We
live it unnamed.
I mean for a name, where letters are
unbroken—terrified in parts:
trembling
with fire, purged through kitchenware, upon monads:
the
smallest parchment, where names—swell with undue pride. I saw a child, scream a name, to spin
through fallin’ skies: to see for justice; to unravel softly; living for
asylums. We raise ghosts, far from
homespun, strangers from self. You stir a vestibule, to live a mailbox, to
receive doses—of a colony embedded in a memory, surging through
unconsciousness. I painted freedom;
to see you there, clogged in spirit, praising the measure of your
discrediting.
It’s the reign of pictures, for both brown
and blue eyed Christs; wherefore the chaos, to refuse the Hebrew nature—far
into a pit. We clamp to strengthen,
to flare a mandolin, to desecrate said strength. Oh the countenance, to change through a
vision, to forget the furnace; where days would pass: screaming for churning;
lost to abysses; pleading for return.
I couldn’t remember, a tender home, where suspicion was void; for we
live it empty, to travel in blankness, semi-oblivious, to earth for
hell—stalking complaisance. Oh the
tiers of a cake, to climb atop, to catch the coming train; where lights are
burgundy, pointing to green, frozen at orange. You cry abed—cotton sheets, glaring at an
inner universe: the fallen years; the shattered watch; even for shooting stars;
where peace is increments,
a drifting
sandbox,
a
need to grope freedom,
if
only a contagion!
