Russet wine, fond memories, and close to a
dozen names: this life as thieves, dying for living, unaware of dying: our bold
gestures, our eyes to contact, our souls to addictions: our valued pains, our
trickling disguises, this feeling when authorities capture our gaze. (I love this feeling, staring for innocence,
appalled this legacy of abuses: our kosher afflictions, at random but
suffering, as becoming spiritualized. I
met a fever, that box escaping itself, those psychotic features. I loved for falling, laughing at oceans,
soaring through Malibu: our Jewish envies, to see that pattern, realizing that
Blacks are feuding: this structured Empire, this inner Galaxy, this music as
becoming another’s culture. I mimic for
grieving, to live as sneezing, a pill for composure. I’d convert—if not for mother, this lethal,
compassionate addict. I’d die for love,
as this was crucial, but refuge is refused: this circumcised heart, this circumcised
flesh, this birth through guts; as torn for bleeding, pounding upon concrete,
as arose a gazelle—this planet to seeking, agaze’d by rituals, this piece as
captions at signs: this inner miracle, graphed in blueprints, appearing in
pictures: our constant surveillance, our veils beneath veneers, our bellies
rumbling acids—as cried hyenas, searching for civilization, to morph as
snow-wolves: this disconnect, sanctioned, aborted, and fumbling for clearance:
those tall mountains, this mental Moses, this New Covenant. It cuts feelings, this religiosity, gazing at
newborn infants: that woman’s ambrosia, that man’s sanity, to love as rage
those profound souls—as salient emotions, or steep anxieties, while found a bit
too serene. I laugh in jest, to banter
as best, while slighted a taste too far: our armor chateaus, to savor existence,
amazed by another man’s grottos: those flaming legs, that marvelous grief,
those magnetic vibes; as born to perish, attempting at love, this life blazes
through arcs). I remove feelings, to
remove emotions, scaled at intellect this similar conclusion: this last clove,
this impending squall, this psychic matinee—as sullen for gloomy, or proud for
ecstatic, with hesitance as oils; in truth, and, moreover, this affection becomes
prophetic—as terrible aesthetics, or mosaic contusions, evincing through chaos:
our immortal melees, wrestling speech-patterns, reaching this telic
crescendo—where increase is breakage, as decrease is torture, while we realize
this loss of self. (I admire a soul, as
far beyond counties, those dewey-eyed-cleats—as, notwithstanding, those
ethereal screams, we perish our conclaves—while embedded a feeling, to cut with
essence, where fathers reside in prisons).
I scratch flesh, filled with chills, to imagine a swan feels such
intensities: those rapid darts, that inner resonance, that steep
concentration—our woes as screenplays, our dreams as universal, this
chain-linked-affair—our dragons and snakes, this mortal impulse, our sympathies
when losing—as pathetic motives, at soul-filled jazz, sipping for winning while
deeply adrift: this miracle, Love, this granny watching, to remember our
mothers dying to Live. (I must repent,
for tugging at truths, when father was held captive: those breaking bars, that steel
Bastille, this sophic congestion—as purely at rivers, to flood through,
Precious, as determined to save something received—at God’s Soul, this inner
person, to volt through sensations—that apt for forgiveness, this feud by
classes, a bit too astute for closure: our raw glow, this long surge, our blues
blazing brilliantly: if but to cry, at teary remorse, to remember that first
encounter—to stream as sentenced, to invent as vetted, this fringe
uncomfortable in flesh). Such zip, zest,
and zing, while purposed for pains, to late nights abandoned to pillows: for
daughter moans, as father questions, where Brook shows compassion. I’m blind, Love—as forwarded affliction,
pitted with Jeremiah: this feeling soul, spaced with fury, to invest a quarter-trillion: as sifted, sickle’d, and casted as chaff, or broken for whole, barely
to float, seeping into abysses: this bluebird gong, this sagic mystic, this
totem as bleeding: where mothers writhe, as sore-amore, kicking relic doors.
