Words, words hurt even if they are just restating facts.
Facts somehow now twisted by how they were originally delivered.
Passing on information to people I think should know.
Know for my heart, know for my peace of mind.
But jealousy it seems should always be forgotten.
Talking about it magnifies it beyond what it is, just slight and simple.
I made a man into a monster in her eyes.
Something he doesn't deserve.
I sit in the midst of a love triangle in which the woman doesn't want either of us.
She just wanted to be friends with both of us.
Now her urge to be more intimate with me as a friend is blocked by a barrage of concentration on a subject that should be so light and whimsical.
And a friend who had his heart crushed by seeing that intimacy.
I feel like a wolf, these words bite and wrangle, and won't dissipate for 100 years, says Muhammad, pbuh.
I always think work will become easier, but tests multiply, and it stays hard - hard in heart.

It took a hastily-made hangman puzzle
to **** you, a present-day friend
of mine to simply whisper
that three-letter word
as if she were restating the gospel.

Ironic, then, that as you were dying,
I felt an era-long noose loosening.

I remember finding skin pores
mistakenly labelled as sinkholes,
every confession warranting
a "believe me, we knew" after the other.

If you had spent any more time,
an indefinite amount of days
deciding to stay lurking
in the corners of the closet,
out there in the rafters
where no one could hear you
whispering poison into my gut reactions,
I might have sprouted
a kamikaze bloodline,
a raucous rhythm in the ranks
cackling louder with each year
of silence, each span of secrecy.

Although your plastic inflection
vanished with a collective
unlocking of the joints,
your cryptic sentiment still loiters
while my common sense is sleeping,
and I remember to repeat,
three times like Dorothy,
that moment I could only
be my true self on paper.

There was an elegant *****, from New York City
Or maybe Rome or New Orleans.
He was a spectacular ***, but didn't do drag at all;
Falling somewhere in between that category
Of glorious ladies and men of the day.
A queen with no throne nor entourage scene,
Camouflaging himself in skin-tight trousers,
Spectacular coats and jackets,
Packets of sachet in his pockets
To give him a scent of an unusual gent.
As if he had a choice in the matter.

He had a delicate way with his manner,
His hands and his eyes touching gracefully
As if not to disturb the dust on the mind,
Often very unkind, he used his tongue slicing
And dicing those who offended his senses
When such dared to step on his train
Invisibly dragging behind him, around him
Keeping his visitors at bay, a few feet away
Like proper subjects, courtiers to his grace
His face locked in a grin; hiding all within
The secrets protected by laden witticisms
Criticisms if you misbehave, saving smiles;
Handing out compliments like cookies.

There was always a waving of hands,
The arms caught in the wind like cornstalks.
For a moment. Then catching, ending like feathers
Settling together, resting as if cradling a baby
One hip thrown out, the head to one side
As if listening; hearing a devil's good joke,
Smoking a constant cigarette, the ends never wet
Laying the tip on the lip like a kiss
His face slightly lifted so the smoke will drift
Away from his half-lidded cynical eyes.

The talk could be varied, of Tom, **** or Harry
He would call women men and vice versa
Saying, Robert is a ***** woman is she.
He then waiting your laughter, hesitating
Seldom laughing himself, having said it all
Heard it all, done it all, had them all

No fertile male soil left unspoiled by his touch
Just entirely too much for one man to handle,
No woman to compare, he lived alone somewhere
Coming to the bars each night, a familiar sight
Drinking, but not seeming drunk,
Never sunk so low that he staggered,
Still swaggered after hours at the trough
Not so much as a slur or a cough.

He knew all the jokes that could be made
From a seemingly innocent mistake
Taking a word here and there and trading
Raising a regal eyebrow, somehow changing
Restating the meaning leaning it toward the crotch
Watching the listener's face, sensing the disgrace;
Granting himself the luxury of the infrequent howl
His majesty could keen like an un-oiled machine
Setting his victim's nerves and gooseflesh to snap
Giving his udderless chest a slap, he would go on
Make more of the jest, leave his victim no rest
And the mourners to offer their apologies.
Words such as that are not for ladies
Such as this infamous old queen.

