Curling black from crematorium sta… tell me again the hoax of the soul… The cowl paces, pretends to be faceless, swinging silver

I saw him on the side of the road, on the side of the interstate exit… Maybe he was 18, definitely not 21… tired but not yet haggard. The moment I saw him

With a sword karma sets straight what’s veered. By her sword does Justice dispense simply

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

Praise those who sit and wait for nothing. Who sit still and know they are owed nothing. On the mat each inhalation

I remember being unmoved at more than one funeral at more than one memorial looking about impatiently impervious to the cries of the cry…

Just leave the fucking flags at ha… Or half-staff. Or whatever it’s called. Just fucking leave them there.

Wise Elders decide what mistakes are afforded who and tie color with number and meaning to frequency

I know people see him and think, “Gee, that’s crazy.” Which makes it embarrassing to see him

This day, there is no ONE to beat your fist… No party, no tyrant, not even a faction—

Trees poke from the earth like the mummified hands of the martyrs. Buried alive, they strained with last breath

There is a most worthy woman, the upper steward of the manor, Obermeyer of Holy Terra, house cute, smokestack simmering,

I still know what it is to dance, I won’t discount romance, and if I like how it looks, I’ll eat it or wear it

Mowing with the sickle I stop abruptly and remember crawling out the window to smoke on the roof