We
bounce for letters, both found and lost, to scribble a masterpiece; and
more
this life, to knit green lights, thrusting through traffic. Its colored grays,
and
mandala signs, singing through pressures.
We touch for hearts,
wrecked
through
elocution—our lives. I drift a fire,
to shock a mudslide—a born
miracle;
and all is love, to dig a cloud, shooting upward; and there she is,
a
born aesthetic, as wise as doctors. I
love her like fevers, where letters
fall,
to electrocute. We crash to fall, a
bit for human, to race divinity. I love
beige,
to argue my debate, a bit smooth; and more the soul, stripped for
naked,
rushing through caves. We spin it left, to see it move, to rest for right.
Its advocate rites, and midnight blues, to
chant a pearl necklace. Tell us
for
love, an ocean tide, to flood a carcass; and more for life, to flood a heart,
aglow
a daymare; for seasons churn, to turn a liver, to guzzle water.
We picture perfect, a grand event, staring
at mirrors; and more a simile, to
see
for self, through total strangers; and paint to art, to wow a village, and
steady
for dice. The table screams, for one
to gamble, and fly a flame; for
this
is life, a chance a minute, to spin a gamut.
It’s less a whim, for heart a
practice,
to bleed through waterfalls; but torn events, a screaming rite, to color
for
portraits. We filter well, to fashion hells, unlocking cells; and more a pulse,
a
beating vine, to die returns. I heard
it yell, to pause a nation, to signal a
mind-call; and flying
waves, a host of graves, to see bones talk.