The old spirit held on after the body was near gone
Propelling it nightly to appear on the scene.
Mean children would taunt him, just as he taught them
And waving their arms like cornstalks, cackle like hens
And tease him again, then resume cruising the men
Hurting the once regal spirit more with their disdain
Than beating him, or cheating him; ignoring him,
They dealt him a blow he never could abide
That fear he kept inside, all those years, the tears,
Still left un-cried, after he died, in his room somewhere.
He has left to be shared, the way he fluffed his hair,
The off-color joke, spoken in a strange lady's voice
Something like a boy's, not like a man's;
That flutter of the hands and the stance
Still copied today, by the splinter-group gays
That straight people think we all are
Is all that remains of a star once seen;
The seldom lamented, well-imitated, eternal queen.

“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
          empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
      ‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.

If Dexter's Parents had not divorced and he had not moved away with his mother,
Who was beautiful as I recall, today would have played out or worked out or turned out
Differently. Very differently, considering that little twist in my six-degrees of separation base pattern
Hapt seventy-years ago, or so,
----
Watch starlings, if you have starlings, or watch congregations of kippers on Netflix.
Their steering is on auto. Do you agree? Then we are in Agreement, which is an odd place to find one's self in the midst of so great a cloud of witnesses.
-----
'e goes a gain a ginning, grinning all the while
Aye, and radioman turned on just
Now listen -Radio Mumbai

I meant, you and I agree schools of sardines and flocks of gulls are all on auto-pilot-propulsion-maintenance programs,
Right?
I thought so. The code in a gnat must be so much more elegant than the vast terabytes of programming in the GPS constrained self-drivers evolving on earth. Gnats never collide and are nearly impossible to hit, unless you have bat tools, which you don't. Nobody wrote that gnat code, right?
Of course not, evidence of programming only appears to be programming, evidence of design only looks like design it's not design. Right? So says Carl Sagan, Richard Dawkins, and all the people so called to win the battle for the minds of **** Sapiens Augmentatious, lest, as the confusion of Babel subsides, those minds should begin to reason together more clearly in light left after the lies standing on men's minds are revealed inferior to what our senses sensationally acknowledge. Whew. Long thought.

I meander, but you do as well. That is how things flow.
Not over immovable objections, around.

One life that was connected to mine in boyhood friendship was severed about half-way through my sixteenth year.
He died. I don't remember how. Alcohol-related, I can imagine. I did not attend the funeral, though some acquaintances did; one of whom was later my lover. She is dead now as well, too late to tell me anything. She had a baby less than a year after I returned from Vietnam, more than nine months later. That is a heavy thought, but not one I think does much good now.

So little of history is noted. So few lives function to trigger generational unctions that devolve into wars against imbalance, iniquity, slavery and death.
Fraternity, Egality, ******* *** the mob all riled-up, burn , baby, burn.
Whole people die in history's whims,
If whims they were.

Rebellions…

Watch the starlings steer through 4-d patterns eternally random,
fueled by bugs they convert to food for the soil itself.
Their life is their work and they do it beautifully. As one.

Can Boeing-Raytheon-L3 et al build a self-propelled, self-refueling drone that can fly at top-speed, maneuvering millimeters in each direction from other self-propelled, self-refueling drones while dropping their payloads without a single friendly-fire crash, ever?

Starlings don't **** on each other.

If war-profiteers could build such things, would you watch such things perform and wonder at the minds that built them, or deny such minds played any role from concept to creation, and ask who authorized development and deployment of such an expensive fertilizer distribution system that fertilizes wild weeds as well as gentled weeds?
Which would you say: "Wow, how did those get made, who paid?" or "Wow, look what billions of years and energy alone can do against absolutely insurmountable odds and impossible physics, with chaos and corruption always on the job?" Holy entropic bad moon.

Are ye not more precious than starlings, or sardines, or gnats. Would a sense pertaining to immediate locational proximity, evident in birds and fish and bugs, not be apparent in Adamkind, at least as a metaphor regarding benefits gained in knowing where you are relative to your own environment, regardless of any sense of personal purpose?

