PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

Mr. Michael here he had a beautifully bound leather flop of a bible. On the cover was written GO IRELAND! with green sharpie marker, and to this day, even contained to the limitations of my memory bank, that alone still finds itself as the most gorgeous bible I’ve ever stumbled upon, and strange too because I am pent up with great envy regardless of the scriptures it contains demeaning such jealousies to the pits, especially of another soul’s own personal, sentimental connection of all value and merit, who in all fairness probably viewed it with less enthusiasm which is probably why he ripped a page out at random uncaring or like what is my worth in this world and told me to read it aloud sought if any resonation might be found as witness to just a single one of the core-confected seven pillars of wisdom. He had the habit of picking up random pages whenever we would come upon one, crumpling them up and stuffing them away in pockets holding only but a few coins, pennies from heaven, after giving each a quick skim; in my eyes, likely to avoid fetters of hoarding their non-importance. It wasn’t until he gave me that bible page that I could even begin to comprehend just how committed he was to no particular material object. His heart was wide awake and ready to reside in the clouds as he doubtless pondered or contemplated even through the void of senseless insomniac moon rituals. I can see him now.

Another lesson is when I was loony-binned on a bender pretty much a decade later, therefore rather recently as this is being written, a specific member of the community convicted and claimed to be crazy but we all is locked up with the supreme secrets watching them uncurl themselves; Jeremy was a cool cat, dark hearted, bringer of luck but not bad, nor good for that matter, more neutral, yeah. Better for the brains that way. Quite a stellar specimen, how he delivered me a message via telepathy, on the shelf of my cell, crumpled and obviously dealing with my past ongoing admirations of wondering what-in-the-heck is Michael up to, now since we are long torn apart from each-other like Velcro straps and that happenstance we had, which fortunately the freshness of memory serves me well word for word, that message: The ninã night is on my side. Good, he’s safe and alive, envisioning him walking along the coast on constant guard of our divine minds entwined.