The sky is a stranger, I'm use to
the floor. My feelings are eating up the dirt,
taking in the dust, the serpentine hole.
I cannot tell you about "up"---
Up is just an imagined theme.
Nailed to your Christian cross, a long time ago,
the daft wind sunk in from the Coast, I apologized
to everyone, and then I imagined they apologized to me.
The dirt tastes like butter, it's soft and dry like cinnamon
cold like the Mill. I intent on using up my credit card
to fill in the the windows, to keep out the wild sea,
To keep out the germination
that is slowly turning my depression
into hibernation.
The Christian route is full of moon
The man-child being the stronger part, but I have not
known the truth that is supposed to set me free.
Therefore I cannot follow the way,
all false and miserable as I am.
The sky use to be like grafitti
The colors always made me shy, but living under the
tunnel where light only comes as a weapon
turning my flesh to soil
and my mind---
To a life full of mistakes---
Is a relative experience.