We gather feathers, those myriad faces,
encased in subtle fuses: this scalp to anointing(s), this soul stitched at
crevices, this fissure bleeding it tomorrows: if but to essence, or crafted
chaos, where mere misprints become gestures: to read substance, this ousia, our
Aryan points for contemplation; as Arabic cygnets, or Danish Analysts, this
mystic frenzy purported through hazel lenses: our fathers to stress, our
mothers at play, this peach cobbler our swanic dream.
It was Helen’s scream, our inner Alexander(s),
our Aristotle panic: this scientific vision, this bizarre persuasion, this
light as seeping into realizations: our conscious selves, as self-conscious
creatures, this vault of brain-passion seeping into essence: those narrow
features, this place at harvest, our designs oozing with clarities—to demand
nothing, as instant in time, proffering structured mazes: this soul
guillotined; our hearts threshed; our minds pacing our futures.
I need closure, as not merely events,
while touching faces that spirit: that
Canadian built, this Irish sipping, this
shamanic narcotic—as beaming justice, while carrying infractions, as a toddler
demands another slice of banana: that strawberry patience, to clean as never
before, this bizarre thought-pattern: as deeply a vessel, at chants with
brains, to see more while slacking with filing every cranny: that European
dignity; that Jerusalem sanctity; our uneasy nervous nerves—where intestines dream, musing over Seneca, a
bit too envious that life of Descartes.
I heard languages: I saw symbols:
I reckoned this Latin passion—as provocation, if but a sky to envision, this
fusion by milliseconds: that rabid feeling, as pure dejection, while elated a
lonely island—those bold screams, those African drums, this fleeing harmonica.
It was emotion, this childlike essence,
fiddling with jump-jacks: that black impala, as tense to minutes, while
explosive a dream towards Ethiopia: those gray eyes, that pushy, Walker, this
type of tyranny found in Sophia: if but to lives, as sought our horizon, those
years to writing essays: our sound judgments, as rooted in perceptions, while
coaxed through realities: our brains to Sylvia, as becoming suspicious, sensing
something incredible in Sexton: that steep evaluation, at peering into
molasses, while stirred with furies.
