I adore you; like sparrows to a whisper,
or squirrels to a picnic—as flowing dauntingly, immersed in sheer success, at
brooks at rivers: those small fish, those long whiskers, our bearlike
excursions; or fevers bleeding, this music cringing, her heart at miracles—as
more recessions, to live a kite’s exploration, to nun this tsunami. I adore lightning, embedded in tree-barks, at
flux sliding through freedoms: that magnificent brain, to love, as said, while pillaging ancestors: that
stark Sophia, those steep oceans, to afloat a feeling through, Trethewey: as
nevermore, or ever a current, while sleek barriers our doubts: experiential, as
pure precedence, our gutters flushed with ambrosia: that tender voice; that
reckless tenor; that remarkable soprano—if but to roar, as singing, I love us, falling for rising through
Sia: those beige feelings; that jasper ignition; this mahogany flute. I die to hear us, floored in fantasies, your
skin unraveling orchestras: that tragic arc; those velvet parents; our siblings
at nurseries: to bend lights, as gripping winds, while at terrors controlling
thunder: that infant ache, at tremendous symphonies, while musing upon
Mozart—this Rembrandt feeling; this Kierkegaard resilience; our love for waves
while blurring time-fires. I fade at
feelings: I drift at membrance: I ponder Scientologists—as torn a miracle, or
split through insights, while able to explain by methods of ruining our faiths:
this cold-warmth, this warm icicle, this florid interior—as floret by myth, or
glacier by essence, while terrorized this inner sanctum. I adore brains, this cultic slant, as able to
induce a hell-storm—where noises frighten, where a fan spins, while psychs
produce an inner connection: that outer shiver, as pillows speak, this silent
language: our fair Beyoncè; our soul-fitting Arlissa; our legendary
Madonna—insofar, a blessing, as cursed our aging, as sophisticated our
closures. I love a swan, as, too, that
ethnic miracle, while spinning for flying—as sipping violet teas; if to
flourish, sporting a briefcase, musing upon, Wild Thoughts: that vicious and vivacious vixen; that innocent but
articulated rapper; our days to floating while scribbling masterpieces—as but a
curse, to find such joy, at sheer admiration: this plate in walls; this cagey openness;
our contradictions bleeding our realities; where swans swim, as full to
throttles, while at cores our Asian queens.
I love for soaring, at flames that second in time, while pondering every
name as summoned—to secern between thoughts, while afoul with thoughts, at
closure pondering that Black Swan—where
mother’s sincere, pushing for whispering, at hurdles feeling a tad distorted—at
aunts through prayers, at cousins through gestalt, at friends a tear he
claimed: that tragic moon; those travesties as stars; our Muslim
brethrens—while Persian to hearts, fleeing through Rumi, at sensei(s)
reversed—whereas, it feels good to laugh, it feels good to love, while sirens
thrust through travesties: our Jah affairs; our Rasta arts; our Christians
forbidden from sins—those musical truths, this Rihanna portrait, our tiles
spoken as courage: that inner Paris, that rising Greece, our nights realizing
Africa’s tyranny: those soft vocals, as pyramid legacies, flying for gripping
our swanic brains; where mother worries, as rapt’d in self, where appearances
appeal to surfaces. I’m bleeding palms,
to kiss but visions, so delicate those waves—as cut by wires, our flesh rifted
asunder, our metal membranes—to cry mercy, as bars shut harmony, our humility
shifting with mood-avalanches. I adore
this swan; I crave this legacy; our hands are bleeding—wherewith, are bandages,
as soaking up lakes, while father siphons our miracles: those inner deserts;
this calm oasis; that castle abed Isaiah’s soul—at torn apart, or sewn as parts,
trekking through our Ethiopia Smith; as Brimhall claws, reaching through
senses, to voice religious agonies: that ten year vacuum; that mystic epiphany;
those legs rapid for treasures.
