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The secret of life is to attain belief that nothing
will be there when I return.
Extract expectation from the squishy gray matter,
plant it beside the lotus, through the eye socket, the nose
hole, behind the grimacing teeth. Plant deep.
The lotus grows from
slime, from the blood, explodes like uranium
enriched earth, spattering brains, bits of bone across fields,
leaves a meteor's crater in my breast, deep, torn.
But no matter, life is
like that, full of pain, agony, torment and yet
pure, unblemished lotus sprout from skulls.
Jan Haag, 2003