There’s
this june-bug. It comes to my door daily. It climbed under my screen. I sprayed
it with bleach. It flew away. There’s
this hummingbird. It visits me during the mornings. It just hums in motion with
its back turned. It’s quite amazing, these events by life. I wonder for
meanings.
I adore living, this
place in archives, as evoked a subtle demon; to scream adversely, this cygnet
of dreams, while a spirit plucks our violin; that immortal charm, as sung to
silence, this wave peering at Roman cleavage. I could to perish, if but those
darts, as one cagey and seeping nightly; those indifferent thumps, as oh so
few, while one remains immortal; to have those feelings, as engraved upon
tombs, where love becomes by motifs. I’m casual fears, as to live by one, where
humans fail to subdue imagination; that crafty design, where love implodes, as
so far this accordion spell; to love by essence, this fuse by explosions, where
silent those background screams; this fission of arts, this glory of parts, to
have but few indebted by sparks; that edgy fire, by rageful segments, as
discovering beauty that dying soul. Our appellate hearts, so remote an island,
afraid to give its girt: that steep pond, as pouring an ocean, to infuse our
dreamy daylights—that motion of treasures, to know by grit, this measure by
tectonic symphonies: that coarse voice, by virtue a hoarse throat, as screaming
by silence that welkin survival; our blazing daughters, by morbid fathers, to
come to temperaments a bit stale by fires; this liquid feeling, to know by
arcs, as fleeing for flying through intelligence: that space in waves, so tired
a heartbeat, as challenged this wealth of fevers; to love regardless, as
feeling dejected, to have that chorus raging through our souls: this
misfit-flame, as given this ache, to come to gems by gravid energies: that
cryptic churn, as ever for wants, to need that feeling killing us softly: those
ruby eyes; those diamond ears; that essence by fires to extract a drum-sky—as
meddlesome june-bugs, or that hive of bees, or that curious raccoon—where hours
drift, as three-thump-sessions, while seated in sulfur at wonders that
heart—those beating trails, as tracks to brains, by fever this feeling
destroying its carcass. I know our aches, as one so bright, while I study to
align our wisdom; that furious sail, at pace for tears, those years curtailing
his sanity: that sketchy mother, responding to subliminals, to utter by force a
coarse suggestion; as churning music, or quoting arias, at furies—he didn’t
plague his operas—that moving diagram, as plastered to brains, at once a
feeling no man can explain: that essence by breath; that cultic environment;
that tender heartquake—where arts perish, as arts evolve, this hellish-horn to
resuscitate. I give us life, as life was given, this sinning atmosphere—to
trespass gods, as filled with gods, to rejuvenate fires: that achy temperament,
so edgy a giant, while feeling so lowly a servant; indeed, to passions, as
lived our soulprints, embedded so tensely; that random thump, as to conjure an
art, by appeals leaning into deserts: that cloudy trail; those foggy fires;
that tabernacle breeding a millennia later; where essence bleeds, this
beautiful castle, as women too warm that feeling; this place in times, our
minds to duplicate wings, as plucking a ladybug’s dreams; to feel our hearts,
as inner locomotives, seated at a tuffet-brain; that testy woman, so far to
flames, as sensing something’s askew; that furthermore fire; that deep as if; our horns clashing for violent
compassion.
