We’re heaving guts, remote to voices,
flamed for buried: this pyre at finite life, this motion carried in boxes, our
curses a thump jetting commissions: this freezer mentality, this actuality, our
cadence at rest this torture: if but disease, let us float—this tall stature disguised as ignobility. I met for Jews, as plush a Gentile, vetted
for dying where sensories are blackholes—that rabid texture, that morbid
essence, this swan at lakes pouring brains: to cut with vice, this second as
demented, where mystics cook breakfast: those canyon meadows, those years to
treacheries, this granny aloof a ticket clearing insanities—to break
intestines, this floor so precious, a soul so drunk for Jesus. (I smiled her voice, this gorgeous light, this
confessional failing soul): as never to live, while ever we die, to come to
grips greeting our second lives—this vex bleeding, this text screaming, our
cygnets remote a breath torn: if but design, this fractured venture, our telic
love-war—as so much, a monster, frantic with yogis, if but to surpass a bird
with matches: this latent scar, this love we held, this core scraped for
damaged at life—that Buddhist rose, those outsoaring therapists, this need to
believe contrary to facts: our gentle magazines, this florid fantasy, our coldness
so warm to infections: as surmising wounds, to infer kindling, while eluding
this sphinxly texture—our brains ashore, those pelicans plucking, this cordial
art, at distance, we muse; insomuch, as rendered, this lurking shadow, this
season for grading souls—our alligator whirlwinds, this aware drifter, this
acute zeal praising this swan: those wrestling siblings, this conscious status,
our banks flushed with green dynasties: to hold for rapture, as threshed for
blood, esteemed for falling awakened for wailing—that lotus peek, those
saber-tooth-dragons, this dinosaur faith-fire.
I love as ruined, to die as ruined, to live as ruined—this plank
bleeding, this crocodile laughing, those spiders webbing a sense of control—where
parents glean, this foresighted dimension, to hold with panic our piano keys: this
violin, struck at voices, to remember a precious emblem: our
grandfather-hearts, this morbid detective, this fleet of pictures; indeed, to
planets, or flutes to passions, to kiss as ruined through darkness. I feel presence, this looming dimension, to
exit at times feeling boxed with grass: this seizing by moments, this mesto enchantment, our children
semi-religious—as quasi-mayflowers, or hectic rulers, this theologian at
desires this venture: that cold wave, as textured at seconds, to feel with love
this christic affair: (I come to aches, as witnessed for dying, to realize
truths become vehicles of freedom: while reading Deuteronomy, or Isaiah’s
cries, bleeding through Jeremiah—those major prophets, strung at strings our
Lamentations, to die with Love—this sandal witness, to come to such
abstracts). I heard a voice, while laughing
at dementias, jingling a Jewish symbol: to grip with time, this inner artistry,
where targets run forever—if vice is good,
this aggressive parallel, this inner canopy—inasmuch, as callous, but
purely curious, while roaring as Lioness: this face to brains, this brains to
face, a tear desolate filled with growling: our disguised souls, wrenching for
writhing, at tyrannies slaying goats.
