The evaluation of the mysteries by the sons of all
experience. All suffering, if we call the light a thing
all men should know. Or find. Where ever, in the dark folds
of the next second, there is some diminishing beauty we might one day
understand, and scream to, in some wild fit of acknowledged Godliness.
Reality, is what it is. This suffering truth
advertised in all men’s loveliest histories.
The thing, There As Speed, is God, as mingling
possibility. The force. As simple future, what
the freaky gipsies rolled through Europe on.
(The soul.)
2
What can I do to myself? Bones
and dusty skin. Heavy eyes twisted
between the adequate thighs of all
humanity (a little h), strumming my head
for a living. Bankrupt utopia sez tell me
no utopias. I will not listen. (Except the raw wind
makes the hero’s eyes close, and the tears that come out are real.
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