Catacomb labyrinth
of modern man’s stucco tragic
Epoxy quandaries
mortared to the maze
Underground
and inebriated haze of thirty-four and want no more
The
cattle cade is a trail of shits stepped in and want it over with
The flare
gun confirms isolation like an illuminated manifestation
Beyond
the grid is a forest of lost bodies attempting an empty spark
Reaching
for life in the belly of bacterium, growing gray unsure how to collect them
The
moments when the sun caresses like a Miles Davis groove
Close
sensual and honest, pure and redolent like a scent to the ear
Fingers
to an abdomen like a gilded rainbow of curves
The lines
of humanity blur, so long to come home
Ulysses
on the sea exhausted in this foam
Pitiful
mornings fishing in nets ocean sick and plastic regrets
Churning
in a funnel island of debris out in this Atlantic
Cold
waters luggage and brackish tempting to drink
Still
makes the throat burn, finding the wetlands turned
Black
from years of the hurricane’s claw back with salt to the root
Rotten
inside and the argument has turned moot
The
landing, the standing, the solid Earth and the understanding
That home
has a place that still exists
Cannot
see, simple faith and the one last hold
That home
endures inside a kindred soul
The one
carrier pigeon of every human
Sent out
imbued in the sentiment that makes us whole
Is not a
farce lost in a subterranean vat of brine
Sailing
eternal with the yoke of time
I remember
Sundays, hoping behind the phrases
I
remember Sunday nights seeing Monday’s labor
Compute
to estrange us; the week never ends
The heavy
and the light will never counterbalance again
Turn
left, turn right, rather figure it out another night
Angels do
not exist, only stone figures sculpted by mad men
Directions
do not exit, only choices of mortal kin
Split of
the same, crying out in the same maze
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