We take pilgrimage into the black hole…
put down that chicken wing, no greasy prints on the glass homes
Of those who bear grins with glass eyes!

Grasp is so tight on the wand of political mite
that the pen becomes dynamite to rewrite
a crash as we rehash and rifle our national pastimes.

One wave of the arm, we shall bloom- fully armed
Like a bee swarm
Men become bearded with many defenses…
all the wrong colors, the warning signs
of social deprivity, therefore inclined
For, well, to first and foremost put war in his mind
unfortunately, this is all he could find.

6 billion fingerprint mazes from enslaved populations
Try peeking, amazed they raise children
for government graves in razed buildings…

Love depraved/perverse thrill seekers spill blood on occasion…

66 angels of death, each represents
66 sides to our crystallized, fragmented fraction of time
when the angel of light appears, praise him. Divine…

Kaleidoscope sky through the eyes of those so large in size they have no need to hide.

On this pilgrimage, it is no journey to find “Her” or “Him”…
This idea of god is so large, we are blinded.
All of us here live inside it…

Intestines. Glass jars of stars. Kidney stones.
Glass homes sealed air tight by man.
No tee-pee opening. Smoke envelopes him with no opener…

Just a can of tuna fish and a crucifix.

Dictated by fear, become racked with disease
No land- just mystical mathematical landscapes adorning a full beard of bees.
Bullet sleeves… bullshit, indeed.

Ahh… my memories of war.
That’s all I have left from the media’s emory board…
Thats all that there are.