Its collar-vices, orange chicken, and
barbeque ribs: Its devices at spirits, this infinite resonance, our friends at
mental motors: to exist by cadence, at intricate rhythms, our allegories
tugging arcs. I imagine, Love, those
artists’ nobilities, those feral in-exhaustive eyes: our honed hearings, this
whiff of frustration, our quasi-infatuations: as mere souls, electric-spirals,
this field but a dart afar—as young magicians, this offensive vernacular, our
vines as medieval: to slice through pudding, this rich enchantress, so
instrumental this voiceprint: our radical language, this knowing as internal,
those rockets as vestibules—where mother cries, our muddy doubts, all for
essence desiring plain truths: this college of mystics, this Jewish convert,
this Irish catholic—at steep ingestions, writhing with observations, attempting
to decode this mirror’s image: our cagey thoughts, our inner furnace, this
moving vase. We adore, Love, this vocal
dynasty, this heart-chakra—as floating Buddhism, or rabid Christianity, this
hankering for Mary’s Wisdom: herewith, are legends, those angelic pilgrims,
this iridescent lake—as caves rambling, or petroglyphs aglow, feeling sheer
awesomeness: this sudden introject, as brains with minds, as recruiting
negative tensions—if but to devastate, as but to scream, where a psych reaches
through agitations: our voices retracting, our souls engaging, this portrait
disappearing—as soon replaced, this priestly image, those priestly dreads: our inner kippa, this spirit yamaka, this
cleaving for jousting to arrive afar—as broken laws, or captive credence, where
sheer negligence debates our mental lamp-waves.
I fell to crevices, an exospheric, this esoteric—as racing invites,
while chasing leprechauns, as enveloped in essence—this nautical breach, this
inner impeachment, our sluggish enlightenments: this mother as radical, this
father as soul-life, our spectators siding with lucre—if but to fly, this
wellic journey, trekking through a fathom of marsh—as brains charge, while
pistons rev, our knowledge-banks overdue for oil change.
We jettison fruits, if but to exist, at
captive frustrations: our positions laughing, our souls craving, this ability
to hypnotize life—as purified mist, this war with stagnation, this galloping
sunshine—to caress mane, our village autumns, our moonlit winters—as arranged
agendas, at tales this future, to demand participation: this fretted monad, this irritable nomad, this fleet of disciples pillaging
scriptures—as afar this land, or accursed
this song, fleeing into ravishing nightmares: this vision as love, our nameless souls, where said affection
becomes noteworthy: as living novels, or inverted vacuums, seething with
determinants: as theologians, or swanic mystics, or struggling Christians—this
light as Love, this star as ignescence, our
jars filled with honey—or melon-dew, that sunny-be-gone, while stressing this
courage to resist failures: our entreating eyes, our removed intellects, this apophatic revival: to dine with spirits,
as to summon arcs, this person a vehicle thrust to war: our cryptic alliances,
this voice with sparrows, this cataphatic
sea-scroll: where swans drift, as appealing to grandparents, while one garners
for sheer recruitment: to see with vengeance, this apostolic sun-birth, wailing for panicked adrift this Pentecostal. I heart-vex, as a vexed heart, carving oaken
agreements: our Love to whirlwinds, our days as righteous, as only family
agrees our lights: this man chiseling, as removing rusts, where mirrors glisten
with imageries: this frantic buffing, this cussing by pains, our minds heavy to
meadows—insofar, our humanity, as never this curse, while cautious with
comforts.
