Departmentally Ecclesiastic

The Burlington Hotel, Port Costa, Ca.

The Burlington Hotel, Port Costa, Ca.

“We all have our own demons,” you say, even though you don’t say it.

You say it.

Once a day some scrap of those inferno, dog days of summer – come yapping at my heels, – or they lick my face with their panting breath. If you know what I am talking about,

— why — (I only want to ask you), – why – are you still reading my words?

I knew better: Diving into the shallow end of the pool could paralyze.

Scorched and tumbling earth, he was no angel. He was no muse’s favorite, he was as common as they come. But love is blind.

Our insanity coinciding on the back road, a dirt road, a path both led far astray upon – it was : Spacious and stony, forever and intolerable, we grew irreconcilable, no, we always were.

Our faith abaft. Our hope misaligned. Our northern star misidentified.

I thought you probably knew how to make a silverpoint.

I thought you would draw us a new map.

I thought we might modify the present just enough to outrun the past.

Acquiescently the sky cried down like rain.

I dream, it’s anodyne. But I awake and you’re still gone. And I can never come home. And I will never go home. Viva. Alleluia. Aneuch!

My attempt to dandle madness through.

Unready waning moon may witness the opuscule, I’ve stopped.

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