The inexorable tears of the sun burns in your heart,
like the tears of Teresa of Avila, the burning babe of Richard Crashaw.
The Blessed Virgin Mary of God pray for this poet,
that I live in abjection and great poverty in one of the wealthiest environs,
like a beggar, living on meager means without cigarrettes or drink, I mean
a zero coco-cola, then the dark avenues I patrol the streets of darkness,
because I cannot sleep, and suffer from wander lust, and thing about
how nothing connects connect to nothing, and the correlation between
smoking and cancer has been way exaggerated to kill of the leisure of
respite of those who are in torment, and duress, and stress who smoke.
So you die an early death for the sake of living. NOT ALL who smoke die
of cancer. What is what my psycho-physics PROF. Carl Weidemann *RIP
would advise me about this correlation,
Those who are dead in living haunting the O phantam city of Eliot's Wasteland,
sparrow, sparrow, in their melody of chirping will not sing to me in the wood lands.
I am ghost with an incarnated body, who cannot speak, hear or sea, touch, taste.
In this sense the sensuality and carnality of life have no cognitive and spiritual consequence.
Lest, I smoke like a tradtional Catholic priest all over the world. and drink French burbeon,
and Irish wiskey.
Hearing no sound of the cadence of voice, she does not see his voice,
but lingers to the spell of trance of the Heart Sutra.
He has not heart because he like a doomed vampire, not out of choice, his father's legacy,
was impaled by a Byzantine iconic cross with nails.
He prays he will not be Damned with the blood of the Cross!
"O who that I love,
O you that I love,
O you that is veiled by the daughters of THE BVM that I love, pray
for this delusional poet."
---Eric Renshon
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