Freeze.

Imagine for a moment that we are
built from dried reeds once
soaked in kerosene mud. I wonder if
people sit down when their hands get swollen-
tired of holding the sparks, baby
nature brought ‘em when they git/got born.
Turn
Sometimes, I pray for love, for that same
fresh-new-gallon of paint love… behind the white noise curtain,
always a choir loft of angels singing, maybe
“Hallelujah” to the kid,to the frogs, to the dollbabies
to the Coke cans, to BBQ Grippo’s (not plain),
to gas station sparklers, to Elvis Presley cassette tapes,
all during the juicebox marriage between Holy
Communion and adulthood.
Exhale
Smashing peaches with wild bravery,
that is all we are doing when we consider the
importance of thoughts, and how
they must live
before expiring into the nothingness of
spoken surrender.

Walking.