aside my life, my cardiac spasms,
so ecliptic the skies, those redeem the land;
more preachers, orators, priests
and bishops;
so cold inside, much debate on
identity, so many have scaled uneasily.
in saying so little—the pavement
has spoken—we find lethargic assurance.
much consumed by stepfather, a
symbol, much the pain of an owl, much the symbol of a man afraid:
to lose wife, family, self, and wrestle
with addiction;
the blood blue ocean, those ceramic
eyes, those spirit filters
—as racing into souls, to have loved
one last time, knowing everything is riding on the last adored.
by a dynasty of jewels, rereading
Seneca, trying to fathom the last hours by Socrates
—and its connection to holy
scriptures.
it’s amazing how capital letters,
their absence, speak in totality to a major disposition.
some wrestle with this, as roaming
Greece, much pride in this nation of wolves.
many warriors, like Spartans, Samurais,
Creatures and what isn’t written.
much godship. such exhibitions, the
love of souls and mystics and cultic fires;
the last of a dying breed, before
medicine proper, maybe a drill, a hole, in one’s cranium;
so sick as we dance, so developed
as we linger, what finds in itself a deficit, an incompletion; to live the laws
of alchemy, to ingratiate wicca, to go further back into the first witches; blended
with the days of dying, the bones and skeletons of golden flames—the root of
the psychiatrist, the dearest secret,
if it lives inside, it will float.
