Losing senses, gathering dreams, please saw the skies;
symbolizing demons, the angel beat his spirit, the ghosts are masturbating—all
jokes aside, I wanted her with desperation, I asked her name, she sits
close—the meaning of the dirt, the politician in the omen, separated from self,
and gunning the heartbeat. I can’t care too much, this is contagious, most are
running from feeling life.
Blue eyes had heaven. Green eyes had bravery. Brown
eyes won my soul.
I need a sip. Momma crying. Granny groping walls. A
woman just entered my dreams.
Hearing whatness, eating thatness, eyes teary into
daddy’s life.
Nothing works. No need to apologize. “Get to the
mystic.”
Losing senses, gathering dreams, sold survival, and
longing into the forest.
I never gathered many in strife—as knowing from the
gate, while souls harbored animosities, supposing I was living too much ash.
The little boy had ambition, quite dormant, making
rounds back to family; lasting myself, a rib in me, x’d inside, on the fridges
of reappearing. Can’t tolerate my
visions. I swear to come back, to get it right, to make something more
deliberately.
They had innocence, the innocence in evil, the bible
the ulcer would recite. I challenged her calmness. She ate shrooms. The
microphone is on all night long.
Most died on us. More at the prison walls. Others went
from handlebars to pegs, to management positions.
To meet the villain in the angel confuses most saints.
The tears become sweat the sweat is thick blood the
prayer is screaming at God.
I see the machination—fermenting iniquities, as to
have exonerated behavior. We might determine which attributes belong to the One
we serve. From liquor to strange islands, to suffocation, to letting live the
hands that bronzed me.
We’d believe they’d see potential and need to augment
it: we’d believe an inner myth.
The spirit needs to put documents on the table—to read
the closets—to explain to strangers—why we have the right to breathe … (if just
a whiff of the ghost-towns).
