On the air where I have to move my arms I have to learn to walk on the Water ... On the air of so much breathing I will drown from so much breathing on the water ... On the water and the air I have to walk swallowing water and air, on the Final Water Minute Dogmate. To have Faith in I, I believe in Eternal Life, I digest the water from the remnants of distilled water from Lourdes, nauseated, resurfaced in the gaze in full water of my soul devoured, full 3 moles of water in my claws on the water. My bones and brain are water, just like my whole body, He limps on the water ... It will appear in the brotherhood Dogmate 11 February in Lourdes, 50 minutes from fifty meters above the surface that joins your existence of Bernardette to Bernardino about a hundred Cm above the water. Pale blue whitenned trail to sing the Psalm where Alta lies Hail Regina sine labe originali conceptam. Stunning smell of my ear, loud nasal sound from the beards of the bubble to the final Minute Dogmate Island. Remain lying there, be her and not You ... Move your arms so that they can see you on these three sides of the air wind over the profile of your gaze. Recirculate from the beginning and cover first and second position, then in the Reef where you lift your ankles to rub the Air and Water in meek quarry that becomes Fungi Dogmate water, Scream to the Northeast three times Save Regina Dogmate, Three times you breathe .. Three times you row with the awareness of your redemption. On the water a ship has to rescue you from the Water, even if you have never been there. Who will do it at the third call will go to look for a tired but anointed legionary in Salvation. Final Minute Dogmate, you are Risen!
You lay in bed hearing the lost rain upon the tin roof, left idle and betrayed by the God of your childhood, who persisted past your prehension while the candent of the streetlamp begged you to preserve your soul from doubt. Sleep finally passes over and darkness defies your attention. Your eyes blackened and devoid of soul. Tending to a horse that only Jesus can ride. Ready to face another false day of pain and a mask to obscure the ripe scallywag that is your inner spirit. You awake from a troubled night of thin dreams. The sun, hidden from your preview and when it materializes, you are startled and aghast. Like holding a foreign coin in your hand. You know it has value, just not in the place you are standing. So back in your pocket it goes, lost amongst the other coins and charms of your past. John M. Valdez www.facebook.com/poetryofjohnmvaldez