Stand up the wandering morality of a cheap life force, a dirty, flowing,
“terror, terror,” nightly loneliness a surface sprayed a yellow non-stick grip of connection
with some floating modern American mind, a stand-up being in dimensions we call spirit, undetermined, amorphous, recognized in language in the words of “let’s go”, in the breathing,
*pause for effect, simpler times
in the moments between breath for the spaces you reach for, the cheek and darkness you do not, where in the difficult moments chiseled with cortisol, a grubby hammer’s claw deep ingrained, you stand above, knotted
up to absorb the chunking, beating winding, twisted words, the let go of body, its spots and sores lift memory to purpose beyond warped stub’s loss.
There’s a spot I hold, of silence and love.