who ever

wrote

poetry on

their spare

time?

no such thing.

strike forces

of energy

come to lift

the banner

of Suns

become

One.

crept over

by the most

transparent

clouds.

there's a

thimble that

pulls spiders

thru.

they lose all

their legs--

but don't scream.

only reconfigure.

i attended the funeral of an angel--

not an extraordinarily virtuous human

being, but an angel.

it lie there as a solid beam of light.

wings condensed to a blinding soar.

then the demonic condolences came

rolling in, as the space around that

beam of light transfigured.

thick and hard...the nausea of no way

home, was captured by a flailing incense.

that flowed downward, emitting no scent.