Saturday, July 1, 2017

By Silence Our Swan Sings

I was tensioned cursed, floored to addictions—his mother as autumn; to mingle hearts, our daughter by pupils, ablaze’d by curse-ed mirth: that fragile glass; as see-through petals, aloft by scales of sky-terrors. I was birthed a storm, reaching for father, at love by glance his beard; while errors blossom, our daughters to wind-chimes—that jar of fireflies; as magnificent roses, our rainbow tulips, apace this race of curses: those schizophrenics; that bipolar angst; this curse-ed blanket; to have for boxes, that pair of dolls, those pins by grandmother’s sin: our ancient bibles; our transmigrated dreams; our atlas terrifying planets: that cryptic gaze; our daughters ablaze; this feeling to compose through darkness: to know by cadence, that steep explosion, to feel for hate without investigation: such simple souls, at wars with science—this scratching as flesh trickles its essence. I adore this love, those brown sensors, our passion morphing those segments through time; to ache with silence, or rev through gardens, our transmissions newly built: that cultic parachute, to remember as tension, while too removed to castle his king. It comes with essence, this insidious seed, reaching for swans through stormy terrain: that mother grieving; that father seething; those parents of children reaching through generations; to pass by legacies, too remote for closure, while sketching that false paradise. I was tensioned cursed, a bottle of liquor, swatting at beige powder; or porcelain lumps, enough by grime, at shivers that frantic washing. We forget our image, as time blesses our souls, those grays those days of old; to have by platform, this wealth of lies, to remember daily that shattered mystique. I see a swan, too encased to see, when time proves by cadent streams; to rant for raging, or pantomime friction, this curse as traveling genetics: that fatherless gate; our bio-melancholy; our mothers too condemned to sing; where love chastises, while we dare to retreat, by hidden currents everyone but our brains. I sense a swan, peering for seeing, while relaxed enough to love: our jaded tensions; our curse to winds; our pledges to redeem by loss that cause: if but to butterflies, or morning hummingbirds—that perch seated at heartcaves—to wave through chimes, this fire by rains, while steep in curious flames; where father writhes, as remaining silent, while a group continues in arrogance. I heard a whisper, this magnetic dove, far too evolved to render injustice: our reveling sanity; our anchors to gold; such agile angst by capture our brains…that artsy dance, as chanced for life, by far too brave to resist atonement. We know by hearts, that ignition thump, this jinn by souls that ignition jump—where mothers try, at aches for clearance, seeping into existential magic; that frantic anvil; that mystic rabbi; this zest for life while hell is pursuing; to love by glance, while melted into traumas, if but to restart that penchant ignition. I was birthed a storm, peering at backgammon, musing upon Bach—this fatal invention, so dark but misty, inflamed by this ideal Ghost…as father perished, stressing through lights, a vessel by chase that immortal thread: our daughters to resentments; our mothers to silence; our step-fathers trying beyond measure: that hazy fog, palming clouds, too wild to exist by mainstream: this cadence moving, that woman to shivers, our old liaisons too cold for our dance: our dusky cries; that inky sky; our children discovering imperfections. I was born emphatic, a subject of ghettoes, abandoned to sunless winds…as mother chanced, this wealth of darkness, our wreathes painted in traumas…by rotten eggs, or spoiled bacon, or more that perfect meal; this thing for chicken, or mashed potatoes, to add a pinch of oregano…or more that casserole, accompanied by meatloaf, as sensing in time that needs to rejuvenate: that motherly wit; those unlit candles; that inspirited valley; as sensing your smile, while afoul with motives, a man that must learn when to remain silent: if but to breathe, at length with strife, accustomed to this bless-ed existence.  

Strumming a Harp

By language we speak to audibility and coherence. To compose to feel understood, in spite of language applied. A person spends years misunde...