Alight, Love:
I feel my swan, those doors flooded, as a
pail of beavers. I laugh this way,
filled with errors, at wars with tender souls: to clove a heart-rake, to soar
with, Brimhall, to admonish in spirits: this granny frenzy, this mystic acacia,
that yogi misfit: as pure to science, aflame this psychologist, as never to
suggest this undertaking: our years to overseers, our minutes to lotus petals,
our seconds to reconsiderations: this flight to vanish, this lantern blazing,
this maiden a bucket of oil. I loved
mother, this fair exchange, to render a tare to heart-wars: that step-father
parade, this sister’s instructions, this laugh to witness as spirit
challenges. I’ve died a little, to exist
a little, at tyrannies at wonders—this jealous feature, this envious grace,
this slight differentiation: if but to puddles, peering at reflections, to
leap, step, and settle—that same reflection, this blessing from Adonai, this
Ghost striking through Continents. I
love a swan, to ache with permission, listening to T.D. Jakes: if but to
perish, as one last grave, as returning, blessing this grandfather’s clock: our
women appealing, that slender vein, such to flesh as nailed to existence: this
furious parade, this ancient slaughter, our mothers as revealing our
intestines: this gutty psych, this artistic priest, our Gertrude(s) mentoring
to Mechtild(s): if caved and heartless, or heart-filled with brains, this
slither to winds your volts this
arc. I cry purple, as bleeding redness,
this blue fuse our excavated oceans: to pierce with silence, those seconds in
class, this weather as sentimental mothers: our bones achy, our minds to flame,
this territorial omen-fever: our skies as shojis, our Asians as mentors, our
mothers as final inflations; where Love is green, vying for turquoise, fleeing
for arriving at jaspers: our Casper ghosts, this florid invention, this fresco
interior—where granny dwells, at deep frustrations, arguing points our
brooks—or Life to Beth, this intimate symphony, our maestros as resistant
swans: that cage as father’s, that voice as partial, this lake as bleeding its
gimmick orchestra: that tragic empire, that remorseful, Kim, those Hispanic
Americans—as died a slither, to laugh a river, while cuddled in a magpie’s
guts. I live as leopards—akin to
survival, a man trekking with vampires: this pain as chosen, while prior to
life, if but to awaken old proclivities: this vatic soul, as controlled with
violence, a bit partial to Hobbes; but airs to swans, as cultured sisters, this
tale as told by Theologians. I travel
Africa, aloof to elephants, planting our railroads: this ferret’s voice, this
speaking lion, our souls combined while seeping into palm-claps: this blame he
forwards, as never by calm conversation, while mystics adore his spewing guts:
this Sufi watching, this Hindu dying, our mothers to feeling alone with
fathers. I’m Irish regrets, Danish
inflexions, and Euro-Asian intensities—while fluxed through silence, where art
becomes humanity, this agricultural rave-storm; indeed, to passions, planted in
archeology, telling tall adventures: that whispering crocodile, those intimate
bats, this lizard strutting her fevers: as torn for essence, bleeding
confessions, our mothers far more precious than our last discussion: to have
for friends, as soon for studies, while something casual becomes intimate; where
Love is jasmine, afraid but lotic, our prayers adjusted through science—as pure
infusions, reading Thich Nat Hahn, accruing this interest in compassion. I cry for essence, as delivering tears, our
forefathers destined to return: to ask an infant—about this waking Spirit, with
gall to expect an answer: that soothing giggle, those jewelry eyes, those
wiggly toes—where souls perish, as feeling goodness,
while immersed in political warfare. We ache by love, to soothe with love,
laughing a second abandoned to feeling bliss.
You have this source; abandon too many
inquiries, until said source has become second nature.
