Nature, beauty, ugly not, perfect chaos, tranquil rot, the bug, the beetle, cicada, bee, the cricket, the wren, the fly, the tree, the crow, the squirrel, the frog, the toad, the wind, the stick, the distant, distant, distant moan, high, high highway drone, the car, the train, the concrete path, the pavement on the globe that hath, the bap, the bap of pickle ball, the paddles, the paddles, the paddles, them all, the warm air rising in the sun, the breath, the nostril, the double lung, the shallow thrum of a de-pressed heart, the one that sung the law of one, the soil, the rust, the grate, the bench, the seat, the park, the city stench. But no, it’s just the park trash can, serviced by the male park hand, paid by residents, paid by me, paid by the ones who birthed my need. Paid to the city. The city. I see. The city. The city. Sandy Springs.
Nature, nature, nature. Is. Nature. Is. Nature. Is. A car that won’t car no more. A stick no longer a tree. A pot, a crack, the water won’t hold, the leak, the mildew, the mold. A folder folded past its fold. A river dry. A sun gone cold. A dog burrowing its final hole. The roots in knots. This is not my route. The root of the knot. The battery no charge. The wrinkled balloon. Gravity won. Helium undone. Party all gone. The dull knife. The rusted spring. The pressure none. Man. Me. This tired thing. This destined bum.
This dead man. This fire. This firing. This fire ring. This kiln. This clay. The damn D-Day. Day. Day. This sacrifice. This sacrilege. The funeral. The dirt. The ground. The seed.
The spring. The sod. Anew. The breeze. The seize. The plea, “Thy God, Thy God, Thy wrest from Thee,” to take my name, my name, Thy pain, my pain is Thine and Thine my name.
History gone. Future blank. Anew. I knew. A new, new dawn. Do. Over. No regret. No shame, no guilt, no name, no fret. A fresh clutch. A fresh page. A canvas white. Become the sage. Fresh rain. A new day.
A dream I had of shedding skin. Calloused. Thick. Sick. Sick. Sick. To tear away my outer flesh, I fear of blood, of pain, of death. I peel, I peel, I peel away. My heel exposed. No blood. I pray. But there it was. Skin under skin. A fresh pink sole. Healed. Under sin. Trapped. My soul. In overcoats. Overdue. The time. I was. The time I was. To be renewed. Dead. I crave. To be. To be. To be. To be. I thought by now that I’d been freed. But then I woke. I woke. Again.
There I was. In
All my skin.