Couldn’t sustain it, surrounded by doubts, chuckling
at inconsistencies. To give with passion, each allegation is a defacto, with
one lying on God. I was with hunches, made evidence, swerving late nights. Love
was delightful, asking questions, I never mentioned those aesthetic hairs on
her arms. Business made sour, hours sweating, trying to laugh about kef(s). To
see rage, as it affects us, weening off of fear, a soul becomes a gorilla. I was
sick those times, knowing it meant so little, I hope everything is perfect. Out
the mud—as we say, luxury was a gift, cleansing shrimps, boiling rice. It was
unfair, a true essence, a truer friend, on a fluke, in a dingy room, we only
paint the science; moving quicker, sitting still, with hell in his veins; chests
churning, catching lights, becoming candles, undressing a koan. It was never
intended, I lost senses, it seems evident—the wrinkled skies. Intuition says
family was wrong. Reality says family didn’t know better. Therapy says
forgiveness is next to godliness. And tension is building, cargo unloaded,
senses bleeding—sweat dripping, shirts soaked. Like beasts with predictions,
like arms with speed, like feet floating over fences. I keep coming to it, as
something predicated, each memory a premise for addiction. It loses its funny
bone, it becomes an intrusion, then, in all honesty, one is sustained by
mystery—with the uncanny so clear and unshown. Either love or deaths, friend or
foe, many trick wires, tamper with clouds, open seas, the breaths in us. Unraveled
at points, solidified in dreams, aching to confront it. Closing existence, to
flip into seclusion, with nothing remaining undocumented.
