I
wonder by our dreams, at pure escapes, while cleaving to mother; that beautiful
mixture, as coaching our waves, while furious a mentor. I wonder by love, this
torn effect, as remote to love; this inner cadence, as keeping to silence,
where delusions swarm. This could be life, sipping by one cup, fretted by
existentialism: that magnet afar, as screamed metaphysics, as to maintain
pictured perfection; this musical art, as hawks to dynasties, that inner
living-room; as dining with cygnets, while nursing swans—that boisterous
laughter; to sip grapes, over slices of loquats, a bit radical concerning
projects: that delirious novel; that sultry novella; those sestina poems; to
flood his mind, insomuch, a scream, while signaled within—that lofty cry, as
feeling human, asearch for that amazing elevation—where mothers are perfect,
as, too, are fathers—that deep dish lasagna:—it’s gentle a storm, as peers
vanish, our futures become obscure; as women panic, if but to carry, this
nation of men. (I sense affliction, as a friend lingers, sutured by thoughts,
as loving home, to perish ambitions, while steady upon that chase; those
precious trains, seated with father, nibbling unleavened bread—to soar a cry,
as floored a soul, caressing a grandfather-clock: that miracle living, as sewn
into physics, searching out those buoyant currents; as women live, this
creative force, sliced as native sisters; to die a dream, as melding dreams,
while to silence forwarded afflictions: that deep restraint, as never such
waves, while piercing into legacies: that office wit; such capital
wisdom—perfected at checks and balances. I sense a soul, writhing over
territory, as blurry with internal mechanisms; or afloat with time, to wrestle
by tenets, while introjects roam to and fro: this space of passions, to live an
enemy inside, while at peace a second prior to invasion—as skeptical of
furniture, awaiting that capture, to partake as a form of creativity: this clad
secret, as built upon webs, that something deep our closures; where songs
crave, as unread manuscripts, where silence has become a travelling villain;
insomuch, as, nevertheless, this internal drive). I return to us, this place in
history, striving for clarity: that fiery fog, as plagued our souls, feeding on
this majestic rapture: those sun-brown caves, alive as thriving, while digging
into intentions; as becoming a ghost, aflame a star, as deep enchantment.
