I’m
in development; a walking theorem; a baffling religion. the aches of gravel, by
the groveling of the awakened, by the succession of our children. precocious
babies, adolescent therapists, adult harbingers. so seasonal, hacking at
sugarcane, making measures to attend graves. or, we must admit it, sincere
about winning, favored, for parents went the distance; evidential successes,
divided turmoil, mostly, good days; a little different, a little expectant,
demanding riches, glory, consumed with winning. such measures, coming from
certain spoons, an inner museum of prosperity.
I
envision life, mostly, from my happenstance, rolling faster, passing alleys,
pausing to witness the homeless; a plate of goodness, a bottle of liquor, a
little cash; the touchstone of the courageous, the official neglect of the
city, such separation, such an ax, chords and strings, aside a coughing infant.
faced with multiple levels, plus, the pandemic, inoculated, wondering why.
the
doctrine of the philanthropist, near the misanthropist, seemingly at a trapdoor,
an inner invasion, swarming flies, a palm filled with gnats.
by
our theology, our teleology, our psychology; what in us forgives us?
the
winning soul, pitted against, the struggling soul, something distinct has taken
place.
wrestling
a shadow, trying at goodness, needing to become more than circumstances.
pure
devotion, straddled to wildness, buckling in private; tasting reality, much
fervor, near rapture, filled with contradiction, seated in front of an official—gazing,
by what vehicle, analyzing self-responses, prejudging, fretted by suppositions;
each gesture a book, each kindness near mythical, every confidence held for
trial: mental insignia, all by our orientation, not much is factual, aside for
experience.
