its broken. kinda like the sweet sparrow dropping hard from its nest its wing flapping hard against the dust of the earth eyes wild and unforgiving, trying hard not to feel sorry for itself and establishes within its mind that it has a broken wing. i wonder if I can fix it. be the invisible cast crimson in creation where miracles happen beyond the skies in pleasurable and comfortable existence. its discarded. merely a decomposed state of composition hidden with maggots and live insects swarming to infect and circumspect the small pieces of flesh exposed from hard calcified bone and marrow. it lays there, a piece blowing in the wind no longer recyclable to be sorted in large aqua blue tubs to be reinvented into plastic cups that once again, someone will throw away. and I wonder. wonder if I can fix it.  be the mending stitch that sways smooth firmness on  supple skin, avoiding infection and  regaining cellular regeneratio...

The Dalai Lama thinks that I should shut the fuck up. Well, if he could use efficient curse words and trill off that phonetic juiciness required from years of dreams slipping through fingers and many nights a woman that was within me was scorned. Peace. The kind of silence that is a requirement ever so a lone and a part of the uniquely unencroachable undivided attention that can only manifest in still waters. For we know, that they run deep. An over thought cliche that gets to the nitty gritty of specific environments and how a ripple in the water cast by a stone creates a wave which is oddly specific and symbolical of how a tsunami in my throat wants to utter vowels, consonants and verbs of nothing but curse words. Stillness. forget the nuances that accompany daily living held by the grind of worker's sweat and sticky peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, snot rubbed off of a toddlers nose and a fresh Koo-...

I was told a soul weighs an ounce. technically, 1/3000 of an ounce by East German researching teams trying to identify and solidify the measure of terminally ill by  scientific means. if I lived a measured life and fulfilled that dash in between my obituary surely the valuation of evil versus good breathed life from my capillaries dispensed in beating chest and blood filled veins and air upon oxygen in which I cannot breathe again. I was told a soul weighs an ounce. the type of treasure that shakes the body upon departure and blind light seeks a new home travelling into unknown dimensions would Peter open the gates to me staring blind eyed at my name clipboard in hand/Excel charted progress of the life I gave and gained would the power of the mere beauty be somewhat unimaginable to me could angels really fly and have wings snipped upon choice will horns blast and heavens part as a sign of entering with rejoice can I bear witness to seraphim and golden str...