To have died in essence, lost for a century, heat
churning metal—psychedelic nightmares, one brain in sequences,
and Love found me; the beauty of catastrophe, two in
mixed pains, held tightly; a grave for a sinner, a casket for a
holy man, resurrection for the living. I was begging
like never I lived; I was heaving like never a breath; and living
seemed indistinct, undistinguished, to fret its
intangibility. Facing myself. Eating raw skies. Into a dungeon and
moving quickly. Love smelled of life, corners kept
bending, a man might not need the answers.
Walling tar,
palming soot, sitting afore a soothsayer; and Love was
pleading, some curse in me, to feel blessed, like Jesus
favored us. Some eyes pick through thickets, baking
briers, crawling through words; they fall heavily, the minds
wheezing, nothing left but survival, the wilderness in
bane, those flaming at cemeteries, an anxious soul, a feeble
understanding, a righteousness for essence. Radical miseries. Sheer raw excitement.
Another pleat, as faced a
dream, encased in senseless laughter. An empty crib, a child moving, souls
laughing.
