I.
Trumpets from the rear—
cherubs clamber up moon-flesh,
the bass line quivers.
II.
Sheet music ripples,
inked across a sacred bum—
notes wobble, then fall.
III.
We call it "divine,"
this symphony of chaos—
art blooms from the odd.
Agnosthesia
Acknowledging
that it’s time
to
release. Inertia,
wanting
to put your burden
down,
but you have carried it
counterbalanced
for
so
long. Searching for signs that
the
time is right now.
It’s
always one pebble starts
the
landslide. Can’t stop it now.