It shouldn’t be offensive. Frantic, backgammon dreams. Mental hells or havens, asylums. To need what needs; to cure what cures. Souls are haphazard. Pains are heart-born. In affliction something indomitable proved essence. Lost innocence became sincere, impossible facts. So kamikaze, such origami, dying to live, dying nonetheless, a slow pace, hoping in a friend’s arms. Gathering reach. Casual disciplines. At it so long, indeed, it seems natural, without it, life would lose meaning. A woman was mad at me. She used soul earth. She sits affected. She ignores affectation. So presumptuous. So eager. If one taught me love, I’d run. (So great a dangerous soul.) What if a person supplied everything one was infatuated by? In return, a person would be powerful. No one quite gets it. They think the poet a little off. If a person is not challenged, they lose respect. Too much certainty leads to a riff. Better, to have mutuality, demands, needs, an infectious resistance. (So tremendous a treasure-trove, an underestimated keepsake, some person’s love or ache. To adore in return, to seek security, to get fired up. Never naïve, ever naïve, moving through flames, exciting vibration, ruminating in undulations.) Such lyrical frequencies, surefire magical winds, holy gatherings, to sense something as it never would have manifested. Maybe an angle, to peek, to see first letters—dancing with it, loved it, missing it as it gives up the Ghost. Nay, underground wilderness, to see it peak, to claim a new challenge, to drift, Lord!
