There it is, a-**** sun, thickly entwined like Rapunzel's locks.
The crowd has come odder than odds, tattered rags enmeshed to
their crevices, they reek to low hell.
The air moves sideways, caught at the throat unable to sing.
What is this furor that has eaten the margins of a public square?
The crowd keeps pressing forward, as if to confront the macabre
march of their lives, their slights cleave about with such precision
that vultures go blind.
Some occult watershed moment is pin-pricking bumps of coarse
flesh.
Arms club and flail skulls dumb to impact, erogenous zones are
clicked on, there's an undulation that would make ***** revisit
the human form.
Bodies of dead weight tantrum, demonic babes trying to awaken
an idol whose face is painted intricately with ***** smears.
A priori convicts herded to crowd, one and all--the sky above
wants to usurp their earthen haunt, loosing them to rich black
space, where their rich black may chase their absconded breath.
Their eyes are blitzed, blinking a million times before each take.
They don't even see one another, they've liquefied, no ordinary
stupor at present, but rare form in the raw.
Their words piggy-back sentences from all angles, there's no
oral history to be found, this type of language must ferment.
Its impetus is a rogue whose corporeality cannot be lined by a cage.
Their pores pop open as incidental eyes, stroked to a trance by
splintering limbs hurling into a Bosch like guffaw.
Full admittance for inappropriate timing...nature's lectern overtaken,
stumbled upon--with such a dominant pretense that Socrates will
sew his lips in the grave fully knowing he knew nothing.
Here...here is their meat, their package out of thin air.
The crowd's vibrating, the criminal's feet shimmy forth under those
vibrations...ice hath materialized for them.
A noose blows brighter and brighter holes, the crowd seems to dive
into them--fully enamored.
Gallows polished to perfection, edited by a unanimous authorship.
The fine crackle of a neck, the crowd rerouted...combing their faces,
trying to obscure their quivering mouths...quivering mouths
articulating euphoria to such a degree it is worth guarding.

Unforeseen flowers bobbing a wind's forever heyday...
submerged as if coral.
I could fit my valley into the shadow, and shadow into
its death with such balance.
What's overcome is sworn to secrecy...formulaic, rotund
and malignant what was prayer...even by all the loose
interpretation it suffocated the uneven, as unknown
factors of the life it's put to.
Here, as here is always concerned--it seems fruit of
Garden variety grows as to confine its worm.
It is here, as here is always concerned--I turn worm-ward...
to ultimately reveal nothing--linger coolly and repulsively.
We've an aversion to things that burrow and avert grasp--
a reward goes out for the head, or piece of such a thing
from the selfsame head.
Why is it our prayers are sent forth to expel the evils
we've gathered?
Prayer's construct is meant to be singular as it stands...
heartfelt--airtight in its sentiment.
Thus, by such definition I believe prayer is no longer
prayer--as it is here, as here is always concerned.
If you were to visualize such a prayer, the object of
devotion would become the objects of devotion to
overcome, conquer the God appealed to.
As an egoist is devoted to the objects of his/her nature...
as it were, an object may slip, avert the worm of such
prayer.
Hence, what does prayer become when its clasped
fingers curl under the spell of a blackening ******?
Power lust, the bending, curling of will in prayer form
shape-shifts, and is submitted to God as prayer.
A loathsome possession of plummeting powers feeling
for themselves in adoration at every odd, and odder
angle.
As prayer was meant to be the prodigal son/daughter's
offering to the disclosed, yet undisclosed infinite...
here, as here is always concerned, the line lies to its end
to forego what is endless...unforeseen flowers
bobbing a wind's forever heyday...submerged...as if coral.
Of prayer, now--clasped hands die upon one another,
come to separately...without even the capacity to unify
such experience.
O hands of duality--meant to meet of prayer...kiss of life,
for kiss of death.
Such hands are fit for a prayer viewed by a shaman upon
the deepest cave wall, fireside.
As if two serpents deeply kissing, open-mouthed...world
to world experience is offered up...volleyed, interlocked
by and by...till God intuited as to appease such intimate
impossibility.
Who, or what could wish to keep at bay such words of
being...thereupon to release them to The Word?
Why...none other than we, so cherished by our
incomprehension it's founded us...and thus we must pray!
These two hands taken as token...as it is here, as here is
always concerned--I could fit my valley into the shadow...
and shadow into its death with such balance.

Something acting on
our own behalf,
shows up during
the broadest of daylight...
and begins
cutting all the excess fat
till we may
stand comforted in skin.

All or nothing...is our
growth template--
no matter how great
the escape...
humanity is not just
a word.

As squared circles
we seamlessly,
and effortlessly
observed one another...
a silence spoke so
evenly
we embraced without
touching.

...Here a man stands accused--the pellucid jury
of his peers come to themselves in their life's arms
through him.
He wails upright...a shadow continent wedging
The Flood.
Timekeeping horseflies besmirch his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consume
time till the singular advocacy of he withstood.
The imperturbable essence captured itself, as so
at the height of its powers there's interplay.
Ease culled from tribulation...countenance slackened
by degrees...overwhelmed by awareness.
Kingdom come Kingdom--shoring space of grace
that is freedom.
As if Everything centering of itself, fawning over itself...
polar opposites in conjugal bliss.
Here a man stands accused...of being--fit for steely
juxtaposition...the murderous implement of will, or
salvation.
Envision him post-Flood, waist-deep, the living Face
of the Deep...look upon him!
Timekeeping horseflies besmirching his chest cavity
with due kisses...par for par movements consuming
time till the Singular advocacy of thee...look upon
him!
An encounter of pitless ramification: fear or love...be
it the last man upon the earth.
Look upon him--O jury of his peers boasting billions...
pellucid unto one another...look...The Hour is radiant!
Won't thee come to thine life's arms through him?
For he is Everyman.

That baleful germ watches my going rate.
Comes with blunted spear--chafed flesh
pulled through Nothing come to its tether.
An ingrown horn--gluey eyes sleepless as
any decor in a crooked House.
One wing up on a downturned one.
A roving cackle that stokes the throat of
its fire.
As if the pleasantries of a disfigured humor
abide their disease--know their place
amongst what was, but is no more.
The precipice stilled all the more in dark
of its sky, what land there was to distance
closed...pushed outward the demon's
face as it sped downward.
The All summed up in a word shy of its
Word.
O demon, self-contained thing...whose
slights bar thee by design.
By God's reluctance, animus thee spend,
to rule out what good could come of thee.
As if by the taking you secure increase--
there's no rallying God by the taking...
nay by private fang nor claw core undone.
Your striving put you to what you are.
As so, it is you...that makes the face of
anything--just until it shall have of itself,
bear itself.
That bearing be Godly--your industry is one
of delight in the confusion prior to that
bearing--O demon!
Hence, you are cast out by what sets its
sights by right divine!