a human act of becoming, a condition flowed from moment and the soup of letters to the blissful trinity for love of my confessors.
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Will this ride never end?
Bending, the boulevard is a constant aquarium
raining traffic lights, caged store windows,
steps empty of people & that all
presses against moments.
My voice cannot speak,
Of these stolen hours.
They are owned,
By the british media.
I’ve been working
from home
for a year now
and the year
has been ever
extending.
I was wholly determined to go home and expunge the whole
of what I had ever composed that day, that week, that whole
crazy year of my life,
You suddenly realize he isn’t the Buddha.
He’s an impostor. But good at it:
relaxed, full lotus
without strain,