I fantasize; crimson night-glares, a
grackle as an omen—or tears to griffins, our doorways as Babylon, this liquor
escorting emotions. I’m sickly savage,
as managed a curse, at genetics our daughter’s brains: that inner silk, our
grandmother’s storm, this hurt for losing—that trusted confidant, this welkin
source, at cemeteries nailing handkerchiefs: hereto, his heart, our seldom
cries, our countenances spewing venom—to live at illusions, pierced by psychs,
at mercy to encourage his brains…those insecurities; that tale through grime;
our ghetto palaces—as paradise-central, fleeing through agonies, to come to
aches holding our, Love. I’m lotus
tears, at Asian literature, accustomed to an Asian heart-thresh: if but for
living, or more to flying, this Jewish Kabala.
We dance in secret, our enchanting souls, to sip with purpose as feeling
infinity: that steep abrasion, those morbid abysses, this thump a second into
battle: our fist to furies, our dreams shackled, this warrior at hearts
bleeding our fortresses; wherewith, this fire speaking, this electric
cantaloupe, our souls to feelings a second that destroys—or more this mind,
flickering as lamps, to encourage at seconds a masterpiece. I’m deep to fantasies, this living synonym,
this broken koan—as split for soreness, such by losses, to kiss as studied
fearing intimacies: our hertz wicked, at so many years, to have hurt with
feelings purported as realities: our therapeutics; our metaphysics; our rabid
allusions: whereby, this intrepid force, to know but names, as to realize this enigmatic
rollercoaster. We live motivations: We
die our Diaspora: We long for nuances found in something that is quite
forbidden: if but to breathe, Douglass by signs, this color so embedded it
becomes our first impression—as, too, a countenance, this hard-won energy, our
years to dungeons reading frantically: that infant wiz; our daughters to
anchors; this resistance as forming a tumor…but Love was exotic, this erotic
animation, to courage with life gripping but eradicated: those crooning, cultic
affairs, as steeply incarnated, at ease this second with total chaos—as found
an hour later, debating those inflective gates, by urgency rushing for rising
as Judah wars…this inner glen, our cryptic valleys, this want for Love while
rigid a heart-hex: those burgundy slacks; that aqua-maroon hairstyle: this
abstract attention afforded soul-textures; where Love would smile, as eyes
glare conceit, to have for panic this man so gifted: to fiddle admiration,
while slithering through politics, at core a woman forbidden by screams: that
inner diamond; that hard-won configuration; our souls reaching for dying while
feeling so vulnerable. I’m thinking
birthdates, as sentenced to living, if but to polish a daffodil—that mental
expression, as visual dialogues, at hearts admiring this sculptress—as prayers
broke gravel, where bars broke spirits, our puppets becoming puppeteers—our
shatterproof resilience, afforded feyic genes, to scope with sadness this inner
mannequin. It was aches to love, as a
demented poet, fleeing through quixotic terrain: that penchant windmill; this
temblor heart-flute; our skies to padlocks—as teas for chi, or Taekwondo
acrobatics, to fly as soaring bathed by Superwoman: as churns her death, our
miraculous terrors, approaching prose as our wishing tarot. Oh for poison, if but to pandas, sleeping for
disciplined by Kung Fu: this other vessel, so delicate at life, as enchanting
but foreign—that dreamy affection, as floral fantasies, consumed by something
treacherous: this inner legitimacy, if but perfection, as isolated an island at
complete absorption—our boundless waves, this underground volt, our stress to
slaves as becoming chained survivors; therewith, those rhapsodic eyes, that
melodious gait, that melancholic aura—to give honesty, as floored to embarrassments,
a lyric as a voiceprint: our orgasmic love, so sung our Marshal Arts, at
raptures this soul condemned fleeing our margins. I’m so to fantasies, as livid a nightmare, as
pure a flying hummingbird, [at tears our times are so ordained]: while overtaken,
pierced by spirits, at arcs seeping into undergrowth: that violin-heart, those
orchestra eyes, this languishing for weeping a tad bit elated.
