I saw an Asian invisibility. I
heard an under-voice. It was hard to breathe. I saw an Ethiopian silk, I died
in invisibility, I hear her politics. I saw a Jewish soul, reluctant to speak, I
passed away in silence.
Old torture tactics, early morning
breath, Chinese understating—into furious wisdom.
After facts come actions, as
misread, a favored problem.
One bad ass Vietnamese, fraught by
indiscretion, a soul, in blackness, gave essence a life, to believe in.
The net was cast, mixed measures
and faces, a mask upon the river. So deaf and blind, progression outwitting
death, the sin is death’s design.
Forgive same wordage, as if some
untrained soul, with angels at the skies—listening and dancing, a contract
leads to a Korean woman.
Awkward silence, harps played by
innocence, to know Poe, to know womb.
Many will try your soul; none will
be stronger than your soul.
Longing into London, killed for
killing, addicted to one that knows no addiction.
Gluing wounds, redeeming reprobate
spirits, the opposite of what seems appropriate.
To love a roach, to adore a locust,
or to pamper a feeling for some unique rose. Some creature, half harming, half
loving—into sin and dahlias.
Over a million Africans attending
the gala. Over a billion Europeans funding the exploits; like flesh
unbelievable, tender exile, to make passion like today has summoned
performance.
One as target, dreams of a deadman,
a mission in depth the trauma—a Scandinavian indescribable.
The one didn’t know addiction, now
knows addiction.
