Spiritual Serious

I go about with many nicks, blotches, stains, a heart and my teeth. Big impossible sky trapped in an empty apartment. I suppose it’s all imaginary. My smashed identity blows up with the air for the sun and it sways. My vast fatigue dances around, stumbles into the shape of something slightly angelic. The pouring fog in the pink sun. The tiniest blade breaks open and spills a handful of shells. My eager radiant soul, it’s out in the world like paint, stone, scrap, spit. A white moth in the middle of a lake, breathing and floating. A little vessel of lichen stalled inside the trickery of my own thought speakers. I assemble a vibration on a sinking raft of experience. I mumble, weave, sing, sway, curse, shout, do my best to elevate in some harmony of exuberance. What I think I am remains beyond me. An empty fat clip of feeling. An eater of shiny fruit. My career engine absorbs a metal blind. An innocuous pile of leaves fills the story of a caterpillar. I reorganize rocks in a grove. It takes all morning. Light glows directly and simply through smoky bluish air. The progress world swings forward and breaks apart, a puffy cloud. Some awful thing within me.