the soul bled dry, gnats swarming,
the needle of the eye; true business, truer love, a need to become friends; and
gods heard, the date of the born, the wilderness of the owls. engrossed in
liquor, or puffing a cigar, tell me what’s in my eyes. has life the extent of
the miracle? blue-purple blood, the terrible future, the prophet at the corner;
reading his block, laughing insanely, the many are watching the few. so attuned
to another, so smothered by trauma, barely swimming, looking indifferent, i think
of you and come back. seeking with a purpose. to find with the excursion. the
beat is so lethal. so all alone, so crowded, on a level, another man, as he
trips out—the forgiveness mission, the drugs in his past, drifting into the
zone; mother, gaze at my dreams, dealing with you, i didn’t leave like he did.
inside those other things, a friend in kinship, a drifter in the South; the
fields bleeding, in a bad feeling, can’t tell me to give more—the weakness is
there, always was, and God knew. The Last of a Dying Breed … some so
loyal to it, some dying in it, the box, the bars, they let his out, the prison
is chasing—too afraid to think clearly … the father of the legacy, the drip in
the pudding, a bag lethal with excuses. if i see heaven, it was well earned,
plus, i don’t see the seed enough. i’m eating fried pain, black eye trauma,
green powers, churning into violence, as internal, a soul hates himself; and
mother is there, in a hangover, a trench coat, laughing maniacally. i see her, I
sense anger, many can never rest—on guard, on hell wings, sipping the drench,
the phoenix.
