Ten days secluded now, improper and unshaven inside a black and gold hole, dope den of sultry sound and opiate mood.

Two onyxes atop another out where the witch frolics, the signal clear, it rang through my throat so loudly I frightened myself:

Want nothing from people and receive their myriad blessings Expect from them and find an empty well Eat less than a ghost

The moment you flit by my ear, my strings are severed, I droop like a marionette— I remember I know nothing.

Upon that special mound there is a cleanliness, a purity sanctimonious, something so perfect it’s numerological—

In your gut is an empire— Spells, tug of war, Holy Days, ascent, decline.

Therein are the spoils of sorrow, the fruit of hardship, where wind snaps and prevails. Death whispers a hollow secret and I still a shiver

Needless of a judge, a contrite heart is a bird suspended on a current, shifting myriad planes without asking or telling.

I have this sensation when remembering the poignant noteworthy moments, Lovers, the Dead, crimes—

Like a Somali pirate just pull up on the Grim Reaper, surprise him

The only thing you can prove is how crazy you are. It’s the best defense. Where was I going with this? I don’t know.

The Rock made me to see each month as a day. The Rock implored that I be patie… with a patience so radical it slips into renunciation

Every once in a while, when my bunkmates are asleep (or at least I hope they are), and the jingle of the keys fades to the end of the hall,

Forget shoplifting, not pushing your cart back to the cart-corral is the true crime. Amazing,