The Caliber Is The Experience

oh treasured mercy, oh thinly electrified muscle, to die or undie the perfection of the lineage. at truths specific to caliber—as of existence, to believe only the exposing. such full moons, fuller mentors, with pain trailing like foot dusts. by the termite of activity, the tender essence of

interior, so sweet to me those days i was crooning and subtle and blithe even unto goodness. the family is in the meaning, oaths to souls, desperation to become the montage. an attic child, a mean child, or an endless, mostly dead man, waiting on, or intending into, the falling of the

carcass. the flute of the three wishes—the steep unforgiving mentalists, inside-out—riding a Harley. i was desperate to locate my life. coming to you was impossible. i might have issues i can’t define, nor explain. into deeper shame, to have allured the wrong woman, to have loved the

right woman, while her love, if for another. the leprechaun losing his riches, the persistence of the leprechaun, the matriarch of the poem in motion—the living of the prose, the date of the maiden name, such beauty in the dangers of the powerful soul. composing as its insistence, moving along

a long valley of achievements, a longer truck filled with the hopes and dreams of the caliber, the contradiction—flaming into the nature of the forbidden life. so close to having some semblance of a nightmare—the day-scare—hopping and damaged, too deep into a stranger’s excitement.

back into the backdraft, the helium, too high to quite own my name. as speaking in the pass, as alive in essence, so specific to the caliber as it elevates. those keys on the wire, Phillipe of skies, at some terror into the heartless Congo. or a white lady, looking pristine, in so many ways, a soul

traveling the color of the adventure. if only, and only if, but attraction is impermanent, comforts seem like tetras parts. the value of the essence, the pieces of the alienation, so many adoring the light that never reveals in totality.