John’s World
(This is more “drafty,” I guess…but these poems have been my enjambed journalings of late.)
John’s World
I’m not a beloved disciple.
What is the definition?
file tide lost,
once remembered
John’s world
A prayer dislocates
That hounds us. I’m
an affection
addict, there’s
no getting around it.
You and I
are not in Jerusalem,
did you know that? in a
garbage pit.
aren’t agincourt incubus.
There are always
choices,
depending on lasting,
impenetrable fortunes of owners…
a far cry,
called to not pounce
Through any generation,
you can sit anywhere
you’d like. Ancient
history full of singer-songwriter
techniques In the first
century these tempers of the future
relied on The Name to fill in
the cracks and dawn—spacious
backstory as
John’s world,
the long road
to the immortal ringing in the ear. My first
reflection is to
Rising out to meet the stories that
were never told
I don’t expect
anyone to help me.
But underneath “mental
health,” can splendor firsthand
be? It sort of spills out…
where was
my temple destroyed again?
Books will die,
yes, but that’s not enough!
Caw, caw! invention
of writing
Bark, bark!
agriculture shrieks
…other voices try to end up with more.
left coughing,
welling up, intend to project
my patience back into
the community I don’t know,
with John, who was
illiterate, breath without a biography.
Those loves smolder and
inhabit little forget-
me-nots. Then
I shroud my
empty pill bottles in coyote
droppings and eke
out a living on
the edge of union.
