New poem

Confessions of Fortune Neglected

When teaching, body minds me to breathe in: breath out.
Eyes do not see shimmers and bold shades wander wicked
and kind within and around the slick and vascular dense
spacelessness of low brain; a locus for haunting by former loves
as if Broca priviledged their campground and ancestral grounding

with a name. When walked and wandered and worked of needs
done is done, body is mostly alone and suprated in front of ugly
cookbooks and bogus textbooks and skanky dictionaries of butchered
saints. Body deigns why are there so few succulent spirits to recall
The taint is only and again so many mistakes and count them as cost

mistakes to pray for and burn. Body will say today that I (body is)
am made of mistakes. mistakes that many lovers of my teachers have
paid as gravedirt price. forgive us all hasty and arrogant performances
of cannot do this: cannot do this and cannot do this again: and finish
with the valued and jettisoned version of the consecrated strain.

So it goes. As if these doe breasted and rutted morphes of menstudents need
help emptying their bodies of meaning. They are feeding me kenosis as
apophatic masters inhabit each of them. Pools of since feeling is first battle
dance within slippery and graceless irregular verbs that rattle the locks of
their spore into particular sleek and styleless notions of defeat.

As if the god's persective never could change. The soul
of body is a movement along the chainbrakes and crack of
desire. Nowhere and elsewhere are holy sparks present
and counted as faith unto righteousness. Maybe the quickening
lust of flesh made heir is more to the point of their working rest.