With a funny-bone,
moving swiftly, asking of the vaultkeeper—the address of happiness, the kiln of
joy, with flaming, with electricity, the quickness of the rose; at the crypt-teller,
the matriarch passed, Who’s left in charge? Most roots in moonshine, swollen
anxieties, the crooked know existence; most eyes are dripping sap, many palms
are gripping Jesus, most come to it lately—the art of the buffoon, the casualty
of the earth, synced and diced, minced into pieces, laughing it hurts! The fuss
over bending letters, the majesty in tortures, a giggle for spirits, a smile
for omens, a gift for living. By angst into a portrait, those chasing those
running those at peace—if and only if—the fires drowning amore, as one
resuscitates, while souls are resurrecting—the filth of experience, the
mathematics of dying, like people come back to sing. So deep the wattage,
riding on social-cars, the lamps just popped. Dear Jesus, What was it, What was
it? Total nor partial, searching for symbols, fretting the Easter Storm, and
mother was there, where armor left.
