I feel it falling, damn the security, a man in tears,
like healing, the cut on the grain, the paint in the demon. Eating skies, bled
to death, oozing into the soil—the failure back when, the Negro those days, the
universal at this point; denim pensive, looking like a kite, so bent for Jesus.
8 nights awake, looking at a new person, like devils and delivered—right to
God, a grownup—on detox. The tears they fall, the wall grew, like a mission to
prove sanity.
The beat is southern. The pain is fathers. The miracle
is mothers. Many were-abouts, slithering into Yahweh—read it closely, like
dying is a new life—the blast of the liquor, the negative influence, or the
fact—we’re grown ass men! Find us as
snakes, owls, or lizards—the ghosts laughing, the dream in cuffs, they never
knew it was Passion.
