We carry hope, siphon promises, sewn into crevices;
concrete abstracts, love as it appears, most wish for more; a dumbing ache, a fugitive
heart, given to graces. I was flirting those waves, some underground activity,
a soul never understands itself. Be good to self, be good to you, such cozy
deception; carrying legislation, earnest in the woods, racing to catch the
hidden self. Untucked. Fraught by pash. To look intently and walk away from
life. Clamor and tears. Palleted prose. Palatial storm-cries. Stooped at the
temple war—favored for disgusts—loved and released. We buried memories, if to survive memories,
as souls cursed in the cornfields. Sought for euphoria. Chased a zillion
insights. Torn to making fire with non-trust. It seems ordinary, made complex,
nothing is sacred—all has become tools: madness leaning into healing, iconic
flame and dis-memories, rancid and rotten and realness.
