Welcome
to blessings this furious fever to touch an unwedded spirit—where mother
dies, as souls famish, this accordion hell-fire: that locomotive, racing
through homes that shattered wine glass— if but to perish, at hopes to live,
this triumph as Dante’s energy— where grandma tenders, this steep affection,
our daughters to caves bleeding by wells. I fraction infinity, too concerned
with grammar, reading into voltage terror—that inner storm, that surge of ice,
this feeling to rumble a beating heart: if but to live, our existential,
frantic through metaphysics. I must to love, as bated to hate, where precious
our drums at service—this immortal charm, to extinguish soul-feathers, while
wings to life this mystic part-time; indeed, to courage, our family web, at
tears this aunty lost—where fever is entity, as revved to sing, while our
engines recite our distance; that tyrannical fire, those longing eyes, this
woman too enforced to reckon disaster—as more than ants, this rant of fools,
while hell to hearts as bestowing blessings. We came to die, as evolved through
living, to perish our great grandchildren.
We could to live, as gifted another’s soul, while at woes that famous
wife; this extractive barnacle, those weeds breathing, this touch as much too
extensive: our broccoli with beef; our spicy shrimp fried rice; that flavored
broth in War Wonton soup: if but to live, abroad a name, while realizing but
sex to diminish—this frantic kiss, as much to loses, while souls unsaid court
our whispers: this evil arc, that cadent spark, this memory to self as too
explosive: if but to cringe, this clump by grass, that squirrel so near
pleading for pistachios; in such to flourish, while beating venom, at course to
seclude another catastrophe: this bleeding ear, our inner voiceprints, this
sheep at hurries to run astray: our theological, as metaphorical, this place in
self without hardcore evidence; as, nevertheless, this achy resilience, as
Kierkegaard’s subjective—to pass experience, as pure evidence, so fresh this explosive
to kiss our demons; as more to cultures, this maniac lover, while to sit in
silence through a tsunami. I sat at
violence; I broke our promise; I lost to me a grand appeal; but this is
tortures, this devil bleeding his psyche, this woman pleading our facials: if
but to live, this secret granted, while at war with myriad spirits: that deep
enchant, to rant with mystics, if but to return to warfare; therewith, lives in
silence, this terrific image, at terrors to awaken to unsaid breath. I’ve lived
a current, at errors to life, while hectic to recruit a swan: our miracle
music; our inter mistyrose, this active soul to cages—as lived a funeral, to
incite resurrection, our mentals cleaving to doctrine—where daughters exhale, as
forced to claw gravy, where hurt digs its trench. {I love to loses, this
inferior soul, while fraught by insecurities; but tragic an earache, at
treasures a voiceprint, while seething through Paradise: that instant death, as
fluxing through tribunals, to hear with courage a daughter begging his pardon:
if but to fly, this mystic chanting, our friends at rituals: that casual
husband; that mythic wife; our grandparents slingshot’n energy; as but
reversal, to undo a curse, while fleeing for rivaling myriad demons; this place
in time, to remember that flame, our organ ramped through abysses; or harps to
pregnancies, at Saul for peace, while said rival thrusts his spear; this mystic
survival; this cultic reach; our minds to fire}.
