I am that old testament god
with bloodied knuckles, against
for the sake of being against and
I am that old testament god that
lives in divine apathy, that quiet
glimpse through the opulent sheer
gold curtain the tortured monologue
the sepia tone the film of my memories
that plays in a place outside of my head
a battered paper on a wooden post in
downtown BURquerque is an ominous
warning that people turn into gold and
as the desolate alchemist the fleeing figure
behind the curtain I read it and I wonder if
I can occur enough catharsis to release myself, quiet and hidden static, a figure
in liminality with the slightest glint of gold.
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