Friday, February 24, 2017

Compassion can be as various and devastating as the sin of pride

Blood is mostly   water         she thought to herself   catching what he coughed up  on her tongue  and thumbing it   into   cotton    costume     his eyes were  weaving   ,   growing   wings        his   isle was to wobble     ghost    mock   the   omen    most   men     override   in them       their very magic     torment          

How could you send me   here       to the final  broken   image   veering urgent   and  eternal    how could the sweatshirt hold diamond studded reindeer  and still be     casual /   a    munition       illness launched as power  or    the aesthetic of             limpid   stolid   lips  on the wall   hip  as  luck blood   or the new water somelier                                    carving  that bucolic  tunnel   into  the   bolted  will             

Give the black man the freedom  to  be his  own  enemy       
That’ll be the end   of Uncle  Tom   

That’ll bring your daddy back   and all his   guns   and song    

But freedom cannot   be   reformed