So much sunshine, so sunless, such a paradox—maybe facile
facts, so thwart by winds, it was never this region. Medieval mystics—surrounded by numbness and
silhouettes—wicked wise, begging forgiveness. So planned; we plead for clarity and clearance.
Spirit sickness. Homespun remedies. If
but one for the afterlife—blending with the here and now. Sundown
dust. Liquid sundown beers. Upon knees like the mantis. So much involved like a burst of sun—aside a
sky filled crucible—sugarberry sins; unsure of nightmares, uncertain of
origins, this is the hell we live! Damn
what I can’t see, and adoring what I can’t see—the yoke of the esoteric; the
voiceless stoic, on a private voyage, too many of us to complete it; too many
minds, individual powers, individual interpretations—favored for chasing,
condemned for chasing, trying one art at repentance. The vulgarity of absolute truth; I seek
absolute truth; how churlish! Like Ingrid the nun falling for the Joker;
kaleidoscopic eyes, eccentric ribs, refulgent spirits.
