Oh to the differences! pouring into galaxies—assigned
much more than we touch. A trillion centimeters of anguish, trekking an
existential, no greater love than approval.
Mystikos, the
longer investigation: Do souls have time? It appears the quickness is
intoxicating; deepness of time is reliable. What will become of life? Much in
secular
spirituals, more in private dialogue, to
whom the sentence concerns. Tailored existence, neat at times, intolerant,
sophistication dies in a given instance. Dear Ancestors, if to
deign upon souls, to give clarity to many
dying—what is this 120-year imagery? A man rides a buffalo, he calms his
interior, he is nervous, adrenaline pumping, eager to
tame his buffalo. The rolling pin to its
dough—the pattern to its person—the interrogation to its questions; maybe more
hyena genetics, what is it for — a man will soon self-
destruct? So great his honesty, faced in
a situation, where he might perish over his honesty—a wise man will fib,
retreat, and repent, as in, make amends—such tender
atonement. Like barracudas. Like eels.
Just moving into motion, condemned before many begin: raccoon mornings, feral
cats screeching, bull ants picking over a beetle.
