to
love as heathens to die as concupiscent while never so much helium. to quilt
smoldering fire or die at our last climax or tempered so close as never another
being. such nerve to be a vandal so liquored-up as asking forgiveness—that
film they play those rails we ride at rivers feeling kamikaze. if paint we
imagine, if humans, we search patterns, if us we deny existence. so cold here
so warm by intuition where a man was heavy at his throttle. but what is peace
of soul? how does it feel? even better, how do we know we have arrived? it must
be feasible, it must be a kingdom or better, does it come with arrogance? I
awoke near quicksand, a gator was flickering a corpse, I arose watching as it
sounded: a loud flare gun, it spelled S. U. R. V. I. V. A. L., I ran into a
nearby camp. those zombies were undead. they spoke gibberish. I committed to
waking up. back to sails or seas or adoring where it hurts to rest. so tasteful
while criminally wild as a creature found in jungles. our first inclination our
last reasoning to do as we damn well desire: those pictured pleasures, those
anxiety aches where it was death that revived ambition. (the tent is audacious.
it’s in the backyard. the grave and the church are a ½ mile away. indeed. a
liquor store, a poolhall, and a burger palace.) our position in poison. our
love despite viability. our curse so cozy!
