lama sabbaqthani?

why don't I feel the splinters and the nails, the wooden sinews across my back? Are we so late that we must part and leave but words of forgiveness? Only a gentle printlike bruise remains like when we were kids playing emphatic deaths, resuming into a better one, in slow motion. The silence of the limbs is now filling the mind, so numb from vinegary cups to quench a thirst for life's smooth and ample liquors. Eloi, give me more.

April 08