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.
