Thousands of voices reverberate the ancient gong. in the way,,, present moment,,, implicates all
Molten roots of falcon fang,,, the diocese of carnal visitations
2024 the year of black-tailed jack rabbit
The year zero watches yer back when forgetfulness is an attempted perfection
You who hunt the birds are hunted,,, haunted by a bottomless nothingness
You who name the birds closed to the reality of yer moats around yer words grinning & bearing starry nights
& yer throats prefer barley wine
As long as my tombstone reads: By Candlelight,,,
There's no need to question the stark contrast between the picture in the advertisement & the actual thing in real-time
He lived & died making certain the women of the night are well represented in his poetry,,,
Passing the transfer fare to a stranger, pulling a loosie to a flame & counting the money & conjuring the ancestors with the same hand over fist
If there is anything as close to god's work,,, i haven't yet lived & died enough times to see it
Whatever they make of my poetry,,, whatever you do,,, please just try to remember the hands of yer breath,the breath in yer hands, the breath, the wind,,, a solitary drop of rain floating from evergeen's pinecone sermon, the waters & none of this found amusing to hawk eye,,, seeing above particular matters of transience,,,
the waters & the hands of yer breath
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