clarity’s denied by rascals. charity’s depicted by saints
with their arms bucket-deep in the paint-barrel. terror
to the Sun—pox materia. this morsel we drammed for
skinny pickings while spring began to distract the monastery,
before the vikings came. my community is a pillar
of light, the pillar of conception, of conceptualization. if you
dream of God, of the Sun, this is non-present—post-
entity—but we can paint it on our walls. the sainthood is
democratic (if only you knew that word). wet-behind-the-ears,
meaning that dislodges the terminal, breaks the sky
open for its own skin. the black apostle couching nevermore in
his own cell. that one’s tusk is good for bleach and moons
and lightbeams. this one on the wall behind is special:
the last best friend of Jesus. we are all furtive sparks in this
cloistered zone, cut off with deliberate denial from
the universal man. reckoning chance with a basted heat
of memory, with a little frustration thrown in, hazing
loiterers for the husky Savior— too much parsimony, Wanderer.
terror from the Sun, is our teaching. cowering in shade along
the colonnade, but paint is soul. Augusting, your bleeding good
from abomination is a means to clarify the palette and cleanse
the smeary brushes in the studio. the good erodes.
