Captive In Fires pp. 83-84

We insist for goodness, broken into slithers, at quakes our arms reaching: this fire remotely, as caged those chests, to heart-sky this lethal cult: our grains bleeding, our harvest to petals, this vine such essence by nectars.  I hear in Us: our garden to plums, this tender distress-wonder: those by flame, to channel Antarctica, released into monsters awaiting cadence: that night-panic, as cursed for breath, our mourning(s) to responses: this achy swan, this mythical, Jude, our poor at poverty’s blessings: this music blighted, our symphony electric, our dance showcasing new jeans.  We scathe behavior, at telic designs, chastising our reflections: this need for goodness, as perceived by onlookers, this float as blimps our sagacious shames.  I know this lake, as pouring eternity, while felt as sharpness that explosive current: our mothers to backgammon, our nieces to carnivals, our young sons to plastic swords—at cords with life, at hula with dancers, at communion with invisibility—while ushered through grandeur, or more by grannies, as wives sift through private volcanoes: such husbands waltzing, heavy at dice, this gambol by elations: that fiery hypnoses, those wretched flowers, this hypomanic electrocution—to smile by mother, at treasures by stepfathers, our steaks with eggs as pure illusion: to die a canvas, at wars with Locke, at séances with Hobbes: therewith, this mystic confusion, our territories at communion, to utter such that word through vagueness: our scientific, our inner friends, this therapy as sifted from dramatics: our cavy mudslides, this sister’s infusion, our brothers sitting in stillness: that rabid fusion, our deacons mourning, our brains as mini-ministers—this flaming fire, this sword as harps, our harpoons thrust through our waking dreams: to ache by candor, or to grieve by evidence, while never to utter but one essence.  I think to Us, nibbling barbeque, a bit to tyranny with sodium: this man at love, this vex as soreness, our aches becoming by case-studies: this radical orchestra, this heart-credenza, our sublime seconds to hear another person’s brains; indeed, for chasing, erased from sight, while running through battlegrounds: this man cleaving, this meerkat tugging, this landmine for broken: herewith, are magical(s), stripped by mystical(s), to manage madness merely by milliseconds.  We die grayly, attempting at God’s humor, our mirrors reflecting hound-sadness: this gutted python, this elegant crocodile, this woman our souls have lied for: if but his mind, as cried our thoughts, painted for plastered—I’d live infinity, kneeling with grandma, accustomed in costumes: this friend weaving, this childhood pool, as torn apart our dipping baptisms—at wars with silence, to echo by wellic(s), this art to souls bleeding their textures.  I’m drumming tacks, as plush-velvet-carpet, this portion of nights our prison-bars: while picturesque, as oceans to explain, this pensive, floating sky-call: our steep gazes, this traumatic hue, our engines ignited through mind-books: that flipping essence, those balcony-pages, this galloping survival—where candescence sings, as pantomime-release, pierced for silence by swanic eyes: our palaces grieving, our palatial guts, this whet effulgence—as souls exhale, tugging kadupul flowers, framing pages of scripture: that slight admission, as missed by eyes, while others are ecstatic.  We come to essence, to love suddenly, as dying our Mt. Sinai: that land breathing, our knees to sands, our entrance into silence: this inner chimpanzee, as livid with violence, while seated as perfect a friend by evils: our mental apogees, combined for weeping, at joys this marvelous cadence: to strip with life, our days to return, our ecstatic fantasies: while thrust by lights, such poetic sickness—that atypical harmony: our flying castles, our born, Theresa’s, this landmine a pencil by touch—that ribbed heart, that small measurement, this land as nothing could conquer: as, notwithstanding, this vision by helpmeets, as applied this mutual affection: to cut with grass, or camel through deserts, this choir by hell’s pain-fields: at tears we chant, realizing this inner penmanship, to garner as one interferes: that steep interior, this epistemic, our cries to essence our subjective-empirical-states—as miracle madness, afire this paradise, painting swanic silhouettes.