What
if night fell, a cauldron of sunshine, a cigar of smaze; I ask the torment, for
why the joy, an answer in waiting; but this is life, to plead a theory, ten years
at a panel; scraping and scribing, gnawing and chewing, to come to nothingness. Oh for Sartre, and oh for
Camus, to chase for treasures; to become that thing, to avoid a Hemingway, to
mourn Virginia Woolf. I’m lost to it, pushing for pulling, to fall her
eyes—where passion tempers, the souls of men, to love her come heartbeats; to
see the flight, even a new self, where something dies—that hearts may live. We
stirred a demon, to hate for worlds, that closer to normal; in which the rise,
to unchain essence, a castle in a dungeon. Oh to unlock, lost of supervision,
found in his ethics; to ask for God, to tiptoe belief, to see the combination;
and oh the keys, to dangle his soul, an edge within an edge; where Poe spoke of
dreams—and Whitman spoke of nature, that closer this manifestation; and oh for
Trethewey, the river of queens, to push past stigmata. I cried this night, to
mourn this day, praying to Jesus; to find and rise—the heights of hearts, to center
in Spirit; where love is prose, even a French name, to see so many in passing.
Oh the schedules, to sit in fire, a metaphor for pain; to give so much,
disguised as little, to see results. I couldn’t laugh—for sitting still, to
feel the motion; to die like living, and live like dying, to face the
repercussions; and now to fly, skating and skiing, a fragment of an hour; thus
the sea, to dig a soul, to push potential. I love it centered, to see it
crooked, to ask for intervention; where earth is void, to uplift the dungeon,
to open the cage upon clouds. It’s quite emphatic, to see and grab, a world of
vague processes.
