” … & wind which the eye loves so deeply it
would spill itself out and liquefy
to pay for it … “

-from Futures by Jorie Graham

I worry that when I’m dead, someone will exhume my ridiculous Black Books (which WILL be buried with my fleshy flesh flesh) and structure some base cowboy religion on my rants and half-empty ravines.

Religion always beetles people into strange little, indefensible rituals.
Here are yours, from the Lazarus Joe, Pontiff Exhumed:

My followers, all good people, harangue each other into big-city solitude: Stuck up beside your candle collection with an old bean can full of Micron 05s, your thoughts would choke you like mine have choked me, but instead of the bright lights going dimmer, they fall, cold, high-speed film:

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