and one for the dead. Rereading Maccabees. Never quite born enough. Making fights inside. The blood of the stars, the liquids of the earth, the whole life a damn mistake! Eyes watching the prosperity: agreeing, disagreeing, wresting inside over each other. I remember more. I hope she’s doing according to her will. I hope she adores the soul clipped at edges. If accomplished, so vile, I wonder who carries the match. I came to instruct, to one is a great burden, to teach is an ultimate onus.            

Life Is In The Seams

 

Dolls and stereotypes. To listen as one speaks, surprised at self, wondering about the subject—trying hard to believe in the description. Too few verbs, too many adjectives, and not enough accessible nouns. The white lies, the human memes, the feelings outside: proud to be of assistance; at a box inside; most are trying hard to believe in the subject—the matter, the skies, those tiptoeing exosphere; to become human, mandatory language, no one sees the mountain—right in front of the mountain. The dramatization—as a living faculty, palms filled with sensorium. The walk to nothingness—it just falls upon a person, the heaviness, the world, the excellence to hide it; no one needs to see that, no one needs to hear that, history is redundant. The woman in the mirror—the man in the shadow—the two claiming each other.    

 

By logic to decide one hates self. By reason to decide to fix the mind. Easier said than done. One must believe in the formula. One must believe in Jung.     Gaining access to self, eating language, getting closer, so aloof, feeling counseled.     Much concealer. More helium. One might become a memory.     The worse is inactivity.     A woman just wrote a bestseller.     A gentleman just finished the next groundbreaker.     The message is mocking his soul; the late lunch upset his stomach; the world has always been small.     It stands to suggest—the seas obey the moon—the excellence of fabrication—the new logic is sensitive, an old logic, to do as symbols dictate—lost at the gates, typing into Lazarus. The filth of the smelting—an author of suspension—the final tale; so microwavable, so much geranium, making titanium blackholes.           

Millennial Blackhole

 

those tall leaves, the spoiled apple, the wretchedness; appellants forged by anger, to trust as loving, to receive wounds; a vehicle in time, the portrait upon office, closed and claustrophobic rooms—lesions appear, ghosts at best daylight, more frustration becomes penmanship; losing discourse, at hells for ruined, accustomed to rhythmic skies.   

 

 

it’s been hot, sipping lava, afforded one Cross.

 

reaching for felicity, failing her enterprise, felicity isn’t simplistic.

 

it was cold that evening. we knew the winds were blowing. I came back to ask a question. flesh of my flesh. accustomed to swimming deep ocean, debating plates, so tectonic. some elements seem incoherent, like demented, the journey, if asked, can she say it was intentional?

 

angels meant for goodness—the waves in airs—too many sensations.

 

to realize the flame, to sense a breach of titles, with answering key questions.

 

it was still in mazes the place of the will, the sin of the tugging.

 

Love is complex: a parachute, or an anvil. winning favor might come with a kind gesture, something lighthearted and detached. something unthought, thus, natural, coming across that way. in the subtlety of the problem, the mistake, the solace in the aftermath—the loss inside; to ache forever, to find joy, nothing alike to finding bliss; the mess of the paradox, so close, it’s eerie, and it can’t be guzzled.  

Silver or Scarlet

 

With miracles so close, dying with prophets, aggressive like passive mongooses; the fire inside, to need to share it, did it all for liberation, the freedom of the unfree. Swearing is a hazard, debating the last Promise, a land filled with milk and honey.     Some women—we never release; despite, a sky filled with tragedies; looking to win, with tear on her road, the flowery dress, the clean flesh; begging for mercy, flames wafting into clouds, so desperate to love; or quite wretched, quite deceptive, a man damn near deceased; great at helium, bodies passing gates, such titillating suffering—the curse of the fiend, the friend of the sinning, holding to a broken ideal; and Love is wonderful, Love is unbelievable, and Love has left. Just a young, naïve soul, desperate to achieve you, lost in pains, so dedicated to the last trauma. So gathered, like berries, it’s always sin.              

The Bellybutton

 

There’s reason to believe in disbelief. There’s perdition in fields, longer wheat, concerned with stealth. The filth of the land—atop a project, finding rubies—the world is watching. Rebaptized. Others were confirmed. We take it seriously. Tapping into esoteria. Sullen soft songs. The soul was weeping. The piranha is praying, leviathan is watching, the garden is waiting for occupants; as they appear to souls, lost in wilderness, aches and pains, the pang of the owl syndrome. As with a soul in labor, the body convulses, a miracle is born—just a small measure, walking under pinions, consumed by invisibility. For more purpose, to know purpose, I would soon kneel, repent for existence, siding with circumstance; many years invested in it, it has meaning, many are watching with excellence: riches for spirits, cars and life, the smaller in me—it shouldn’t mean much. With freedom comes challenge. With change comes negotiation. With gifts come obligation. To have internal war, trying to win, tugged since the bellybutton.

