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.

Hell came through on battered wings, and thought to ask just one last thing. That If I could,

Ancient meadow preadolescence, burgeoning and righteous never-ending dimension first sighted past your fingertips… is stolen by ambition,

Blameless is the working man Who can tell him, ‘put aside your drink!’ And what do I do but lay pavers?

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

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

Here comes the awakened caste, to save none from their last. Extinction has been decided best, again, Earth will not

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

Good Monad, In all bad news I see how strong we are. This life confusing,

It’s good here decapitate me here this moment perfect astounding unknowing faith in God not necessary

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

The bar room is a bed of embers fanning themselves expediently, huddling to outlast the dark. A whoosh of autumn air ruffling their complexion each time