the mud
i circumvent eternal orifices
looking closely for daft meaning
of what it would perhaps mean
to prostrate upon the one
the final altar you’ve been looking for
but are wholly unprepared for
corridors expand into a bludgeoned sack
of ripe and forged strawberries
the whole issue of looking at the whole picture
seems so unstably so much like
the whole picture
what does it ever do?
ordained by serene intervention
hundreds or hundreds of millions
compared the divisive salts and sands
that present and predict
while channeling and within the plasma
i realize that the mud
that
i’d love to have ever been in a position
where i could have primordially loved
the mud
/poems/