Never having been a shepherd, I seek my
artistic intuition for a way to say I know

a bit of what the whole cloth needs to form,
at all,
information conforming to pattern with mysterious
iniquitous twists and transpositional possibilit-

a knock at the door,
and an inner action with reactions,
to things
I have been known to have said in terms
we disagree on,
suffer it to be so now, the suffering as you imagine,
is brief,
the time it takes to see eternity is not a mortal concept,
ever is no absolute state, stasis stuck
round and round
wait and see, leave me be the only knower,
lone be
learn of wedom, as we know, me and the reader, being
known as selves with stories certain
in the past,
no regrets remain, but where the complexity of being
you
in my mind, is not for me to untie, or re-tie to my definition
when you believed you know, far better,
truth that proves, data-wise, there is no god, as - who/
who who
who refines the rethinking task, way back machine, be
history. As of now,

Baccus protocol envocolation e-lation cellophane
crinkle in the veil
Rumi walked right through, and left me wondering
when did I recognize the being by the name.?.

name me author for a day,
run it on old video of Queen for a Day,
run a series of clips,
wish clips, what is your wish the audience may grant,
in our democratic game of shame erasure,
wound recovery, tattoo removal,

- nur ds
- the banality of evil, asks for first rule
- from point of no return, what is evil's mission,
- in words?
- Evil words, Turrets spir'ts spat from side walk
- prostrate saint in the throes of entheosity

Walk on by, imagine I am all
alone, wishing I were in a we, a class of us, big
ambitioned amity in enmity
with e as balanced on an inconsistent constant,

absolutely, I see, he says, I see, he thinks he does

out of body lookame aiming to know, as much or more
than any
who got away
may have used to leave a clue

where now, this is 2021 and the sleeve/host/possession

kiva-temple on the phone fully converged to match
the 1999 white paper.

Read the stripes. Those heal invisible. Like plastic braced bites.

We all have flaws, we are the industrial gems,
these
stories, parables, poems, recurring pocketest
of crystalline thought
tinkling breathless

if ex stasis, see, budge it, oomph, we all know,
let's roll

down the barrel, rifled at a ratio only the knacked smiths knew,
now, we know, all things related to rifling spiraling
an arc, set to force the strike

flint to steel to powder of magimeasures and transfiguration,

In my mind, at the very least.
yes. the point of every thing at once, knowing
is slowing
the engines of fear and hate and doubt and betrayal

-- I released the idea of absolute states or stations,
because of you. My son, from his younger self, to whom
I first define my terms,
as Silverman taught me, with your permission, let's say
I cannot lie,
oathbound, resound, begun redone

dance around the truth with me, think of reading ready
writing qwerty keyed in symphony, phony or Meme-o
graphic burps of adol-idolescing,

didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we
didn't we, now didn't we didn't we, now didn't we

and it never gets old, days of old,
being who we once imagined we could be had we
taken another turn,
roll one more time.

"So is this what we are? Friends with benefits, right?"
Oh, right.

pavement cracks under his feet
when he walks.
smoke falls from his hair
when he moves.
his hands are made of stone
his veins are dripping mud
his eyes are black and blown.

he's a walking black hole
******* all the light of the world in
breathing in warmth and fire
breathing out dust and ashes.

but
he's still young in the crinkles by his smiling eyes
in the high pitch of his screams
in the smallest curls of his hair.

but
he's aged in the purple under his eyes
in the tilt of his disappointed mouth
in the rough tips of his fingers
in the weight of his stone-carved bones.

he is many things
and looks like so many more
he is big
and he is beautiful
and the earth cracks under
his feet
and the flowers die in his wake.

and still
he swears he's bathed in darkness
but still made of sun.

your hands left inky marks
on my skin
and i don't have any soap
all i can do is scratch and scratch
but it's still there
it's still there

anybody smart would call the police if they were beaten
but i love you too much to protect myself
and the bruises look like hearts anyway