Metaphysic Compass

what came first, being here, or breathing? if being here, spirits don’t breathe. the wind passage of the other, the force, the dynamite—in one so foreign, a mere thought, so seductive, more so in absence. so much in spirit, visiting from cascades to waterfalls, into cities. the pity of gods—the measure of the beasts, the fly into a tiger, a head on a griffin. the challenge of the mercy—the woman too much to leave—the reality, so hurtful, it must not be resisted. from NYC to Chicago—roaming corners, arriving in California; the Big Body Soul, the mid-body spirit, the feeling into its feelings. at an inlet, shaking hands, just talked to a lemur. the lawn next door, so immaculate, so irrelevant. the staircase, leading into the ceiling, the normal two-year-old—the mother tugging her hair roots—sweating, intense, doing right. so scarlet, a camera missing the sentiment, a soul siphoned for its love. (so determined to walk away, so clear on the boundaries, no mistake, the clause is spectacular.) clad in Godhead fury, a true star, at the banking sociality, at the concrete liquor. so many wins, after so many loses, we hustled like gremlins—greedy for a feast. the neural-nacreous pain, the sagebrush, the underbrush, the fever for the bomb taller tales; in a bycatch, insanity for her mothering, her sweetness, to do for us what none did for Jesus. the feeling inside, the bridge-scape—the refugee, as never one friend, so claustrophobic, running come the next ingredient. so many mittens, so tight the advantage, so core the truth, once she becomes her soul, we might lose her.