The Cult

Frames sequester chemical mechanisms while I
orbit the closed porch (souls on hormones almost
riddled with sky's promise of curve unending
greenery). As I sit here and sit there, the sun, so
un-
even sometimes I think in what it (mostly somatic,
thrillful belly cereal hues) reveals, twists around
for
the most it can see, which is meaningful
in some cultures. Not mine, of course! The cult
not trained on a crossing of our hairs in sleep.
Gee, Batman (she who must sit near me, lie

baroque along my visit to the gyno, egging on
a real lyric syrup), these soups of the world
clanging on and sit there at the seven-eleven
kill me with their insightful mesmerisms! My
window saw everything; how she measured
a sun on her level, and I stood up into foreground
ruddy with durable, and how the passions never
die in passage, but also on film, where she (one who
struggles) marks the margin in fatter language

11:50 AM 5/22/02



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