Oh
to feel it, semi-religious, a breathing cult. We entered
a
storehouse, to purchase an acorn, to yoke sheer presence.
It’s
Niagara, where words tumble, to flood into feelings. Its
burgundy
eyes, a river of chills, an old occult. I peel a
muffin,
to gaze at cranberries, to feel a thump. I search a
list.
There’s a name. Letters are spinning. I feel, but can’t
find,
ever to breathe it. It hides for shallow, a cryptic
affect,
to
tiptoe a thought pattern. I can’t for riddles, to pull a cigar,
charged
by a stranger. It’s art—I wail; it must be art; but it
woke
up, clawing mirrors, and screaming, “Roots.”
I’m
lost in traffic, to outrace a thought, something
outrageous;
and moreover, the sky is following, to mock a
songbird.
I try to outrace it, a constant sight, a spectrum of
returns.
I want to say it, beyond logic, and somewhat unreal;
and
what for art; to lose for art; and live through art. It must
for
pass, a silent whisper, a daylight game; else for trauma, to
devastate
life, to slant for sky-dreams.
