We
dream by freedoms, while encouraged by myths.
I feel anxiety,
plummeting near surfaces, at names conditioned by yoga: this fair flight, at
steep anticipation, as ashes trickle to consciousness: these sips to study,
this psalmic verse, our years debating our sanities: as fallen vessels, feeling
this enormous high, a tear to solace
losing reputation. I hear
heaters—distressed as beavers, this dam covered in algae: that last meeting,
this greeting by subtleties, to imagine this lack of see-through: such anxious
vices, this truth diminished, our comforts with awning lies. I fumble music, while seeing grays, alive by
rainbow futures: those pleated nuances, this inkling breath, our bodies
resounding in essence: as swamps simmer, this keel rattling, this lumen
occurrence. As but a child, this soul
was drained, as now, this conviction to reclaim innocence: this rabid mother;
this absent father; those abusive figures: such brass instruments, this fluting
wind, those atypical triumphs: this mental diary, those damning documents, this
abrasive art seething with confliction: those radical pillars, as ignoring
reality, while a field away dances a tiny leprechaun: those addict features, embedded in sober
souls, at once, a tear distracted by appropriate manners: this jacinth moon,
our stomach-harpoons, this fane at reminiscence where love was gentle. I feel amiss, this torture close to distant,
our fairytales given us illusions: this barrel bleeding, our souls calculating,
our mystics doing but so much: as
gnats swarm, while ravines scream, our hearts to skies falling rapidly: those
contemning pits, this psychical brook, our claves colliding with infestation:
this curdling milk, this freshet of soda, our souls ravished by mere displacements:
if but to soar, as afforded rites, while galloping towards this romantic
paradise: this spirit-garth, this heart-explosion, this furious Thai Chi—as
canyon crayons, or adolescent secrets, while too grown to believe in
tooth-fairies. I feel stagnant, where
time is lethargic, pitching pebbles at clocks: this dice flipping, our dreams
raffled, this girt about our intentions: (this hard task, as Buddhist souls,
this compassionate sponge): whereto, this Christian walk, while debating God’s
children, where a manic remains condemned.
I know by units, this accumulation, our rigid demands: this kissing of
buttocks, where one is satiated, while an entire fortress lives that horrific
existence. It should to love, this
daughter at flights, while experiencing this adult shark-life: this vase rattling; this veil deigning; our
vests unbuckling: that Tall Tower, this buttress of affairs, our bulwarks
invested in longevity—our Wheel spinning,
this whistle enthralling, our needs for immediate satisfaction: this addict’s ruler, our wires unlatching,
this furious feud to relocate: if but designs, as void of actions, we, hereby,
blame existence: but actions denote, as pointing towards, while constructing
our mental realities: this lissome swan, as a gracile soul, a bit to furnaces
attempting to decode riddles: this thing to clearance, as piecemeal puzzles,
where honesty connotes fitting fragments.
I scratch and type, as often to tussocks, our palms fiddling earth—this
wretched reality, as assumed normal, while souls flee returning to inner
mirrors: this depraved behavior, as screaming and yelling, while at rests
fevered with anxieties: that cold feeling, while needing excitement, trekking
this synaptic vale…this crazed feeling, as pure deceit, while feeling goodness
this warm reception. (At sundown, this
pumpkin patch, our jackets decorating our countenances: where one retreats, as
shifting ladders, our raspy voices pleading innocence: this frog to flowers,
this flower to tadpoles, this tadpole morphing into existence: as signs blink,
as odors warn, our fangs seeping into contentions: while never to wholeness,
this theologian grumbling, while doors open at promised catastrophes. I feel preachy—this long embrace, this
heart-lamp—where roses vomit, as budding passions, while caved for glowing this
arrival—those pictures flashing, as steep our cerebellums, where lockets
capture traumas).
