It
splits by roots, this inner peak, at sparks to Maslow; that firm retreat, as to
frighten souls, whereby, confused, to hide secrets; those paper cranes, that
outer hero, that mental heroine—as indelible currents, afforded a soul, a bit
too patient with nonsense: this burst of freedom, that roach with wings, those
bedtime stories; as once a child, so wildly curious, while stripped by life:
that existential; our similar households; our mothers refusing our cries. We
value pain, abused by scars, seated in tiny rooms—where mother sighs, as pure
defensive, accused of atrocities—that casual angst, feathered by brains,
running for chasing abandoned to addictions—as cringed his life, this climate
of dysfunction, our archeries tempered by treacheries: those cutting leafs;
that autumn glacier; that auburn wisdom—as sensed a monster, afflicted with
conscience, as beige as burgundy visions; where father fled, those grieving
winds, as foot to metal through traffic—that graphic wound, chasing for
running, paralyzed by traumas. It would be life, to lose by graces, at wars
with misconceptions; to hold so dearly, that false impression, sailing that vex
to souls. It was cold by nights, that rigid valley, adrift a soul that
bar—where vultures mourned, as beautiful dreams, that sullen disparity; those
leafless trees; that room of snow; that furnace by dance a soul; to pillage
hearts, so close a womb, as died our mornings; to grieve a star, afflux a moon,
weighed by tender sunshine. We venture by Disney, aloft by cartoons, faced by
one that lesson—to ache at thoughts, tested for measured, as never but certain;
thus, by dance, thisness is thatness, according to present behavior;
as angered by certitudes, this mystic ear-wave, accustomed to dying—that morbid
voice, as sung his life, at tears to remember that gentle palm—where prophecy
spoke, this legend of tales, adrift our Wellbeloved. (I’ll speak a soul, as
tacit a breath, afforded one last dance; as giving it life, this kite to winds,
while nursing a Wor Wonton soup: that pious flex, that treasured qualm, our
days to whisk—if be it death, I’ll praise to darkness, as treasured that arc of
isms; while torn to vanish, as naked by crowds, a mystery by aches his past: as
pleading solvents, alert by eyes, while to crumble racing by freeways: that
gutted feeling, as sensing truths, edged by cliffs: that camera brain; that
wealthy gripe; this pushing for pulling exploding pressures. It comes to
chance, as redeemed but filthy, as Job struck a nerve). If time is willing, our
purest shelters, to awaken but smiles: that gravid love, as to carry dust, our
dirt as beating hearts; that music as softness, aflame a gray river, this soul
charging through fires—as bred a pastor, alive with sin, buried by bridges
ablaze; but soon to lights, this puzzle of swans, at meadows that horse
according to whispers.