 

Willing the wilderness, displeased inside, many playing UNO. Trips were taken, questions were asked, it was never what was left as truth. If anything, truth will prevail, the map is flooded—at half a century, a soul becoming self, the mind frame is different; facing dementia, or radical features, or freedom to suffer. The flame in the sun, the sunshine in the moon, to come to a point—everyone disappoints consistence. To indulge souls, to hold his head up, to have measured his intestines—the penalty of the underdog, the Watchers, the meaning in the absence. To gaze through a person, dazing as we do, perfected at sensing the human in us. No clarity involved, the human desires at times, the wealth of the passion, made into seduction. If given liberty, void of anguish, an Existentialist would go mad. Picking at a magazine, sipping coffee, upset, going through chills and shifts—it must be the dissatisfaction, the longer sentences, while everyone did as selected. If Love made love, let Love prove righteous, where one never abandons Love: some of us are being used—and many relish in the misuse.              

Made of Understanding: Faith Based

 

The punctured heart—those Wells, accustomed to waves: emancipation. Solving problems, outgrowing problems, or both? So vatic—the sensory elements—pieces and particles—to find my soul. The retrieval of lost decisions—the universal church—so connected in a thought. It seems uncanny, strange even, everything we try might hurt. The geographic energy—those flames in clouds, sweet, theological paleontology; such a fool to wait, it was wrong the essence, the pangs have become normality. The bishops represent solemn appetites, a grave further into immortality, so cursed—it seems like normality. At Eucharist—once again, it’s been some years; emotional impacts, draining impurities, feathered for flight; the pain of roses, the jamesia in tone, torn for excitement. It moves from the metaphysical to physicality to the existential. Precious soul touching, inner resurrection, so bothered sometimes. To feel regurgitated. To feel recycled. Pausing too long to become unnoticed. Depending on silence. Hovering in shadows. Watching the Liberator. The country to gut—the heresy to mind, the apostolic testing. If to locate the Protestant principle, those motivated, at a woman in his atmosphere. The valley on a rabbit’s trail—lions waiting, the sphinx has come out of the alley. The dead dancing—it’s in Christ—the dead is living! Sure ecclesiology, the first preface, along the island brains.       

The Next Level of Faith

 

The historical Jesus is pitted against the resurrected Jesus.     With you, I must decrease; others must increase.     What it means to be human: anthropology, theology, ontology.     Revelation in personhood, godhead, the luxury of the forgotten.     Self-communication. Upright intrusion. Elusive observations. To have died an infant—to have lived a silent adult—grace becomes vision.     Beatification. Siena. The soul inside of a Soul.     Clear and distinct knowledge—how has it come? By way of nuance, structure, forgiveness, and suffering.     It might be scientific wisdom, the fight of the opera, faith reified.     I am the measure of the volcano; a soul waiting to graduate; a mind bent on learning something esoteric (the flame of the antithesis).     Oh Saint Catherine, it was never so aggressive, you were born pure; many ways now to avoid being human, a person; communication is self-transcendence.     Knowledge becomes belief. Understanding becomes disbelief. The function is unrelatable at times.     Unmerited. Nonetheless, gods. The fever is in loving regardless.                   

Into Skies

 

I would ransom self to some idea—the ingenuity of the falling tower, to lean into souls with concern. I was received into a community, I showed zeal, it learns in the balance. So consumed by elements, walking me to the cliff, begging me to leap. By the posed thesis, to have yearning as an ingredient, the argument desires premises. How to compare and contrast invisibility? Such medieval mysticism, the pain of the roses, to understand everything about language—how it swims, the vagueness, how an author works against himself? If to see as Eckhart—If to love like Gertrude—or to know the two were gifted. So much to fathom life, to ponder John of The Cross, to know we undergo purity of darkness; Much more in Helfta. More so in deserts. A soul was appointed to the final calling. The mystery is in the nuance. In the present author, by mere opinion, it comes by assertion, souls are racing to get back to the first principle. Nothing unique—the fairer moon, the glistening sun—as the earth is product of invisibility. Pose a question. Form a position. Find texts for and against the belief; not a proposition, nor a blur of dice, much more to let go and live in absence.                

15 Minutes After

 

It seems haphazard—so much so—disorder will lose its order. The lyricist in song—days before it gets noticeable—a fledgling became a star. I don’t understand such lateness. To assume truths, and run with essence. The same would be despite the infraction. Either earned, or given gratuitously. The latter is excessive; thus, too much gratuity. One would inquire about ethnicity—those boundaries—those sensibilities. Would poetry be received differently? Would nemesias dance? I was with spirit those days in armor—compelled by interior to chase, to sing, to place self in uncertainty.     I met a person, radiating spirit-joy, aging close to 50, it was a pleasure to speak, chat, laugh in nature.     It seems haphazard. Selling chaos. Turning some second into a man’s death: Malcolm X.     To wonder about procedures—with how they vary—being pursued under some defacto, some foreign umbrella.     After a time, seeing many ingredients, a soul debates inside—trying to ignore the excellence of the persistence.  

