We don’t have time—to circumspect the mirror—to come
back to life. Days in youth, gallicas in space, pain, begonias, a zinnia on a
last prayer—those wings bleeding, fluid trickling, begin to think like Jesus—a three-year
run. If to be like Christ, to love with power, to turn a cheek, and never gaze
backwards; over turpentine rage, under flour and grease, cooking a burden—never
released, headed into the grave with a grudge.
I was reborn as a seed. I was planted in a ghetto. I kept
learning, reaching, asking, and receiving. I knocked, waited, answered the
calling, laughed and felt humbled. (It comes as follows: to love is to hate the
opposite of what one loves.) Simple math!
It’s been mica inside, granite wrath, redeemed by a
gesture.
It’s been ventriloquists in minds, concentration, so
surprised over learning this year.
I’ll tell
in due time. Most will become critical—more will repudiate what I have to say—in
an effort to protect their God. No worries: I feel the same. New science is first
repudiated before accepted.
We don’t have time to believe, nor time to refute, nor
a moment to negotiate with spirits. In a split second, all of a person will hit
the intestines.
