Life hurts, and life feels good. To inhale oxygen, to see a face, threshed for churned, and Love was miracle. They said it was death. They denied resurrection. I came to hear it. Like connection and diamonds, bleeding a tornado, framed in a storm. I loved thinking more—until it became a nightmare. So, I stopped cogitating, sitting in blankness, meeting spirits at a pond. I felt it by measure, intense stillness, gazing with presence. To drift, Father! We know something to it, through concentration, hoping it never turns left. To be conscious, with consciousness hating itself, to live as best one can. It does something. I figure Love is writing herself to freedom. To call on a phantom, to read up on a phantom, to realize—most are phantoms. I was amazed to see it, Love on a major mission, like senses crucified. Another is fraught by clocks, decency, keeping it to self. Those things we never imagine, livid upon a lasting curse. I was infatuated in life, to imagine cleanness, such devastation to gallop into a mystery. To see Love studying, resting in cores, too amazed by The Secrets of War. I went for a Ghost line. To see as if chiseling binoculars; to ask as if untrue; to never speak it clearly, for fear of a straitjacket. We know in silence. It’s good enough. An aura in Christ, a life in Spirit, a soul flogged and threshed.
