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

The cicada, once with the humility of a barnac… weeping beneath the fern, now screams its inane mantra, which

I’ll give you what I got, I can part with it all. I have gifts— A silk tongue,

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

One of God’s tricks is, similar to Michael Jordan, It sinks a three-pointer with 1.2 seconds left on the clock,

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

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…

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

Incense thick with a scent that is true and a bit soiled and dense so dense I lift

There is a stream of what could have been which flows on with the same rate and newness of what is.

I feel newly acquainted with this skin, everything is novel, intensity is wherever my eyes land,

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

Nine times out of ten, it’s a demon you’re seeing, not an angel. They have all kinds of disguises, I know-I know,

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