Thunder ending at 4 am, beep of phone death, the covers cold as the lips of muslin tied round the feet of dead men tossed from cliffs like Monte Christo, Dantes rather,
wake with movie echoes, shall I read Tacitus ( i told myself in a conversation last night around 8:30 pm) , I closed my eyes, I envisioned Claudius eating a poisonous mushroom his Aunt watching a gorgeous smile on her lips,
serpents in dens(badly decorated dens) are men, nothing has changed, the physician tending him ensured his death when evacuation was successful and life seemed possible
(he rubbed a poison feather lightly on his tongue, almost poesy in its daring and juxtaposition, Hippocratic murderings), the stuttering genius of Graves put asunder by a fungi,
men haven’t changed much as said.
Or I was reading The Paris Review ( even writing it i feel a betrayer, a hipster in disguise no true seeker),
and, the History of the Apostle Paul,much is misunderstood about Gospels, I wish
to know what so little know,
how little I know.