Its fickle this dance, as, too,
melancholic, to have loved unknowingly—that old cliché, as never riddled, until
conundrums are lost: our sweaty fingers, our livid minds, this granny her hands
tied. I casual affairs, at love with
aesthetics, peering at this woman’s ribcage: our remote tendencies, this Jesus
legacy, our Christ by terrors. I’ve more
to love, adored by glances, this rebel but a pure outcast: our thoughts
bleeding, this swan screaming, our spectators waving charms: if but to live,
this precious swan, I’d exist as a better father: this curse as abandoned, this
cut as leaking, our synaptic-gaps broken.
I sought a gift, to hear by fire, this psych as trickling heaven: if but
to clocks, our mothers as patience, this dance to ballet poetry. I heard prayers, this furious contradiction,
while steeped in zenic meditations: as fathers mourn, concerned with virginity,
while too afar to reach permanent arks: this Jerusalem birth, this Africa
curse, this European curiosity—to travel Rome, as Latinas cry, while love
stands a chiseled sacrifice. I adore by
love, this feeling as presence, this rupture as pure emotion—where Batman
cried, as Superman fell, this legacy nibbling kryptonite—as but to fail, while
perfected our rites, a tare disgusted by Daffy Duck. It was life, this newborn seed, that night to
terrors by ecstasy: this merlot, this vat of beer, this eighth of chronic; as
deeply distressed, while unwilling to forgive, as struck that second by
clarity—while easy to love, a complaisant gremlin, or more to accept an
accepting soul. I’m hearing music,
roaming this land, at private rituals; while not a seed, to impart this rosary,
hung upon sky-cliffs: that fabulous loss, that magnetic capture, those years to
Universities: as given Bugs Bunny, this lethal affair, our dreams before Super
Woman. I love this swan, as achy a
heartbeat, our drums thrumming through accordions. (Let me share, Love—this vile creature, at
terrible illusions; moreover, a compassionate soul, loving for sinning to have
this Cross: those gray gardenias, those purple daisies, this tomb decorated by
intestinal mind-caves: this gentle essence, this perfect tulip, this furniture
bleeding those false impressions: to meet through sorrows, a figure
transformed, to imagine those pure results: indeed, to shivers, this mythic
lantern, this green forgiveness; nonetheless, it felt for Xanadu, or a fabulous
Palace, or more this irregular Paradise—to love with passions, as dying
elation, while that best friend tore existence: this mystical castle, this
inner Theresa, our thoughts courted by Siena—that magical art, this Gertrude
legacy, this Mechtild birth—as times reversed, while arcs soared, this pagan
extravagance). I love by life, this
swanic Greene, to become as Machiavelli—our mental Dante(s), this remarkable
Camus, or more this zenic Confucius—as blank but witty, or witty that canvas,
to paint a daughter’s inheritance. I
ache those pains, laughing for affectations, to pull a friend from beneath mud:
this crafty secret, these gestalt brains, this favor found afar our Jung—as
bleeding Maslow, or featured in Rogers, while skating through Fromm—as more a
man, forgiven through wars, this place awaiting our contact—those miracle
lenses, floating through hells, while eating Spaghetti with meat balls. (I tale through Smith, as falling through
Brimhall, accustomed to relating to Sophia—as pictured in Frost, or casual a
light through Percy, this romantic endeavor: where Wolfe bled, as Emily
projected, this place in Dead Poets—to love regardless, as gripping faith, our
mothers sprinkled with angel’s dusts: if but to love, this Roadrunner passion,
this sensei adventure—to cut by kung fu, our radical Hindus, this plethora of
mind-creativities—where father laughs, as flooded with pains, to grip a Corona
passing through thoughts. We die,
hunting, peering at deer-eyes, a tear reluctant: this fevered fool, loving for
vexation, a man accustomed to thinking revelations: our panicked hearts, our
deepest revelries, this thought too advanced for closure—as never competitive,
but ever resentful, while it’s hard to admonish our reflections: those burning
eyes, that sylph in satin, this minx but a second as courted: if but to die, as
listening to swans, I’d freeze in harmony).