I can see it in the fact that we can agree, for good or ill.

As generations mature and regenerate, might there be patterns in the tumbling of the powerful and the powerless populations. Patterns depicting group or herd preservation by fully mentally equipped populations of mature and maturing Adamkind are detectable. Facts now overflow the cup of knowns. These are those days when knowledge is increasing and increasing and increasing to the point of being a destructive force in tightly closed minds.

Name dropping, rather than restating, Helen Arendt, "The Origins of Totalitarianism"(1966), Bertrand Russell, "The Problems with Philosophy"(1912), Pankaj Mishra, "The Age of Anger"(2017).

These three books and some browsing of names and titles the authors drop, have spurred me over the top of a rise I had not seen coming. My path had become gradually uphill without my noticing. I was interested in other things and ignoring notices from my body that oxygen stores were being depleted more rapidly than current inventory of red blood cells and nurse lymphocyte-bots can recycle the quadra-monthly disassembly turnover, H2O stores for sweat heat-dispersal systems and plasma regeneration and digestion of what little remains to be digested are now at "caution, think about stopping" levels. But I saw that from the top I might see to the top of the next rise before I chose the downhill part of my path. The down hill path determines the uphill path.
In the desert, you can see trails marked in many ways, mosses grow in least-heat zones created by angular location relationships with the sun. Breezes whisper into shade puddles by ever slow slight temperature inequilibria shifting some heat to the triggering of my sweat system.

If you were compelled to reason about every step you take in life as if it were your responsibility to regulate and control every function of your flesh vehicle in which you abide in relationship to all around you that you could harm or that could harm you, you would be mad. {mad?} illusion of reality

assumes reality is friendly here. I'm okeh
with that improbability aside,

implied as self explicatory and unfolding life…
examined,
for what its worth in words redeemed may be,
in the future, when this is what they thought,
you think, and I say know,
I thought this,
on a bet. Or an oath, depends on the fret.

Crazy mad, but angry auch. That would be unfair, because you don't know how to do what you are being compelled to do. Reports of persons who can control ****** functions not commonly consciously controlled are easily found. Such persons spend their time so countering the rolling rhythms beat by heart doors slamming shut and swooshing open in response to electricity, that, we, Adamkind, have yet to truly understand. We've no need, that which concerns us was
to be perfected, not by us.

If my use of Adamkind offends you, the reality of my benefits, wrought from my comprehension of my relation to Adam, will likely make me your enemy, in your own mind, not mine.
Ax'em, do they love po' o'hate rich?

Believe one chance in practically infinity of current evolutionary-nontheistic thought being the way things must be, then multiply the number of times you make that bet by the number of insects on earth or even by the number of mitochondria in your kidneys.

Ignoring life's delicate imbalances in light of what can be known today, breaks our minds's ability to agree perfectly. The social dichotomy that seems to arrange adamkind's affairs over eons and eras: rich and poor, have and have not, mean and meek, is ego-driven, self-benefit seeking and not part of the original program.

Contemplate the sweet influences of Pliades, silently questing the truth of hope and matter. There is more power in this stream.

Chapter end.

Throughout the day they chime
Telephone off the hook ring
one eight hundred calls are frequent
Unknown names appear periodically

Despite my number being unlisted
The owner decides to tell it straight
And it goes on nevertheless
To make him do the ultimate

Would pull the plug for fear of
draining the brain from restating
All that have been stated far too often
And that's the best choice to remain calm

This pulling plug thing works great
As the answering machine would not pick up
The intruder's voice thus stopped
Before it had a chance to irk

Throughout the day they chime
Telephone off the hook ring
one eight hundred calls are frequent
Unknown names appear periodically

Seventeen.. it all feels so different yet the same...
I remember all the friends and fires that came
And the ones that left, mistakes I made
I recant them here under stratospheric shade
Under dark of night and heavy rain
Restating thoughts of bliss and pain
I remember blood rains and dragon tails
Wolves, foxes, a tiger or two, my imagination never fails
Together with my brother I've carried it all
Through brainstorms and stories tall.

