If
but to live, our seams at ghettoes, those horrid, horrified, mystic events; our
scars clotting, as blood trickles, our mother’s kisses; to feel us sherm’d,
trekking railroad-tracks, screaming at freights: those tragic eyes, our
father’s prisons, tiptoeing cultic pathways: if but to live, refusing pork
rinds, nibbling ham-hocks, running through fields plastered with poverty; to
sing our song, that tragic humiliation, at strengths, converted: this peril of
times, that solid white candy, our nostrils dripping mucus: if but to scribble,
this terror of professors, as given a chunk of essence; as sewn to brains, that exotic glance, while platonic that
art of deaths; that cryptic hex, as drilling souls, our auditoriums bleeding—to
see but faces, our excavated faces, every mood scattered our faces: this tragic
drive, admired afar, a man his room our flippant ceilings—to shatter eternity,
harnessed in moments, at papyrus those tales of Osiris: our deep percentages:
our captive hearts; our tendencies towards colors; to greet that soul, as
dyeing our lives, tugging for pulling that tragic artistry—those meerkat eyes,
that coyote’s wisdom, that elephant’s memory: if but that scar, our mothers
comatose, our nannies as substitute parents—while lived his life, a product of
bars, cursed as angers tearing through tiers of brains: that frantic kiss;
those fruitage ligaments; that rose bush a palm of thorns: our deepest
travesties, to lose a queen, our mothers pounding upon vestibules—that temple
affair, as sent to Norwalk, our fathers to barricade a son: this melic music,
this otiose clam, that mystic agitation; to find December, those pines as
lonely, our utilities mourning; as more that room, to meet, Ms. Sober, a tale
by Greeks as tragic: that sheer velocity, increasing in force, that ashtray to
miss his brains. Oh for midnight, or a quiet home, or that surprise visitor—to
answer prayers, to fix her soul, that metamorphosis! We live this way; shy to
die this way; embarrassed by something legendary: that sheer strength; that
gravid artistry; those lines reaching into spirits; to see us live, as more to
glory, our apostolic praises: that cultic moon; that phoenix sun; those symbols
igniting resurrection: if cried his soul, to love but again, those instruments
seeping into our umbra; as minds chatter, this Ghost to fires, our rhythm
becomes rocket fuels: that tragic affair, to have lost a soul, while afforded eternity.
