Broken strings fill blank stares
From the spectators in the crowded stands.
On sea or sand, carnal essence fills censer bowls
Spraying the prayers of the undiluted
Up and out of cement cracks and cluttered attics.
Born to disease, my shadow.
Born with it in a basket of nonperishable goodness
And glory filled step ladder success stories thirty feet high.
It’s the principle of the matter of fact.
Facts forced by the fathers to forget and forfeit by the foot.
Falling down is not the look the way it seems.
It’s never that pleasing.
Reverbs echo it back again.
If only there was a way to make it bounce, we would have it made.
If only we meant what we really mean.
Life full and completely:
the absolute beginning of all things,
under the stars,
under the heavens,
underneath it all.
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