I spend time disrupting self—battles from within, so curious about it all. Those gusts flurry through caves, uphill deserts, ever concentrated. And steep canyons separate chambers, quivering quintessence, fighting something feral. Collar storms; wiccan wilderness. Some live Tibet, others pride religiosity, so much randomness, proud to have trained. At moments, one struggles for oxygen, mining through blackdamp, wondering of how lights dim. A palm of sweetgrass, a back
fraught by pressures, Love was unexpected. I kept waiting on it. When it struck, I was overpowered. Centuries speaking about freedom; selfsame time trying to conquer breath. Such crossed hospitality; loving seemed instantaneous, thus, irrational, while others indulged—to live at a million mph—those tarsier eyes, pure possessiveness, to claim — “Ain’t no love in the city.” And we live for riches, thoughtless, scraping knucklebones. In a nutshell, no promises, screaming,
yelling, at passions forbidden—souls and spirits! Bagging goose grass. Upon a spell. Asking for my pardon: how many distress signals must we witness? By sin to see salvation, a deep secret—I might visit scripture for a checkup, I might invest in a ninety-minute prayer. I might rest while the surface is scrambled. I might fret through dreams wrestling to touch clouds—such nothingness, such nausea—wondering how in hell we kept faith.
