Lost the war, raffled by the battle, those would care,
would become authentic, telling a man he ain’t much more than dung; and God was
at roller skates, trains, his choice, the man died horribly. I’m back in
pocket, pitched in spirit, sludging into the project.
A son
relapsed. A mother fell apart. No one understands disappointing self; I spoke
quickly, to go against principles, any man, any woman would run from God.
I was
endless. I thought pain was necessary. So out of pocket, so insync, those
problems to get an absolute—the record on album, the box inside, eating
chitlins on a ghetto brick.
Seizing a
new world. It only gets harder. A soul can’t say it plainly: it helps to take a
shot. The ugliness in souls—the word as in bled—major Logos and sin!
Nothing
to lose. Every honor to lose. The culture—your culture—it became important.
On an
island, listening to the slow adrenaline, aching with pride, at some space born
too deeply of guts.
It became
appealing. Officials spoke. Stepping to the wedding.