you could travel to india.
you could hop on a plane
and end up something like
10,000 miles away from here
in the middle of the rain forest
overlooking a beautiful waterfall,
the mist kissing your cheeks just
the perfect amount to remind you
that you're loved by Mother Earth.
you could do that. sure, you could do that.

or you could dig a really big hole,
i'm talking about a massive hole
that you could start to climb down in
and work towards reaching the center of the earth,
running into all sorts of mythical creatures:
demons and demigods, demogorgons and dugtrio.
you could get way way deep down there
and find that in the center of it all is
Indra's net, and all of a sudden
everything in the universe makes sense.
and it would make sense. and you'd be right.

or you could realize it all
right here and right now.
you could understand that
going anywhere out there
really doesn't take you anywhere.
you could see that by going anywhere
you prove that you don't quite understand
the point of what you are doing.
you're putting lipstick on a pig.
you're restating the directions
instead of just following them.
"Bake the cake at 450 for 10 minutes" becomes
"Cook the pastry one degree above 449 for 600 seconds."
the truth is that you've got every right to do that.
it's just that one way or another
you don't eat unless the cake gets baked,
and it doesn't matter how many ways you read the instructions,
you've still gotta put it in the oven and wait.

now i'm breathing cigarette smoke
into fog....
it's local and it's bypassing
the global narrative...
i'm sitting perched on
a windowsill
debating whether
d.n.a. predates the other curses:
i love music more
than women,
i'll say it again: i came to love
music more than the Tehran's worth
of women, the music over-powered them,
i wash shaking at the knees
of ac / dc, and i asked for d.n.a.
inclusion... because i was
bothered to read it as otherwise...
and i know there's a woman out there for
me.... and i known there's
  a lesser comic book hero to guide
the matter into a mortgage...
but i know where they gas the liberals,
i know know where Switzerland is...
   i'm bound to a boredom already
hijacked...
      ai'd gas a few liberals had i been given
a chance, like my gradfather likes to
recount: herr! bite bonbon!
         i don't mind writing about extinction
i'm quiete dodo about it,
       if the music plays, the women can shut up.
i heard my grandfather whisper into
me a chinese whisper about ensuring
your heart remained small...
             behalten herz, klein herz...
           herz uber alles.
i don't mind being an extinct specimen
akin to the dodo,
        that might sound insane around here,
but i am vague about the argument
to pro the alternative....
given the culture i find no worth to scatter
the proof...
      music overcame my want for women...
and i what comes next is a stamping,
i just want to fear the end of gravity
but instead i'll probably hear a harnass flinging
Amazonian bridge between compensator and
instigator... and i hope
   i'm wrong...
                              all this dyslexia
and anti-Rousseau sentiment... had i not read Voltaire...
but i have no one to cite...
              apart from them, so it really does seem
like all other clubs: slightly selective...
                       after a while not getting any
makes your forget that dating sites exist,
    you start to learn the proper narration of the world:
so close: yet so far away...
                           i can't state the last bet i made on
the roulette of passion, i decided to feel nothing
concerning it...
                    it got a bit worth a right of a bollocking...
all i needed was a club, and a barbwire wrapped
around a club for a signature, to turn
the debate with the right ink...
                i said n'ah, i prefer music more than
a woman's nagging... women married always
tend to make other males more useful than their own
partners...if there's a love: it will tear us apart...
otherwise we'll congregate with the accomplishment
of jealousy...
                 and if we feed the little heart:
there's no great love to be had...
                                    i can't expect this to sound
as a guiding principle, as Athos said:
  the best advice: is to give no advice at all...
                      i just love watching what
darwinism did away with the historical narrative,
we'll all be dead within the next year...
                            we're all counter to what could be
taken as worth keeping...
            i mean... we already said that fame was pointless
given there was no competition left to
usurp us... having congested the edges of the world,
becoming prime in Siberia... and lavished
in Arabia...
                      but i know that this is really
an anglophone reality, talk this talk in germany
or france and the reaction is different...
                   the more i realise that i do speak english,
the more i wish to not speak it it...
i get tired of it...
                   i sorta lose the plot, wishing that
there actually was a plot to care about...
                                          i can't see the plot,
i can't see the plot because there isn't one to begin with...
   it's architecture kept by invoking a care for
superglue... i can't see it as migrational,
   i can't see it as eastern european economic migration
or the african stampede, or the eternal-judeo
   dispersion...
            if the western people are bewildered by their culture,
then i'm doubly bewildered by the export of all
