A Word

There you are Jack, always getting lost under my clothes.  The covers on the bed back and sheets pulled from their bottom tuck, crumpled up, lump of cotton fabric bowls build up inside my head.  I want to get the roots out of that tree before they eat the driveway.  I don't know if I thought on this path of endangerment, self capitulation mutilated heavily in the thoroughfare, concentrated vibration of tattoo needles and bullets, vibrators.  The obnoxious singing life form in the window over my left shoulder reads this and continues skinning sweet potatoes, melting butter and tossing time, measuring heat resonance in the microwave.  I'm more distracted than usual because I feel guilty for thinking about writing what I want to write about, even though I know that no one will read this. I feel like writing about it would be repeating it and it's not my place to tell of someone else's--the honest torpid of which I have no understanding, but a recollection of a past memory entrenched in cerebellum, pineal realization of abject humility and prostration before a God in question, the mere suggestion of a reason seems heathen of me, but I lack the proper communication skills to build any adequate response, so all I can do is listen.  I feel immense sorrow for what has come to pass over his life, a God who will not listen--he would rather be in Heaven, knowing of his blood and brother's true salvation.  Retaliation is an endless process that leaves him when he needs it most.