tricks swing in and out.
with smoothness from practice and nature.
the tiered crowd calls for specificity.
i am unfit for any of it.

our twisted ankles twist to join.
to step, simultaneously, over puddles of piss,
in tunnels which lead to ocean sources.

i have yet to admit anything about the smoke that i consume,
and what the grey curls to become.
pictures of you, as you are?
can i believe in something so supreme?

we are not gods; only men,
who link ourselves to animals.

not sacred.
not fallen.
not responsible.

we hide with other bones,
waiting for discovery.
the link to declare us all free.