Crutch of Faith

I believe in the music of the suicide wheezes of a toothless old wooden staircase, the pianos, the love of the meteor shower and the water pipe, the goodness of beavers, the miracle of spirit fermentation, other worlds in the black hole space of my cerebral prefrontal cortex, the fact that there is indifference to the norms of propriety, in the universal forgiveness of fungi, juicer of meanings, the ellipsis in the fourth degree multiplied by a plaque in black square, thirty-five grams of cheese and a quivered gillberry stool limping limping in the sunset of a new day. That belief is not taken away from me.

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