body-works to china, leaving earopean man with
menial, but rather mental works...
                  and i'm drinking, so that's a +,
but i just can't see the end as related to d.n.a.
being upkept... i can't see that narrative...
                          my concept of eternity can't really
transgress your lack of it...
                        it's get boring after a while talking
with atheists... i'd prefer talking with ahumanists...
        i'd love to pair an atheist with an
ahumanist... because i don't actually see a lot of
human in what's god's own...
                    a- (indefinite article), meaning without
god, or the kaleidoscope finger to the eye
suits the noun right... thetheism is also a very
ugly noun that could exist.... before god has no
parameters, i'd prefer to look at the words that can exist
but don't, given our care for lubricants...
     the- (definite article), meaning with god....
    well the alternatives are islam... christianity...
or the argument by populist secular commuters:
we actually do believe in the same god...
question is: what's there to question in your spare time?
        after that it becomes a hellish enterprise...
  or a dictatorial reality... or the democratic basis for:
i don't eat with you, i won't sleep with you,
and i'll certainly not turn the central heating for you.
   the least thing accessible for me, is to
watch television with you,
                 because that's how it works.
given we've moved into a.i. and robotics,
i'd like us to play god, beyond definition, by simply
not being there... just so we can perfect creating the robot...
so atheism must come with ahomo...
                          best prescribed via ****...
   or the *****...
                         well, if we are to forsake the existance
of god, and fully embrace creating the robot,
we shouldn't technically be here...
                                which makes Heidegger's
dasein really useful... given that popular culture
made fun of germans as not really human but
merely robotic, until the human peeped through
the veil of Auschwitz and everyone was like:
um... revision? just like they thought the Jews
were stupid clinging to the tetragrammaton...
  they did... in the past 2000 years of "judeo-christian"
interaction, you'de get more crucifixes than
talks about the tetragrammaton...
                well, if we're serious about building
the ******* robot, why not do away with god
but also humanity? i don't see the point of disposing one
and keeping the other...
           in our ambition to create a.i.
we didn't forsake god, we forsoke ourselves...
    i don't care whether god is dead...
                     given we have youtube
                  stars that act as clogs in the advert machinery
i find no care to find a deus mort, or a **** viv!
i find, no concern, in finding a dead god,
  or a man, alive... non deus mort, vel **** viv!
  counter:
    numne deus mort: **** est non viv,
             **** contra viv... contra deus...
                 strange to think,
a non-existent thing: to be so obstructive,
and later construct one's life around him
being so beneficial, as to make a life from
orating atheism... a tad bit funny...
        how can i perfect this vulgate?!
numne deus mort, **** emortus...
                evidently, given our preoccupation
with robotics and a.i., the death of god
came with the baggage of becoming gods
and asking to spark a secondary case of the Edenic
charring...
               again the Latin... it's a fetish, my apologies...
deus mort (god dead, est, yeah), or
                        **** viv (man, life bound) -
   it appears the two aren't as explicit as it would appear...
it seems there's a natural basis for a god,
whether satan's clause does actually involve
being paid in toy-structures and cleaning the conscience...
          and i do speak worse Latin than
most English people speak modern English...
luck of the draw... the long straw.... i win a tumble dryer...
you win a voltswagen beetle engine...
   we both end up hearing a midnight song of
mechanical burps and fake stomach maracas...
       i just thought i'd say:
either god is dead, and man has died with him,
or god is really dead, and man fakes living a
posthumous life, encouraged to create a robot...
which he has done, alternative to prayer,
  creating something a god might occupy himself
with then man has abandoned god...
                    i sometimes think:
of all the anglophone writers, i use the word
god as shamelessly as most anglophone writers
use pronouns... i use the word shamelessly...
  because most anglophone writers use pronouns
so freely... i know this doesn't give the fat
of the argument... but i use it freely...
       i'm starting to wonder wether
            god is dead gave us anything more than
people paying for a grave before they get
shovelled into it...
                  as it stands: quiet the opposite...
long before the epitaphs or the dates are
              enshrined, they have already bought
the parody of owning a home...
they are already waiting for the marble space
beneath the maple trees...
                 which is why i ask by restating
the end of metaphysics, if gott ist mort,
            what mann ist viv?
     last time i checked, i found more human warmth
of my own voice asking a refrigerator about
the weather, than my neighbour about
    last Sunday. i'd sooner punch my neighbour
dead than ask him about his feelings.
6ft1, 115kg... i guess i could put a sock in
the right case of gob.