I’ve Trembled Often

 

 

I could muse the Ghost, in lighter years, spawned in essence and disbelief; to adore after offending, to decipher after unreason, so cautious, but not enough. I’ve lost physicality, not much to see, alert to deaths, in a cold sequence. When I met her, I understood her, the bassline is insatiable. Much dogma in me, new tenets in souls, thrown into the crowd; tossed a whit, at terrors a whit, listening to a heart with discernment. Quite defeated on this one, still walking the trail, looking as many have formed against the few; literature. It’s crazy how it set off. Many were pleased. Many were concerned. It comes to a monopoly on Religion; a small man, as destined to give up the ghost, like each as we swim into sulfur. It was a ventriloquist, an inner concentration, a multiple until it is corrected; the fierce of the flame, the Jewish—the Pagan, the inner excellence into danger. So recluse those winters, so close in reclusion, it never felt as real as the absent presence. A tear made cold, an oxymoron, while it does its measure.

Unspoken Realms

 

I remember being informed—

days are attuned, training is pivotal.

 

By design, intrigue, by river and seas. The further out—the richer the scenery.  

 

Unexplained.

 

Until …

 

I remember being informed.

 

It would be regardless—     wilderness, wildflowers, to have assessed as we do: palms of rain, ancient understanding, to have untruth become the impetuous.

 

So blended. So eclectic. Much understanding.    

 

It was faith. It became experience. It was overwhelming.     Freshwater gators. Saltwater crocodiles. Tiger sharks.

 

In the crevice is understanding. In the world is monopoly. In souls are dominions.  

 

To know then, as we know now, the outcome/decision might be different.

 

Many are exhibiting excellence, musing as we do.

The Breeze Is Spirit

 

Burning almond oil, palming amber stones, looking, fighting myself, angered, facing illusion. Used to think differently, thought of you—as dangerous beauty. Days seem frightening. The raven is at her crows. Gorgeous is seen as still with innocence. The stoic’s pen, those ecumenical eyes, longing in silence, as does an Epicurean. Africa genets, rugs of Persian blend, the nature of the unvetted.

Haunted in the fast lane—the castle crumbles—it wasn’t done correctly.

The stag is galloping, the steeds are watching, so many of us need to dream—the fury of the balance, the cage of the civilized, the corruption in the forbidden. Ascending.

Doves in droves. Waking in miracles.

The eagle soars, fledglings in the nests, the hut, the hero, the heroin.

Our age is afraid of women, it has long been, the gryphon will paint. The sea is rumbling, a tsunami is on the margins, the world will be effected/affected.

We will one day purchase a coffin … for one we can’t make it without.

So many transmutations … transitive properties … the mind as an eclipse.

A skeleton negotiated with invisibility … she became a phoenix.   

It Was Called A Cult

 

Too much power, like electricity, pumps the brains—lying in mud, bathing in a sink, boiling soup in a can. Never thought it would erupt—I was naïve, the name I go by; so simple the green grass, the bees in the hive, the wasps outside the window; giving her the universe, speaking from the gut, so nonchalant about the terrors; never mentioned the demons, the sweat, the fracture, God! I was a lunatic, it lives, got ghosted with the soul; kept rereading, met sages, laughed at the prophecy: “You’ll shift the miracle, enlove with Christ, the body will alert to the damages—You’ll never heal, while healed.” All my warriors, the game is over, it’s meant to cause hell! By the virtue in us, by the treasure in one, nothing as close as three leveled fabric—the rope in Proverbs, the proverbial voice, like God came down! What to hear, feuding dreams, had it like oblivion? Sugar apples and breadfruit, taking mass, at communion, like dying for the breath.  

Ancestral Torch

 

Through rain water, to the lagoon, a mile further than the creek—to live sin, abandoned early-on, prayed in essence, longing for perspective, given hostility. It would exist, an incredible hunger, feeling lethargic, if misunderstood, hell-souls were too baptized. Many are winning, many are holding to examination, many more can’t be bothered—to live, letting live, a form of celebration. Right across the table, mouths shut, if souls understood what the scriptures say; it’s recorded for a reason, it happens daily, a soul is misclassified, misunderstood, and often, directed sadly; thus, it ends, it starts in another soul, like fever in the skies—striking thunder, coming to earth, another is too much to retreat. So hidden it's seen, made more hermetic, driven into excellence—landing on the bulwark, fencing the interior, to no avail: trying spaces, tinkering with a flute, last song of the journey. 

Under The Gods’ Roof

 

California destined, like rivers in skies, so much to prepare for death—a sickness, right at church, iron or knife, rubber or fist—the tale of the toad, the rabbit in the virgin, the game played since Black Panthers. So much adrift, screaming at Lord, so much suffocation; a dread for Marley, a bible for Jesus, a mystery for Authors—like running and getting nowhere; the promise to die on life, the coffin in the grave—the tombstone in the resurrection; a child at reception, a man at activity, the two, spell destruction. I spoke to a bishop, bottom line, I can’t change the handwriting of Yahweh. Such calligraphy, a Chinese assessment, a stack so high, hay and fire, the black wrists of the Holy Ghost. So sincere, some good ass habits, if I must perish, it will be a glorious ass tribunal.