reading, now and the cellars of you

i always thought Life came in waves
ran on circuit circumferences        and sustained itself    in reading


    Its breathe in curlers

              capturing Keyman island time

winding down on believable wind  shielding  itself
feeding itself the same
     
    then       falling
                                onto itself

    would it mean anything to live without the concept of sainthood
ill-sainted

  life's heated liquidity  fed through chamber maids mindlessly repeating the mindless

like bread rising in moldy cellars were the spores can not breath

            and Life         by the time its read      has passed


And the vague assailments endured in this attempt to be conscious
        attaching in elevator music          seduction

both numbingly annoying and boastfully pleasant

And in seeing this the skin grows thicker
            like painted lines on the tan of Braves

tutored in the art of breathing        so that the curls become

      a  movement in endeavor

rendering its fatty belly           to the highest of calms
in order to create

And          what is Now for    but to make it so