I’m
lost an image as somewhere a scream affected with senselessness; this terrible
conviction, as pain to grammar, while terrorized dreaming of perfections: that
riveting mother as tyranny for justice, where tomorrow awakens a series of
political war-skies: our clerical blankets; our cookies with cocoa; our family
at harmony’s election: this casual vision, while seeping into reality, a seven
year old flinging an instrument: this poetical nightmare, as singing to
mountains, while never this time on Oprah: that full pledged miracle, to sense
such glory, where mother became a ballerina: that inner friction as pure
delusion, while attracted at heart to mother’s reflection: this rich confliction—as
wanting but resisting, a bit too timid that wild excursion; so more to mother,
as aloof to mother, while revved this insane luxury where tomorrow becomes
mother’s essence.
Sudden upon passion, this month of moths,
this centerpiece, Mother; affixed to silence,
so distant our moons, this parachute fixating nonchalance—as sunbeam terrors,
laughing his rain, at thoughts those wellic
souls—as cries a son, at treasures as trauma, featured in horror’s minds: this
liquid sin, so abetted by feelings, at heights those jumping-jack grins—where
mother sang, Blues, while congested
with Jazz, this minor associated with
cages of melodies—those fiery eyes, that jittery stance, this movement as
lyrical: our frantic fevers, our angers gesticulating, such as oldies all night
long: that furious vexing, awakened at 3.am., afforded a glance to clean
dishes—this felt reply, as too young for virtue, while exuding father’s
traits. (I’ll reappear, as mere a lad,
trekking this symbolic omen: those filthy rages, to flip his mattress, so rabid
those signs of confusion: that room held, our tyrannies abated, that exit into
traumatized adolescence—where rivers died, as living his curse, a tare too
distant to raise a son). We die this
way, to avenge that way, at love a sudden sight: that familiar essence, so calm
that moment, a jinn to an entire entourage—this feeling of deaths, as laughs our
membranes, our ghosts at piano our hearts: that music whining, this feeling
dancing, our cognacs on ice: [that terrible place, to harvest such affection,
as never for clarity such justice]: by fragile minds, raided for weaknesses,
forced to become some type of man—that million on seven, that miraculous ten,
our alleys a pit of rotting flesh. At
tears, we love, while grounded in illusions, to perform as one trying
desperately: our new suits, as disguising disasters, to pull by pathos deluding our soulmates: that
fabulous mother, as sober a curse, our chicken rites with spice. I know for living, this angle manipulating,
where a sudden sentence spells catastrophes: our nights to converse, those
secrets concerning sex, such as mother a hundred dollar bill. I’m soon to laugh, this morbid man, while
maniacal tears embed our oceans: those faraway sails, this valley of fruits,
our batches of grapes—that inner lemon, at roots so bitter, at pleasures an
African dream—where father sings, as above his grave, this solemn affection
towards holiness—as signaled a cross,
at alms by solemnity, a length addicted to furnaces: that refined flower, as
angered by suggestion, to sing such darkness as lights—that flame tinkering,
our innards blinking, our mothers as pristine.
(We arise in Italy, our women to Rome, infused by this languishing: as
adolescents, our hearts to fantasies, to arrive as young men; those blatant
chasms, those steep imprints, our soulquakes laughed upon with violence; as sung
his life, this inner ablation, where mother responds with tyrannies. It’s hectic a storm, this want for beauty,
where such is considered other-cultural: this vivid, vapid, arrogance, as
tortured within, to cry our differences: this ghetto grieving, as afflicted
misdirection, while yearning for television; indeed, to curses, nibbling
loquats, a tare distorted pruning an inner lotus: this flower by cries, that
rising for falling, this cycle as evident—where love is ritual, this languor’n
arc, to come with passion as sung our graves.