One of her last remaining Snakeshead died from his wounds,
Restating his oath to serve Andulan before slipping beneath the black,
No song awaited him on the other side, only pools of venom,
On an island of silence.
That killed down to the last, knew his survival was heavy,
So he tore off a symbol of his responsibilty, from a brotherly neck.
Andulan was found passed out and alone, with a starry sky above to glimpse upon,
It didn't exist for him, all that mattered was that his beloved was still alive,
Battered and bruised, but living nonetheless.
He carried her off into the forest, taking her to a clearing beside a frog filled pond.
It croaked with slimy life, pouches of green littered the vernal pool, filled with capsules.
It was a melodious, low pitched song that eased him to sleep beside her,
He'd wake up with her lying over him.

If you love me let me know
Because I'm not yet ready to completely let go,
I say yet with cause,
Because I'm tired of being wrapped so tightly in the gauze
of your life. Because without yet,
You have to get
to the conclusion alone that we cannot escape
the inevitable. We cannot recreate
what we had, saying had
because we're bad
enough that we lost what we found sparked our curiosity
of love.
That what pushed us forward with such animosity
is gone.
You have chosen to lose hope in us
You have chosen to give up on us
Thus restating the completely frustrating inevitable life sentence you have created that is in itself, over.
What are we that in a sea full of lies I can look into your eyes and still have hope for the future. But we have an effect,
An effect not know yet,
That could solely heat a city of a thousand men.
Don't say we're over unless you're ready to bulldozer our empire.
You can't retire a burning fire without first using a water hose.
Don't close your eyes if you're gonna realize that everything you're about to lose is worth more than the muse of a memory.

Don't give up hope and let a threat threaded rope of words hang from your neck after you've already slain the dragon and won the battle.

Happiness is worth fighting for.
That's why I'll spend my lifetime fighting.

What was unsaid
Restating

Much In left

So Go right at it
Or stick Out of it

So much for being said

And yet you would say stuff
You shouldn't have

Or wouldn't have said

So don't say much

To settle down somewhere,
Beneath the glow of the crescent moon,
Where nothing but darkness prevails.
Where I and my solitary are hinged together,
The echos of ground wouldn't perforate my thoughts,
The lurid character, only visible to me-
Preserved for me.
The crooked branches wouldn't point towards me,
Their menace evaporating before reaching us.
Only in-ear, they would sometimes buzz,
Restating their vile self.

But, I dream far beyond the horizon- and I see,
A pristine place left for me.

Refusing to define
Even worse to explain
On the surface descriptive
At its essence mundane
Restating excuses
Ensconcing the lie
The sage waxed poetic
  —you still asking why

(Villanova Pennsylvania: June, 2016)

Think of a way
Of restating
The obvious
More captivating
The awe-stricken
Audience
With a more personal,
Visceral
Form
From a gloom-ridden,
Tomb-bidden
Womb it is born
And exhuming its
Daily death wish
Is a chore
Willfully I oblige
To provide you with more

forelight not for want of thee,

foredark not for want of thee--

essenced Word of breaking lips

loath to void.

as what clings to spacey walls.

outflanked vine throwing off

dimensional shadows.

head come head, prophesied forefront.

disseminations of empurpled grapes.

gourd of psyche, countoured with

drying juices--the letting of outlasted

accentuations.

Caravaggio dying on the run, restating art.