We need raincoats, or phantom brains, to
escape indoctrination: this anchor grounded, our shaking for pulling, to become
lonely creatures: this turquoise rose, our pragmatic souls, while cold this
season but love. I jazz through pain, peering
at agonies, this mother too embedded his aches: or life for deaths, this granny
screaming, this mother mourning her firstborn.
I laugh in silence, reckoned a threat, as too many files speak to
mini-geniuses: by broken glasses, reaching for prisms, our cobblestones
speaking to daughters: this furious mystic, this distant psych, our inner
images distorting actual realities: if time to swords, than arts to brains,
this psych a fever thrust by spears. I
see rhinestones, this eclectic nuance, our purpose as driven into mud: this
marshy land, those trying patience, to escape this constant doubt: our
orientation, this maestro affair, our clarinets blazing this final
resurrection. It’s demented eyes, or
fluorescent bodies, as appeals to thrust for dear life: our beautiful
psychotics, our seconds to psychoses, this vaccine as shifting our realities:
this mental calligraphy, that picture in prisons, this man seated feeling his
wife’s heart: if but to secrets, as harnessed by religion, to settle for
nothing less than scientific Elijah(s): our nibbling licorice, our banana
breads, this flurry of nectar considered blood—to live our Eucharist, batting
our eyelashes, becoming this Louisiana possession: our rabid explanations, this
battle with faith, this kicking with powers evolved through Greene: our
thought-filled restrooms, our brain-hung psychics, our sensei intuitions—these
grand epiphanies, as settled with doubts, to love by measure this internal
voice. I chase as falling, those kung fu
eyes, our extraordinary psychologists—where angst rules, while deciphering
between shifts, settling dreams seated at cabernets—this furious backlash, this
unanimous say-good, while flavored as esoteric(s). [I must confess, this passion for dementia,
while peering at evocative sky-doves: this campfire yellow, this distant
spider, this coming to terms—as but a riddle, webbed to anxieties, inveigled by
this mental picture]. I converse with
Love, listening to news prints, our musical covenants: as but fabrications,
attempting to fathom studies, this man a feeling close to flying: that
ocean-curse, those mystic vibes, our religions protecting aberrations: to come
to Africa, by roaming through Ethiopia, favored for living in London: our alien
existence, this morning hangover, this woman too proud to confess
attraction. I laugh as pained, a bit
between hinges, fumbling though scientific mythical(s): our Bukowski boldness,
our Trethewey steadiness, this sunlight explosion—as coming to grieve, this
late night run, to sudden upon an inner vision-quest; where pianos play alone,
as magazines speak isolation, while models become these hyper signposts. I ache that feeling, to soar like magic,
while grounded in few persons: those ideals bleeding, as pitching perfection,
at private heights, [that treasure born through dying]. We listen for phones, these subtle
characteristics, each trait analyzed as demented; as, nevertheless, this
enfolded chaos, where spectators wish to become this island of madness: those
inner breakings, this powerful museum, this typical atypical poetic song: as
such, this marvelous soul, so content with ethics, while furious concerning
human elements. We live opera, this deep
grievance, as such, this life giving fortune—where mothers laugh, while dying
love, or more to feel as if this man is destiny: this blank courage, this false
threat, this person lashing out for struck with inadequacies. I knew poison, to reckon existence, as to
meet this fabulous soul-supporter: therewith, this hectic gripe, as demanding
closure, while wounds stand open bleeding in agonies. It shouldn’t be, as it should to be, those
weeds defining our existence: to love by stealth, as received by needs, this
Ghost moving as bleeding in sacrifices: to adore images, as never to know this
person, our lusts demanding absoluteness: as never that smile, cut to burdens,
this guitar screaming our passions—to live as gleeful, while to perish
existence, where patience becomes this typical excruciation.
