Determined to Knit through Hopes

I was bitter, as born to dregs, confused by blackness; this story by pains, this addict as mother, that absentee father; to peer at insanity, our existential, repeating fallacies; that grave indifference, seated in angers, aloof to intimacies. I grogged a feeling, as always something, hacking at that pink elephant: our room(s) cold; that stench of vileness; that trenchant blackmail; to live a monster, too weak to witness, at tears our ghetto women: that furious acuteness, searching for loopholes, at terrors those tendencies to victimize. We threaded sorrows, those tall tales, our grandmothers sickly—if taught his mind, that cryptic text, pursuant that bias academy; to learn about Greeks, that center of existence, as accused of slowness—that welkin scar, forbidden to joys, as to wonder about monsters: that agile psyche; those circumspect theories; that cadence as grit that imbalance; seated at loquats; raiding for lemonade; our shirts terrorized by pomegranates: if but to culture, agaze by Muslims, while mother stanched through existence: that bell for church, our christic text, this fire by arts that Ghost; to feel sickly, a rag for buffing, those fables knotting his guts; as returning silence, filtered by sorrows, such hell encased in smoky eyes: that private galaxy, accustomed to homes, such persons too gone for reason; this thing of swamis, that myth of samurais, our spirits dripping callousness: that Bugatti swagger; our bluebird dreams; our failure to pursue such disciplines: our ghetto disciples; that preaching at corners; our realities murdering Bugs Bunny: while deep at slumber; too scolded for reality; awake enough to see plurals; that cased affection, our collars mourning, our minds exploited; that core religion, a necktie as a mask, at tears to gravel those foreign cultures. Our hearts infested; our neighbors dying; our nights featured in screams: those flashing sirens; those alley murders; our terrors as masterpieces: if but to live, shaken by facts, as opposed to such numbness—this venture of thieves, our winds so harsh, at travels to see those other persons: those casual eyes; that fluid disposition; that naïve openness; as more to fiction, our fatal return, peering at those abysmal beauties: our grandparents cooking; our mothers at sobriety; our ghettoes as loud silence; as sewn to piety, that flipping of tongues, if but a second to heartbeats. It shifts at turns, this shapeless form, while knitted to something vulnerable: that newborn child; that teenage mother; that father at hells that prison; while treated as abstracts that war on welfare, that basin of tragedies; to curve his mind, our collage of hopes, or more that positive nuance—to seep into justice, at aches that concentration, at music that film of escapes—where science churns, this notion of cities, too young to have but dreams: that inner weapon; that privy chamber; seated by fate amidst fires: those souls to wisdom; that inkpad of visions; that inverted chaos; as seeking closure, to realize a sequence, those fettered conditions; where minds perish, or soar through heights, while adrift upon zephyrs: that tragic glory; that mystic exposure; our determined souls.