Do I rise?
am I finally uninjured by all this open space?
are the fiery doorways of experience
finally extinguished and do
the flames of the burning sun
warm my face?
Will it hover, transparent and obeying
attempt at ignition?
Will we regain our senses
and gain access to the window of cognition?
or will our fortune remain lost along the hallway,
the space of lapsed acceptance?
the physics of dying isn't hard to know
it is a theatre of hydrogen
trying to turn to coal
whence it becomes fuel for the fire
and enters the gaze of old ladies
left rapt and watching
For jesus on feet of pegs
climbing down to this enameled kitchen
where cooking dinner is a religion
Water flow the dry vastness
the calm quiesence the
sill of devastation the globe the basin
the convict the meter your present disaster the
supply of systems the possibility of slaughter it
all withstands the ration of instruction but who
wastes time on st ignatius that filthy reservoir of
sad frustration that uselessness of odd fascination
it all comes down to public humiliation