Sunday
and declared to be the Son of God with power, according to the spirit of holiness, by the resurrection from the dead —Romans 1:4
I’d only planned to observe/ get in and out anthropologic like/ find bones and buried blood of past violent moons/ rehash narrowly escaped burials/ anatomy salvaging politicking and midnight alley fleeing to create a past moment from a future rendition of a coward’s embellishment/ like the way I’m full of shit when I hand to God swear that night in that yard that bullet almost ruined this crown/ the way we’re full of shit when we hand to God swear those threats from them boys that summer didn’t have us shook/ you know teaching college English only saves you when you’re teaching college English but when you’re playing tourist to a ruined colony you may find yourself negotiating for life/ so when a body devoid of bullets ta-da poofs glowing silhouette of mystification ghetto strolls an interruption of nostalgic hyperbole the fucking exact face you fed cereal to you like to believe you’ve crossed over/ because you cried a funeral at that funeral watched him lowered deep/ clinched an almost perished tulip like the born again end of an almost buried hand