YOU, WANTING TO
LIVE THIS MYSTERY
The Kingship wallows while it sits offshore.
Drowning accolades of the fake : gathered
remnants of the glittering tribes. These are
all people, Michael Jones, of whom I cannot
feel. We want to live, but instead get nothing:
a form of eternal recurrence again. Men holding
the bible of flags, reciting mental lines and
physical fog. Everyone wants to be somewhere,
but no one goes anywhere, and we are late
for our last final appointment. A man sits
listening to old music : Eric Clapton and
his way too many notes. I need the silence
that affirmation brings instead.