I was stunned, looking at genius, a tear
petrified; as believing dreams, while caged inventions, to romanticize about
country eyes: those rabid hips, that disguised pearl, those languishing lips:
if but to fail, while told about love, divorced from his feelings.
We dine at hills, our picnics laughing,
while inviting sluggish vowels; indeed to deaths, our gothic screams, this fist
to moons, ablaze’d this scything Cross:
those voice extinctions, this banda arc,
our melodramatic minutes: as cadenza vices, this drop to cells, our chorus
duet; where Love confessed, this violent father, this mental leitmotiv.
Our silent hymns, our alms to redemption,
this doorman guarding purgatory: as a daughter sings, feeling soulful, battling
those mayfly marshlands: our totems upon high, our picturesque dungeons, where
rasps bleed kleptic brains: that man dying, that woman at gurneys, this nib to
aches effaced by pure nakedness: to wonder for passions, while struck for
deaths, affixed, reciting this amoral ecstasy; as never for agonies, pledged to
tyrannies, at Love, about wildfires.
I shift at lights, a moment to thoughts,
living this soul-sung dynasty—as grandfather’s legacy, or grandmother’s
travesty, unsung, sleeping upon negative concrete: this homeless pain, to sense
a seed, while buffing his coffin: our cryptic castles, at love for passions,
afflicted, leering into deserted eyes. I caught by Jasper, to fumble through
Casper(s), a tear restricted, pleading for answers: where Love was Jasmine, as
pollen to bees, ignescent by sunbeams.
I sense a feeling, this rugged warrior, at
tears, abated through silence—this captive cedar, this chest by waves, our
communication as pure communion: if but this season, I’ll cherish, Theresa(s),
a texture enthralled by Huldah: our black oak, this centered patience, our
tussock-cloth-mindcaves—insomuch, a fever, our hearts to sundown—as born
through fires surviving our lots, sprinkled upon mandolins: this mental flux,
this graving grout, as grogged but lucid a wretched scar.
I heard a swan, pitching mortar, shod for
unshod flipping galaxies.
We dance this current, feeling hungry,
ignoring teardrop sensations: this winded ballad, our years to billiards, to
return as flaming through oceans: those glorious thighs, this high to heaven,
our portrait stippled with sore affections: this soul cleaving, that woman
kneading, our daughters laughing while vacuuming tear-prints: if but our
crypts, as torn our tombs, this knot to perfections lingering as demands.
Such pictureless lusts, this inner
splendor, to realize this fury of lies—as but to dream, while crooked for
sights, at vengeance this mental theologian: that breathless ache, as feeling
lively, afraid that this family might relapse: as wars kill, dragging
inflections, where purses drop flooded with paraphernalia: that sickly memoire,
this unbolted feeling, those passions, at once, taboo: where rooms are cagey,
as senses are frittered, as souls are at inmost abbreviated: too die with life,
as life unto death, this nightlight as nightlife exaggeration.
I do remember, this strong force, as
relentless concerning sobriety—this inner aria, that golden lamp, this
grandmother worthy of pure elations; as privy a soul, this electric vault,
where sipping became a vicious ally: this man to brains, this sanctum to flames,
this formless psych-life.
