It's trails leaping from trait to tadpole and feeling thus saved and ever more beautiful to be more ravished or ravaged or the way the starcraft flinches and saturates after this (becoming morning) is a poem about the spirit coming across itself on a friendly day
No Sanctified Terror
Back row ears
Staring out at the mind and quoting it three things
My great grandfather behind the pharmacy counter shouting only an equal can mend me and holding out a tiger rag and a key to the 8 ball shooting itself into the take-me corner, pocket across all the green you could pick, an acre, trigger, and call it in praise of the catholic church of John Coltrane which meets in the Fillmore District in San Fransisco across from the Blackhawk, a club or nascent county, every Sunday. They play his fame from, from. But the pharmacy was in Chicago and the hawk was no where to be found in the picture, just Porgy, not seen, but implied by his surroundings. The song loved him, not me. And the fuzz got a cut of that. Until black was the color of worship and willship back and forth and steamships and fishermen pharmacist pimp musicians with library badges sewn into their rhodes like ladders. And the shells of pirates getting away with it, and the soul of a child transforming into a tiger and then back into a costumer who had that dream
