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

Are we in the field or on the field? When I soar for the disc I wonder how that cloud got its shape.

Yes, it’s a famous song— “Unbroken Chain” by the Grateful Dead, a good band name as an aside,

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

Sometimes the sky is orange, sometimes it takes a purplish hue— mountains for contrast their dimen… and the light pervades twixt our c… and the light washes down mine fac…

I wept at the sight of my guru’s picture, Praise God, He is always with me, a Holy thing,

The moon lulls me as I wade through poppy fields, dragging limp hands behind me, catching each pod long enough before it snaps upright again

Tears tears do a walk-by unload the clip don’t know why now

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

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

To be a ghost is to always be aghast— To not know which direction is the future or the past.

A Sacred Site, to my mind, is the last place you’ll ever stan… Such a place reveals hypocrisy without shaming,

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

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