I have to surrender, most humble rites. It comes like a vision, a dream, Love. At tyranny inside, haunted ribs, skeleton traumas. Cranium pangs. It seems vicious, a nation born to survive. My ancestors; such radical affliction: We seem closer to an ideal. I have to surrender obstinance. I have to be smarter than myself. I have to know rights are negotiable. Upon plains—into fields: corn, sugarcane, cotton—fingers torn, sweating Jesus, upon a whip, too many deaths to count. I heard of a Promise Land, they called it Canada. I heard souls running, bullets chasing, to cleave to guts, tumble over, one last breath. I feel it more with aging. To see inflexible patterns, a soul pleading to meet humans. I can’t imagine how far from grace souls are, a man finding himself, begging forgiveness, screaming like a mad man. It gets like that, two breakdowns and a psychotic break. One wonders home a soul makes it—drive, luck, training, fortune. I look over to wonder what souls are thinking. This begs a question: Am I qualified to cast such assessments? Who knows. Foot heavy on a lever – days inside – trying to enjoy December. What was done! I read one in his depth. He spoke of fighting a good fight, prepared to change dimensions, proud to have been of service. One chance to soar. One real life dream. One positive prophecy.
