From the 2019 Collection "2222"
#222 #2222 #comedy #existential #jmartindean
Mowing with the sickle I stop abruptly and remember crawling out the window to smoke on the roof
Hollow fang? Volcano. Cat’s purr? Hymnals. Intuition?
Curling black from crematorium sta… tell me again the hoax of the soul… The cowl paces, pretends to be faceless, swinging silver and wafting saccha…
I once found in what appeared to be cistern carved within a boulder, an owl’s wing,
In Thirty-Four years I can count on two hands how many times I’ve been in my right mind. It is a small percentage.
Are we in the field or on the field? When I soar for the disc I wonder how that cloud got its shape.
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
In the most lovely of lands, before a backdrop of mountains and palms, there hangs a pall— All my Loves
It occurs to me now that no one hears my song. Still young, I am discarded. I don’t anticipate being surprised at my aloneness in old age.
The choir of the saints is heartle… They’ve parried happiness a lifeti… seeking only the old earth, the marsh of the meek— where earnest suffering
The duration of a miracle is exactly one moment, after that you may as well be talking about what happened in the big game last night.
Upon that special mound there is a cleanliness, a purity sanctimonious, something so perfect it’s numerological—
I wept at the sight of my guru’s picture, Praise God, He is always with me, a Holy thing,
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.
When I see the little holes where the earrings used to be I wonder what they embraced and then renounced to get to now.