I've seen your hope on television
Where you've been, wore my word
They've got tricycles in skirts
This is a mouth that needs religion
I’ve been towed out to sea soaked with the smell of crude dreams and long pressed earth, just waiting, drifting, and quietly rocking with the constant roll of unspoken words that crack like thunder into pure foam. It’s turmoil, this. This heaving feeling in my gut, the never-ending thoughts that I am. That I am not yet, not food for the devilish sort I’ve bred. Its troubling, this. The whole-over haul that tosses me, empty as I am, lighter than the ethereal and soaring wings of myself I’ve known long to be. Oh yes, we are all akin to something stronger than we claim. But I’ve been dragged out and left, conquered in the last, conquered even at the first, subdued by rags and masks and the paint we call our skin, tapped down by the hail and hale and worth less of them, through my younger inspirations, long off the coast, this.
Car travels are like daydreams, mild cruises between desires and responsibilities, a reconciliation of the mean ways we choose for our lives to bend to. While the grey clouds spit and spire, whirling to wield their flash of power and curl back to let the sea mend the carved gullies of the storm, I crave a last word in this growing, furling cave. A last whisper. Faith. Folly. Forget? [Ia mcon fus edma yb e]. What lurks at the farthest edge might never be the nightmare we suppose, might never be the part of ourselves left in a ragged way by the sale of soul. This is the consummation, just an endless streak of ravelling hiss, one edge burning, the other searing smelling still of all the lithe sways emotion makes. We all had are moments that we gave up for our gods, estranged of our faithless fellows to long for the greatest of all, stuck up on the hillsides wringing ourselves in peals,of laughter and of mania and of course the horrendous silence our empty places beget,of sadness and amusement, but surely of our worst fears.