Saturday, March 1, 2014

GOSPEL OF SATURDAY

Here in the more 
casual 
and living familiar

hell 
of the bored and cool 
twenty 

first century, it seems
we've all
decided—finally

to do something a little 
less-trying
with old Sunday morning.

But interestingly,
nothing much—in the now
rather confusingly and

boundlessly
compounded interim—appears 
to have changed 

regarding how violently 
a fresh
stuck and bled Friday 

night
continues to strain
as it—ungraciously still

wailing and 
draining away—keeps relentlessly
gesticulating

forward—in a desperate 
and particularly 
unseemly

and unmodern—
desire to forever
and always 

have already 
meant something—by
today.

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