There
was a crisis—and hell gave birth—to the muscles of chaos. I was mere a
skeleton, and fully unaware, to this world of insanity. Symbols became fire—to
scribe a soul, as sore as sullen stanzas. I stressed the liver, too high to
see—the glare of the forest; and more the ocean, flooding wooded areas—the
constellations of a heart. I saw without seeing; I heard without hearing; and
arms bent to touch without touching. I pause to smell it, the angst of
taste—this crisis of a man.
Oh
this mind, the brain of my lungs, to penetrate bone and marrow; the essence of
churning, the veins of stomachs, pictured in jigsaw feelings; plus a swan—and more
a mother, to face the catastrophe; where heads become eyes, and the navel
bleeds, a chin filled with calamity; for oh the crisis, to see the world flee,
gnawing on gristle and chewing on pain. I imagine the oddness: to turn on a
lover, where others dug in; and I imagine the sorrow, to watch as dreams
melted, bending too many knees; and oh the hell, where feet swelled, to
remember a first born.
