I
saw maestros embedded in silken
ropes slithering for speaking—that
captive sun so allergenic so contagious—as spaced in portals numbing cranberries that misty blue curtain: if but to
hassles as castled our brains such by science carbonating
religiosity—that ruby crystal those
cryptic saints this miracle at
studies: such blotchy rivers those
muddy diamonds this patch-mine—as
creative intensity, at flowers by fires, too encased to blemish sensuality;
that power bleeding, as leaking her blouse, our jeans moist with contagions:
that needled kite, as often our brains, that turtle morphing through
vitamins—as drizzle-mizzle, or Cajun cultic air, our Danes inflaming with
Jews—as omic music, this furious flame, by sequences becoming sullen artwork. I hopped a train, to meet a conductor: she
rushed us to this engineer: our drums drilled earth, at tears those Buddhists
monks, this fever electric by proximity—if but to flourish, while hectic at
baptism, at wonders this jasper lightning—as surgical remedy, or mainly a
buffer, our cadence mellifluous—as deciduous feelings, healing by aches, sealed
for completion—this inner incision, that playful analysis, our crises pleading
for effacements: if but by dreams, this year of supernatural(s), our cores
seeping into cultic rites; as but a fraction, that trenchant neuroses, as akin
to mangled by something unique: that miracle rapture, this fabulous anchor, our
songs as plural as forests coyotes—to passion by aches waxing as for wings our intuitions trespassing well-mines; as
more a soul, at too many answers, while drenched in sullen mire—this liquid
destiny at brains by loses at years passed a radical cave—that florid
harmonic that trenchant clarinet our minds falling into saxophones—where
religion wails this knitted
reality to greet by winds this
conglomerate: that six-sense, that seventh miracle, encased in five wounds—to
flour hope, while reality bleeds, at treasures this historical electricity:
that mystic shaman; that mystic name; those by arts disputing claims] but tug
to pull, rapt’d in trembles, nudged by inner forces—this bleak investigation,
or too wise for Jesus, while folklore rattles novitiate cages: this cryptic
spark; that inner landmine; this cultic abbreviation—as pure water, this web by
particles, to tears that tragic tunic; where love is law, as parted by seas, while
one becomes suspicious of existence.
