I have died and I
have killed
Done what Abraham’s
trepidation never had to swallow
At an imaginary
voice I never had the blessing to hear
Stop there is
still hope for a stand in the jungle-land
A ram is coming
like a mirror that death comes to us all
Unless one can be
an idea in a story passed in whispers, translations
To schemers,
incomprehensible
I see the darkness
of the edge, swallowed the rain swishing the sludge
From a hurricane
pouring in from the coast tear the roof and flood the floors
Mold the walls and
fling the wood, rampage the crib and tear the sheets
Strip the paint
off the doors and eyes meet
Open air nothing
to nothing in a stare down with the sky
Made my peace
looking the storm in the eye
You’ve got a
valley; I’ve got legs
Walk the
Mississippi, don’t want a baptism
The first one did
no good
Watched by an
evangelist and a dead man
Two parents that
never understood anything, but that I am not like the rest
Contradiction in
polarity bursting out this chest
Anarchist,
contrarian, slay the conversation with the lungs of the authoritarian
All I wanted was
civility and you brought me a god damn Pepsi
Bullets and
whiskey not afraid to let you know I am a murderer
All legal right in
the files, convict a dead man
Can’t put me in a
prison; I’ve been lodged inside my head my whole life
Everything I ever
loved was either an illusion or better off if I never existed
Say nothing, do
nothing, pray nothing, hope nothing, faith nothing
Be an idea
In place of a
factory of destruction; strip down to the either / or
Presenting
hypothesis, but never conclusions and sit like a moth on the wisps of time
Disguised in
routines of ramrod institutions
Crawling inward to
thoughts like a labyrinth, deeper daily,
(wondering if
there is ever benefit to peering out)
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