and yet christ threw it all away

I want to not hurt–
Too much to ask,
This “not hurt” business;

The pain sort of reaching into the gut,
Through the back,
And up into the head

Where the head has some pressure
Going on
Of its own.
Like that basketball
Your coach blew up too tight.
As it would spring up off the floor,
You could see the skin cracking–
And the ball had this feel
Of muted explosion.

Yep…
Today gets to suck and I don’t know why.
Should try to remember all the good things:
All the rainbows
And unicorns,
Or at least poppy fields.

All the times I could have said “Yes!” I believe….”
This side of the grave
There’s a little less

Dirt.

crumbled cataclysms–
institutions–knowing how to reach into every gut
And up to the head
(it’s all worthwhile
i always thought it
was).

level playing fields are for
pussies and pineapples and placating paradigms
practicing perfect pontification

maybe today will be good!
maybe it’s the waking that sucked:
maybe i just need to learn to smile
at the audacity of hell;
at the fact that i wanted to be here,
and you’re there.
maybe i just need to get going.

maybe i need to shut up and find my feet,
or shut down and find tomorrow–quickly!
maybe i need to thank the hurt….kiss the hurt….make love to the hurt:
because being alive

is better.
at least perseverance always thought so
on a different day–
look at my hands:
they never bleed.

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against the clock

Something so tightly twisted in on itself
There is a postulation of energy
A compounded precision
That manifests impassively as
Refracted air

Born on the cusp of everything
A grounding demonically deserves

You break from the circle
But the pattern remains
Turning
Inching it’s way
there is only one fault

The spiral goes in
Or it goes out

In is the dervish
As chaos breeds the whirl
A box that gets smaller and smaller
Until the insides explode

And out is the loss of  ideas….the fractured beginnings
The empty screams
In a fuller more diabolical space
Every angled pile of reality’s excrement
Bursting with the inabilities

Of freedom

Criminal

in some way a
true
“writing spirit”
puts part of themselves into each
and every offering.
and when somebody TAKES that,
(spending their lives reading
and gleaning and eating baby souls)
without even a thank you…..
because NO response is what you do, is it not?
it doesn’t just steal the spirit,
…..it taints it.

disdain
will not puddle the waters
it will charm the fountain
birds of tangible exactitude
circling….

to never drink
and then, bubbling
the spirit sinks to lower ground