Swallow it all to spit it out a sin once again

Saturday starts with glaring light, awakened is the excited child’s soul to dark evening glow and the wicked temptation that defines the human adult

Sunday speaks of cello songs in the high divide of blue Heaven and dead Earth. God's voice forces a breeze somewhere between those borders

On Monday we redefine success in the Golden Calf idol of man-made theology, denied by lunch for another intentional transgression...The wicked smile one by one

And Tuesday was the best day for the green bees to make honey because they had no hope for much more than that. Tuesday, always forgotten by Saturday 

The Kings and Queens get lost in their choices and Wednesday brings hope of days less served or decided

Thursday and the poet wish themselves the muse for once. Your Hanging Christ is my Buddha...7 pieces of love

And of Friday’s long road home through the brier patch stung with each step, yet upon arrival it still feels nothing like you remember. And on that path all the homes are built of matchsticks and wood glue, better kept in their box than misused

In memories Saturday is sky blue, but today it is white and the bite reminds me of Rilke. There are puzzles in the details of a pearl, each one leads you back home. 

Haunted by words that bang their chains like some storied ghost at the foot of the bed…against the old wooden floor; still the silent walls keep my mind at peace...stealing sleep, the page you write is torn 

And Sunday is a day to serve, yet the caveman and his captives still only consume in the eyes of well scripted Gods. In it all the woman maintains her innocents

Monday begins a new struggle for the self important man yet the wild animal knows it as just another day in the sun. Sometimes civilization made no sense to the kill of crows that forever watched it

On Tuesday they all hear Dylan’s Jokerman song. They achieve simultaneous self meaning, drawn through a single line as every man was once thought unique

Pains of thirst turned the tears to scorn, turn calm waters to chaos and in Wednesdays wicked confusion, still the rain of Tuesday never fell home

Thursday was like bitter chocolate with sweet chartreuse mint, eaten till smeared on finger, Alice still felt tall as the trees

And on Friday the tortures are spent and they pray alone in the cool night of forgotten response and still the wine kills the
newly named disciples slowly

Saturday’s reminder of high grown cotton fields squared in perfect measure. Still he could only see Wyeth’s America when he looked at the empty frame, his mind 

Feet buried knee high in the Earth, the struggle reminds the dead men of their place and yet Sunday allows them to dig out one spoon full at a time

And sad as the thought, some Monday's had more hope than others. A shooting star from her smile often got caught in my memories eye; still I hear the ocean near in every whispered promise   

High in the Sycamore Tree he claimed his own, the Cheshire Cat put on new glasses today and realized he was not invisible you were. Tuesday’s toil was hidden from him only by the buzz of the captive green bees he stole for their song

Dressed in winter’s mottled sunlight, streets seem so depressed yet their whispers were heard for miles. Wednesday kept the world so hidden. Each better at keeping secrets than at keeping promises

Unstitching the seams of reality the blue boy God & his bicycle seat hat watched the 10pm news at noon. Thursdays never called for a sponsor, only a lemon tree divine

Friday fell from the sky faster than the setting sun but the crash only destroyed two of them. The astrology involved often let the rest of the world step without care