From the 2020 Collection "War Bread"
#jmartindean #warbread
Ancient meadow preadolescence, burgeoning and righteous never-ending dimension first sighted past your fingertips… is stolen by ambition,
In Thirty-Four years I can count on two hands how many times I’ve been in my right mind. It is a small percentage.
Every once in a while, when my bunkmates are asleep (or at least I hope they are), and the jingle of the keys fades to the end of the hall,
He wouldn’t budge to show me what’s a hard heart my own heart was closed if it was closed to him Maharajii said,
I wept at the sight of my guru’s picture, Praise God, He is always with me, a Holy thing,
This day, there is no ONE to beat your fist… No party, no tyrant, not even a faction—
Nothing is all I ever wanted, now I’ve got it all! Careful! Lest I become a braggart… From nowhere it’s a hard fall.
The moment you flit by my ear, my strings are severed, I droop like a marionette— I remember I know nothing.
A tide of blood, miniature in compare— But an ocean no less, to the virus in there.
Brian told me he held his own guts in his hands, his tattoo reads: ALREADY DEAD.
Love is endless. Mercy, too. A great debt unpaid, sitting on my doorstep, first-class.
One of God’s tricks is, similar to Michael Jordan, It sinks a three-pointer with 1.2 seconds left on the clock,
Oh, Death! Two beers and I’m on my back! Skipped the shower, skipped the toothbrush. Just a film of sweat,
Therein are the spoils of sorrow, the fruit of hardship, where wind snaps and prevails. Death whispers a hollow secret and I still a shiver
I’ll give you what I got, I can part with it all. I have gifts— A silk tongue,