fire tastes like
perfume, each night the phantom might grow wings.
paradise might be
you; the nausea might be you; something old might be in you: breakage in wells,
sandstone problems, staring at Aquilla. tallgrass at sawgrass, pain or parade,
like fevers seem distinct. I know you by experience. I hear you by silence, I must
disappear
—I came with
reason.
such fatigue. eyes
burgundy that day—energy louder. bodies telling discomposure. homes tacit as tigerstone.
theology whispering, some cage for many, some deliverance for others. untoward
toward me. “He’s an asshole.” please, let time catch up!
sublime fray.
sublime terrors. sublime innocence.
numen ink, like
numen women, a person is uneasy about too much. pick an existential. leave the
rest. perfect an understanding. times are trees, roots, barks, humans.
the final fable in
might fair well.
over a cigarette.
over wood smoked ribs. over a fib.
regaining
consciousness/conscienceness, asking
questions,
listening to hives. a twinkle in twine, a dent in determinism, a key in a chatting
piano. the last dahlia, the fallen nemesia,
at an impasse—laughing
nervously, looking intently, this is studies.
epistemic his
cries, so loud, dying is legal
—the rain at
departure eating clear water, rushed to waken in screams. glass
shattered,
penalties exonerated, a soul does similar shit.
petting an
alligator,
dinning with a
crocodile, like crazy to puff with
a banshee. so
long in waiting,
so chill on iron, like disgusted with this shit.
the
doctor aches, the professor
is wisdom, the ghost
has instruments.
