Sunday
and declared to be the Son of God with power,
according to the spirit of holiness,
by the resurrection from the dead
—Romans 1:4

I’d only planned to observe/ get in and out
anthropologic like/ find bones and buried
blood of past violent moons/ rehash
narrowly escaped burials/ anatomy
salvaging politicking and midnight alley fleeing
to create a past moment from a future rendition
of a coward’s embellishment/ like the way
I’m full of shit when I hand to God swear
that night in that yard that bullet almost ruined
this crown/ the way we’re full of shit
when we hand to God swear      
those threats from them boys that summer
didn’t have us shook/ you know

teaching college English only saves you
when you’re teaching college English
but when you’re playing tourist to a ruined colony
you may find yourself negotiating for life/
so when a body devoid of bullets ta-da poofs
glowing silhouette of mystification ghetto strolls
an interruption of nostalgic hyperbole
the fucking exact face you fed cereal to
you like to believe you’ve crossed over/
because you cried a funeral at that funeral
watched him lowered deep/ clinched
an almost perished tulip like the born again end
of an almost buried hand
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