That
quasi-element, at once, to intentions, aflame gravity—as semi-giants, aloof to
hubris, at love with vengeance: that local heart-fly, ablaze a travesty,
quasi-locomotives; to appear a curtain, by tares a deacon, by rites a female
priest; to effect justice, while broken a nightstick, at flux a series of
souls; that lying ache, betraying its temple, as sacred as a sullen gulp; where
tortures reign, by voice an arcade, insomuch, as cadence; to rend cloth, a fist
to skies, and two palms of dust; where agonies yield, that majestic center, as
brains leak into actions; for something’s tugging, as ever by traumas, as held
captive by appeasing others: this grace by charms, while shorn at poverties, at
once, a mirror miscalculated—as pleading stories, as others are heard, while to
ignore passing currents: that type of fan, as rich to selfish, aloft a scream
kicking at pillars: this error of cries; as cursed a crooked vision; at woes to
distinguish life; where dolphins wail, shifting through waves, at frequency a
mystic volt. We’re living mystery, so
certain a dream, aloft predictability—where love is tentacles, while love is
reaching, as love would capture—that deep investment, this quasi-religious,
that sanctified station—thereto, infinity, as tugged a soul, feeling at nails
such symbolism. I feel sounds, as floating dimensions, at once, to envision
particular souls: this candent heart; that lambent arc; this range of
multiplicities: if but to witness, this inner church, as refused upon
kaleidoscopes; as lives a scream, at eyes an opening, while our promenades are
flushed with goddesses. We trot to majesty, as decoding mysteries, our eyes as
newly mosaics—that mental koan, that deep satori, our vests tunneled through
rituals: that lark breathing; our bones trembling; our aches to souls.
