I’m
at winds, tapping our dance, scraping spirits; as iron to gravel, that metal
soul, so warm a river; as came by life, that fire of souls, floating by fluid
storms—with such a passion, laughing at mirrors, so consumed by forces…as for
ashes, partaking a meal, our grandmother reborn—as sunk his mind, a room filled
with leaves, nibbling cutworms—as esoteric, that bowl of rice, that orange
chicken—to nurture currents, as so Japanese, that noble by deaths; to fuse a
dream, as flamed by Mississippi, at terrors, Louisiana—my life she heard, a
cord as reckless, a shovel for a soul; while blazing currents, an arc to
Elisha, a sword to David; as cut for tears, adorned by winds, electric by
swanic madness. We pressure niceness, as more than gestures, those personalities
carried home; that gravel to France, that American spark, those Italian
meadows—while so confused, that fledgling feeling, fevered by forces such
verses; to chill by nature, too involved to live, purposed by
hallucinations—whereto, a fallen reign, as shifted his nights, staring at
turquoise skies—that bleeding syllable, that arched conjunction, those nouns
too proud to beg—as cut his voice, that cryptic baritone, that sudden
recognition—as singing wings, accustomed by deaths, while living through mermaids—that
cultic arc, as forced to breathe, a wreathe by change a miracle. I’m singing
seasons, adrift a Savannah, those signs to lemurs—that inner lemon, as sour to
touch, barely dying as crucified—that deep secret, as immortalis, flitting as flying by kindness: if told a soul, to part
for pieces, a castle as a dungeon; to shift a cartoon, at riddles to Bugs, a
clown to tears building a carnival; where pigeons speak, as chastising souls,
while ignorance ignores a bleeding vein—to chopper a spirit, that outer
helicopter, that inner kaleidoscope—as driven to curses, as forces arrive, that
terrible sin. It couldn’t be life, as more to life, that serious sensation—as
more to minds, that intelligent chi, fused by intuition—to greet his mornings,
at sudden a spark, aloft inversion—that song we sung, as young to class, a bomb
but a child as grieving—where mother cherished, some inner image, too high to
descend from skies. It comes a Ghost, as partial to forces, at course such
madness but forces; as febrile hearts, ascend through terrors, arriving by
voices to Africa: this inner us, accursed for seeing, alive for dying; while
caves to brains, carved from oak, to take form as Pinocchio—that long nose,
that Samson wit, that sheer redemption; as taught his life, a star to mud, a
savior to death; as so confused, sewing a doll, piecing together our pagan
particles; that day to courts, agaze’d a spirit, threaded through seams of
blame; where hands are swift, as bibles bleed, our palms ablaze with hell. (So many souls, adrift heartbeats, flickering
as lights; to miss redemption, as cursed to sin, while brains knit forgiveness:
if pain to wings, our guts to rains, while partly delirious. I’ve lost a tear—rabid
through valleys, at thoughts two tiers from spells: that chilly symbol, that
inner symphony, that salad by scars grieving dressings; as but a soul, reaching
for crawling—spittle to concrete: if but his life, assigned to visions, while
waves cure—that silent sentence, crocheting scissors, a bit too torn for
pleasantries—as more to love, that fabulous feeling, a tad distorted).
