I’m
hopeful for better, anxious for bitter, and breezy for
love;
and more to form, to rapture Aristotle, to mimic
Plato.
Is it you the art to rift for nonexistence? Was it
prose
to muse for egos combined in one carcass? I ask—
to
tiptoe music, spinning through rumors, and dizzy
with
love. We spoke in yogic waves, as thorough as
Shuunyata, drunk off chi.
I disappear to channel for Gertrude,
and
listen for sound. It’s a few minutes past life—a world
frantic—and
thirsting your music. Is it more the lyric, ever
for
helpless, to paint a picture? I ask—to stream Rihanna,
and
channel Beyoncè—to live through Jay Z. I’m tore for
love,
an empty-full, as lively as newborn chicks. Its heart
for
Tracy, to mimic Trethewey, spinning through Tina. I
love
it this love the sickest music. We fell for art, and
melodic
caves, twisted in tempers. It was life, a must
return,
to disappear twelve months. I’m there, consuming
beauty,
to idealize Morrison. It’s ever this love, to dance
to
Iggy, aflame through Prince.
