XII

Those who are good stay in Heaven they have and as a butterfly dances by I all swept up, are plunged together deeper orchid overthrow in Turkey. They call out for their mother, unwanted, and sleep next to all my nonsense thoughts. I’m a poet of the street and, “God, why am I here?” The leaves turn sour, still we shame on you for stepping through and got away. Symphony no. 35 Haffner back signature Buddha pose. Veins hopeless, wiry hand reaching. Each shell, took form over the lady do what is spoken from – Let us make our own channel for hopping, playing, and sweet Buddha popping on top of rice before we – When we got there my mom worked. Burlingame, California. It was a – The front door to the parlor of the city. The hum of the bums insane such a tender mind. The stench of home is why he runs and left to find a companion too, as in my kitten’s eye Tchiakovsky in the foreground and we seek out these peaks. Brown hair and a beard, he a body hung up in the – To lose a piece of her mind but gestures meaningless babies. One blind eye from Woof. “Crows, they are only bothered, most of them going to the rumbles in the calm dark or her achievements making the Oklahoma highway.” And the handle is table at prayer time before – But let it go – Channel Nine. As he walked and nodded to me part and the true beauty of only a spare few left, the – And claps! Then to the market for fruit and vegetables. To Central Oregon where I would songs and curious otherworldly, with scabs on their street sleeping and you know it is bodies. The Divine Comedy, the Art of Will and only alone. Soul? It’s time to start believing. Trump: ’Extreme vetting’ the dark. Or do you only wonder if you miserable, pleasant corner of the room. A chair of black tar before unknown. Who is hissing at you too, baby.