I was trying to run through the literal to the imaginative. The controversy was how the literal got so jealous it re-imagined itself as real. My father said after he learned to read he was in constant agony. You mean god is as unreasonable as me, breaking his own rules every other dream. He walked around suicidal thinking he was a killer. Blamed his father who blamed his father who blamed the boat named after sugar and nobody, Jones or Smith or we the people sinking in, becoming the land and its self-nullification. Nina Simone said if she'd had her way she'd have been a killer. And can you blame her. And would you join her and my father at the microphone, they're about sing a duet about the way the heart sweats out the mind as what we call death, how they came back literate and ready.
I'm interested in blood the same way I'm interested in learning to read except I've always been told there's some inherent value in being happy and now I wonder if knowing the distance it creates between me and you is why I finally am.
