unique as it may seem in the moment, it will return, and so on. my night of lightning on a Kansas prairie (only I remember) -- bolts up and down for hours; repeats in this Century looking down on Temple Mount. Jerusalem is a long way from Kansas City.
take a glass light bulb -- put it on the ﬂoor, lit (aglow), and then step on it. though the bulb will go out -- look at the shards of glass and visualize the pieces as still lit.
now, see each illuminated piece as an event in your life to come. ﬁnd the way between the glowing, shattered pieces. you’ll be ﬁne.
have a valid passport and don’t get stuck in New Jersey.
When human rubble sits on faraway fields. Bodies and parts of them strewn, scattered as a child would leave playthings on the den floor; the after-Christmas floor
A bounty of bodies; reality not terrible enough over the span of time to usher peace Aortas still split. Guts fly as teeth clench in distant meeting rooms. Power and peace divided on tables.
When women are crowded behind the alley entrance mission doors. Their lives and babies’ lives lacerated, eviscerated as the wolf undoes a sheep in the night, with only the moon to watch.
The carnage still not enough to halt the scatter of bullets in the streets or the viciousness that releases them. Orphaned infants scream with forever-bruised hearts while we deny under sunny, azure skies.
truth be told. don’t confuse me with someone you once found in the middle of a lonely road, though I am him. the world is all absolutes to me. no middles. (begging) please no shades of gray, and may I please help the baby out with the bath water? I assure you, this is my final fucking position; forever until the end. nothing changes. don’t try. not now. not ever. (and that is a very long time)
so, what to make of the unexpected confidante? (freedom in absolution?) in love with the black and white song. then, why stake my life now on the only escape from the hole? gray. middles. (and not to be examined)
when the sky is melting when there is fire on simplicity (no fit)
I will go there. I will find the only one. and the everything man lives in shadow; paradoxically the brightest light. (my puzzles, his innately leveled)
how I crave the secret fuzz, the times of very together, when love fog obscures the sharp edges of the dirty, daily steps.
even euphoria is manageable, not blinded anymore by the too blue sky; the too cheery sun. I once thought never.
(and sweeter than this?)
pull back the large curtain near Heaven. behold the everything man.
So, where are you, little angel? searchlight likely not there fade out (pipe organ) searchlight
So, where've you been? likely not where you say, liar. fade out pants on fire, liar. maybe some similar place-- sure. but not there.
Oh, by the way, that's some power zipped up in there, godboy. Pants on fire as you thrust a jet strong choke hold through the hole faster faster faster climb the clouds from the chasm below your conceit. poet. liar.
But no angel. in that crack the moist abyss below you searchlight fade out (altar call)
So, So what's all that about, little angel? smoke? oh sure but not you. searchlight unless you lie, godboy hiding in some familiar place. safe. cocky. cock. oh sure. But it's below you huh? reeks! (benediction)
So, So, So Now. in this light -- right now in this good light -- you should know all that shows, little angel liar.
no innocence in this night of stars; the appearance and the truth are contrary. it is the eternity dance again, the brutal and beautiful annihilation of worlds, and cycles, and spirals; tornadic, behind a gauze curtain. tendrils of reality visible only to the few.
one is taken to the fair days, swaddled in memory husk, sword swallowers, human oddities, candy floss, glee. at the heart of it all, the reflection obscured and defying mirror image, exact replication prohibited, and celebrated only as theme.
lethal angels are at play (lack of pain) in a darkening field, now. sun loss is here and it is sad. counting down, now.
chaos is the mist, one trifling ingredient on an ascending scale, orders of magnitude above-- one finds the grease, essentials-- the dawn is of truth only, not physical dawn, having passed in this world, as one moves to hunker down in a new location.
science explains only a segment of the newness worlds repeating, etc... is it vanity and selfishness that took it all? the post-apocalyptic discussions are tedious and too human, but what other frame of reference can one endure?
broadcloth? that is the expectation; longing for a definitive cause at a time like this. mystics do not trump lethal angels. the meanness is recycled as gelatinous brew, forked steaming into the throat. swallow hard against the crush reverse vomit.
every pulse is violent selfishness, every single one through all the worlds past or ever to come. without limit. so parsed by awkward language, this enormous sense of entitlement transcends any tongue. We are, but mist—or dust.