III
At the sawmill, palms filled with
debris, sweat dripping, filled with silent shame. The company we keep inside—those
portraits, maybe a voice, to have loved God. Spoken that way, religion became
private. The ache in its heart, the training in voids, wondering while
wandering. Like pseudepigrapha those miles, to glean a percentage, like hearing
one’s phone voice. By an eerie angst. By dear memory. To have seen a face prior
to meeting unsaid face: familiar music, blues, jazz, a natural feeling, a
familiar understanding—the moon was here before. In art, it becomes tasteful,
it seems offensive, to have known a dream, to have nurtured a scar, with
memories blocked, chasing, we have majesty in the blues. It wasn’t meant for
tears. It wasn’t intended for jeers. The face became important. Soul food. An aesthetic
charm. Some never erase the crib chase.
II
We love the blues. We hate the verboten
skies. A deadman feels existence, right at gates, sudden incarnation, a
forgetful memory, until triggered. To remain sane requires a dose of insanity. So
much science in harmony; so much religion proven at the fence. We love the
blues. We hate verboten skies. A soul is eccentric, lotic, framed in visions—the
beat drumming, those tales verified, it seems alchemy has a secret. Running through
weeds, face filled with sweat, running faster as a heart pumps—the majesty of
freedom, doing all to survive, the oldest seeds were desecrated. We love the
blues. Much is psychogenic, an inner talisman, Sybil has a sister. Half here,
half there. We kneel at the gates, frozen warmth, to worship the verboten
skies. Taken on measure. Pregnant with earth. The baby became tenets. Sitting. Chain-smoking.
Redeemed. Can’t loosen the inner anchor.
I
I imagine numen. I see invisibility. Each
promise causes friction. Running through sugarcane, scuffed by thorns, toes
sweaty, dirt flopping, bathed in mud. Candy was sweet. Salt has become
notorious. Begging roots. Unlatched. Granted mercy. I imagine colors. I swear
to goodness—where life is redundance, undull, trite at points, something new
proves innovative fire. Soul flame, sickle to skies, tiptoeing a great gulf. If
proven worthy, in a world filled by lusts, and one asked, one you adored, would
you sacrifice for us? I sound childish—needing redemption, in a universe
fraught by naturality. What have we? Anthems blaring. So passé. I was clean as
a baby. I was filthy as an adolescent. I repented as an adult. Years meant
religion. I became yogic. I landed upon a mystic farm. Such a heart—ruined by
vacancy—more to singing innocence.
