Ghosts in his attic. Curses in his veins. Trying
unluckily to ski passed demons. Early darkness. Precious pains. Catch him
falling into liquor. So assailed. Moving
slowly. Met Love at an endless wound. More to watch.
Wisdom by drugs. A soul sparked a Newport. Beats ravish souls. Drums are
primitive. Tribe for tribe. Life for
sin. Given to one day cross over. Hailing Excellence!
Something bigger than humans; pain becomes a ship, its perception, all that he
can muster. Checking for art, hearing
sages, it begins to sound sameness; of old, so wiser,
out of place in reincarnation—floating in a Wagen, at a stop sign, tears for
the future. Ghosts in his attic. Women in his
visions, fretting over polite initiatives. It can’t go
lower? Wonder about these days. I ask can a soul outlive his agonies? With
visions of foreign faces; with anguish
dissipating; as it appears in a rushing river—what’s
behind emotion? How can another, by invisibility, make another shed oceans?
Another secret. Another death. To have
powers meant to betray deeper skies. A product of
indifference, souls not caring, another as a seed—so desecrated, so abused, so
wise—as it means much more to the
receiver. God gave a man his name; a woman was first
to become wise; most have an issue with brilliance. I feel it growing. I run
into it. It chews me up—spits me out—
laughs in my private mirror. So maniacal. So sane.
Like missing a link between here and then. A contrite man, a bawling soul,
asked for gentility; face as a grimace, a
spirit as a flower, by petals to have arrived. A
mirage as friend, no one to surrender to, earth as empty, souls embodied by
illumination; ascetic grains, wheat with
peanut butter, candles bleeding intentionality;
solitary for a moment, not searching, to have located family. The prison of
existence, empowered horses, to
achieve a level of innocence, always infected, life
depending upon hospitality. By crucible. By irregularities. By promise,
suspicion, need. If to die a lethal
wisdom, or to arise a valued soul, with trillions at
warmth for wise souls—praying to whom, activating energies, sending
intelligence with fire; a gifted
mistake, a problem for millions, a walking, living
religion. Mind can become walls. An omen becomes a promise. Dying should be
respectful. To siphon integrity. To adore
one soul. If living could return a fraction of
promise. Sure in hope, dialogue waning, Love asking for entrance—shall life
answer its calling? Those dusky skies—the filthy
moon—sun tolerates infractions, waiting for healing,
permitting passion to run amuck. A firkin of roses, a gallon of decency, a
kilometer of wines; a fleece
carrying a person, those practicing mind-arts, so much
incumbent upon one practicing magic. Bowing to power. Laughing because it hurts.
Eyes swollen
with miseries. A feudal soul, a ruining at life soul,
a promise of the great eternity. A plan has become controversy. The amatory has
become irresistible. By charge to meet one.
By angst to avoid same flame. Initiated as a promise
to darkness. Trying to bless a man. Trying to give him life. In turn, failing
to announce—it will cause hell.
