Casual Musings

Forgive us for wanting light, as christic souls—this journey through deaths; to feel eternity, this mile of splinters, that casual nonchalance; as borne this maze, to have come as daughters, this kind-praise-ology. Our thorns as infinite; our briers as tumbling; our attractions as convoluted; because of terror, to see something ugly, while craving ugliness in self: this deep adventure, haunted by gothic winds, each rite inherited from pagans; as now demonic, unless for convergence, to do it once more; this thing of villains, or even jurisdiction, to finally control something foreign. We shall escape, fumbling through mire, conversing with warlocks; to have this day, as dedicated to Jesus, our beloved Christ; that grand spectacle, as required that death, as ordained that resurrection; to cry of origins, featured in chaos, this rite by passage our daughters. I love a swan, as so controversial, where mothers growl over disappointments; to have that heart, as filled by sulfur, to hassle over palpitations. I shift to love; this vibrant woman—so alive with personality; to cater and withdraw—so electric the nights, fingers chilled on eyes; this furious dirge, that casual pain, our eyes pushing forward that truth. We travel graves, staring at bones, to suggest life: this random fiat; this professor by brains; that second heaven opened; as born to bellies, this thing of beast, to search your features; this common activity, while taken for granted; to realize, there’s at least three in there; this glorious song, sought after souls, to cringe and die and push and lie—that casual storm, to see you writhing, some sort of locomotive; as refusing death, seated the palm of death, this deep paradox! We love December—this month of joys, flooded by favor that agony; to see us fly, our hearts so warm, our liquor stirred in teas—this inner flight, to unleash souls, where one acknowledges powers; this deep contrast, to separate actions, as to realize, that wasn’t me; those tentacle waves, that volcanic voyage, that vehicle by stars—as deeply my chants, ranting and raving—that woman sophisticated—as seeing Christ, or something that likeness, to tickle our ribs. I know more our corpulence, that bulky body of pains, distorted by distractions—those marvelous trinkets, at love your souls, trekking mental regions—to have died a wave, as to morph through waves, while to muse through awaken-ness—this casual tile, as floored in leopards, where glue comes to life, screaming! We’re swathed by particles, this mixture of colors, our bondage something immortal—to challenge swans, to ponder passed sunlight, as prepared for darkness; this place of dungeons, to honor our joys, to paint this day as grandmother’s soul. You’re an iron furnace, at peace with kindness, but equipped to outthink nonsense: our shelter of love; our shared coffee; this snow to melt come warmth. I saw a glimpse, as one to perish, a bit sleepy eyed. I felt at home, to soon retreat, as one indifferent. It comes with time; this stitch that stirs, this teasing-tugging—as more to life, as never before, to utter, “I like you.”; instead for games, that inner temptation, to forge a theologian; those subtle pegs, to thrust egos, as transported and trotting. I must retreat; as wild as calm, peering into something heinous; as not for destruction, but more for control, to maintain some measure of control; where others stumble, for that deep craving, as to feel out of control. We’re mere lamps, glowing as fed, needling spirits; to love you more, as purely platonic—to adore your soul; this casual wind, this endless nerve, this woman by far a treasure; to smile come morning, your thought on plates, aside green onions and eggs—to sing a hymn, buried in pressures, that feeling of knots—as casual as life, searching for intensities, but those of a certain texture—to pass a locket, filled with memories, as becoming a keepsake—that inner sermon, as so iridescent, this Junoesque disguise—as paging mischief, if but a smile, this lifegiving force—where hell is real, our quavering souls, punctured through by mysticism.