cursing, out of loving respect,
employing poetic responses
as the tail-end of each thought,
used as a self-lashing wickedly bellowed,
returning as if echo-moans matter
but the beating of self, itself, ignites
and the say, comes out of hibernation into boom,
forming icebergs that quickly melt with fervor
into the passion of trickledown laughter,
the crescendo, just to gasp richly in living
I drink this water of experience
as a backlash toast,
to the summoning of the void
matter is formed and dissolved as each thought passes
I dodge the pride of mental inactivity by these means
yet swallow what has no substance but still matters
would have tears if I was faint of heart
but the proof of that only tells lies to anyone
naïve enough to really be heartfelt in swoon, listening
these days, logic is a sanctuary of failure
and reason builds a hunting-for-the truth blind,
to track down devotion from the crucifixion of love
ask me if these lines fit me well
and know for yourself, first hand,
what the hell I am talking about . . .
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