I
want it badly, that distant glory, singing, Illuminati—this
gifted shift, that inner snow-fire, those worms with legs—to die your flame,
buried in tendons, this screaming meadow! I know for brooks, to dig for deeper,
that rare perfume: they call it rain, to see those mirrors, as crying sky-iron:
that fatal fall, to tug JZ, a phoenix as a pyramid. I laughed at self, to grow
in droves, to love this passion: those cryptic eyes, that Asian style, that
centered insanity. I cried to God, “Believe in me,” as giving me worth; to
drive this death, a soul’d black man, this outer mulatto—looking that art, to
feel centipedes, this manic in black—to terrify love, to recruit a coalmine,
dipping through land fields—that curious mine, to read unsaid, this panic
through feds—as living shame, to know for secrets, a soldier’s death to
failures: those roadblocks; to require stealth; those warriors at his guts; as
dying that lose, while moving traffic, to feel this ceiling fan. I craved a
soul, this hypnotic gem, while stationed in restraints; to hear, “I love you,”
that outer myth, swerving through airbeams. I felt a passion, this daughter to
flood, as choosing parents: that Hindu gauge; that reaming twist; as gazing at
innocent eyes; to bless Beyoncè, for hidden truths, mashing through
territories—to hear a voyage, this serpent’s heart, a thirst for knowledge—to
master life, this cryptic agenda, this vault of literature; as more to Freud,
to have studied Jung, while flooring Rogers: this misfit; that Jewish spin;
those Greek tomes. I thought for Precious, to see such fires, where hell was
gentle;—that soul a legend, that pain a pyre, our souls attracted to madness:
that horror of tales, to feel this shift, plucking a dragonfly. I laughed to
feel it, this inner notion, as if all is peaceful: I speak to secrets, to know
for humans, those hearts as encrypted. It could be art: It could be us: It
could be death; as taking a chance, to love but thrice, afforded this gray
terror—that mystic cloth, this grieving prose, our inner leviathans. It’s cold
to perish, as sensing kefs, alive that moment a tender session; to see her
fracture, or see a smile, or to know for pills. We vetted storms, as playing
pretend, this monster of souls—as dragged to dirt, swimming through mud, while
at love this Savoir. I disappeared, those years at practice, to return filled
with lightning: that gleaming aura; that shaded demon; this kingdom of
blackness; to dance to courage, this swan to flourish, this mother at roses; to
walk aloofly, to whittle wood, to praise near bark; this thunder’d soul, to
grip a soul, as one too many lines. I’ve lost it all, with more to gain, to
give us passion: this young prophet; this inner pyramid; these tats as testaments;
where God heard, as flowing fire—that visitation. (I’m more a child, stitching a wound, filled
with excuses—for more that hell, those droopy eyes, that pregnant shame—engaged
with trauma, eloping with rain, at woes to hear of normalcy). Our torn galaxy;
that rifting mentality; this tare by shadows; to smelt a vision, this hailing
gust, floating to fly!
