To that which sees me for what I Am,

let me be known for what I Am.

Lest I take shade under another life.

There's no judgement worse than

contraction, I refuse to let death be a

forced expansion.

Let what cannot be hidden, be my

strength.

Rolling out of bed, will be rolling

out of bed.

It was never given me to yoke being

with covetousness.

That second doing wants to fall from me.

Desperately so.

In the call is what prepares for it--spreads

me out with it.

A prayer's rush is not knowing how it

goes.

I'm certainly not the only one.

We're going to walk out of here this time.

I followed cruelty home after it

did unto another.

I was so certain it knew it was

being followed--that I felt followed.

Conscience is to know the feeling,

how well?

I had to see what cruelty does with

itself, the psychotic breaks it

undergoes.

Not to be cruel.

It's when birds gain currency--

advancing as something pale

or other.

The thin chasm of beaks hurt

to hear, their sounds

aren't as early as spring.

They're not there.

An hour or so after a witch

undressed in front of a mirror,

piled on the floor.

Bottom lip quivering with

unwholeness.

That I elbow standing for the

toilet & face front, totally

deaf to the story arc.

For bed to remake sheet-angels,

that will never get me.

On a trail long led away from what

it leads to.

Large wet leaves bent down to those

led.

On the back end of a rain, that already

considered itself over.

Left behind the basic goodness of a

cool breeze, effortlessly lifting the

forest.

As if edification let out levels of vibrancy.

Those led to observe peak vibrancy.

There again, large wet leaves realized

they were in place to greet--expended all

greeting.

No more abrasive than a pulse, that

gave you some much space you wanted

to give some back.

That's when large green leaves

became so responsive, that their

expressions made you see as what

moved you.

On with them--humor them, round them.

That night should recognize the tribe

of them.

The Watschandies of Australia, chancing

ceremony--as not to be spit out by spring.

To be there is to proclaim belonging,

where earth chooses a spot to open

herself.

As she digs out their gleaming eyes,

before they dig into her.

A ditch surrounded by bushes, symbolic

of female genitalia--absenting

themselves to chant: womb.

From there a fire, a round, a ditch's dark

unto darkness.

Spears in their hands,  phalluses pulling

them along what bushes seize upon--

into the night.

Only when magic outdances the dance,

& a chant's circle heaves--spears are

raised.

Return throws into a ditch--as fertility

throws her head back.

I exist in that I

do not--

I'm always

away from me.

Now.

As always,

an infinite

being.

Whose every

moment is deja vu.

So far beyond

noticing every

detail.

As if nonexistence

blinking into

being.

Teeny tiny hands let it be--

between

the furniture & music of a piano,

It

developes the taste for a certain

texture.

How relatable.

As frequencies turn my beard into

dancing flies.

It comes into focus...

another absentminded midwife

wearing a cupid arrow headband,

loses balance.

As a body of water sweeps away

broken glass.

The way things point out that there's

nothing there--there's really nothing

there.

While the depth & duration of that

nothing is saved, when we come back

from It.

Midwifed by the nearest thing you

could poke.