Opalescent Reservoir

I blare, Hayes, thinking about Isaac, lost in Abraham—this fluid dimension, our ghetto Hagar’s, this Ishmael Dynasty: as mere allegories, or actual histories, flamed for bearing our crosses.  I seize Dior airs, as an heir of dignities, at laughter these angular antiquities: this voice to membrance, our silver snakes, this cane as rabbit intestines: this frigid Roadrunner, this obsessive Coyote, our seconds forsaking our visuals: this victual for Maturity, as lives our Dying(s), if bold this approach through Brittan: that languishing, Betty Boo, those frigid Simone’s, this type of acne from being deprived.  I saw cowgirls, tilted in hay hats, wavy in leather: I envisioned diamonds and multiple rings lost as “Simply Beautiful”: our Al Green’s, our Isley Kings, our women addicted as winded curses: this inner vest, conflated by Chanel Jewelry, at pillows breezing through petals: to languor with essence, this metaphysical science, or better, our subjective-sciences—as depending upon persons, where facts are palpable, as, nevertheless, procedures are intestinal.  I lost laughter, this sudden shift, our sensational backgrounds—as mental ropes, this fiber from hell, our environments knit-picking our linchpins: that debating elegance, this fragile heart-quake, our lesbians as active warriors; where love lingers, this conversational connection, our hour-to-hour negotiations: that rubescent agony, that atypical vibration, this undercurrent rippling through by old currents: if but to sing, studying Saint Laurent, lynched by insatiable glitter—as tucked in silence, figuring a volt to laughter, where Love falls slowly to fragrances: our Lady Bug Arpels, our mid 1800’s, this mechanical design played out upon Guitars.  I love like science: I feel as losing: I lied while attempting pure science: this extraction from self, this prurient vessel, this way around male psyches—as lives our burdens, as needing possession, while egos are chipped to graves: our plights to Roosevelt, our greed(s) to Greene, our political sciences to this ninety year old atheist; in truths, we perish, laughing by decorations, roaming our Grecian Americas: or tourists to Rome, this Vanilla Village, such as women we purge with convictions: that demented poet, as compelling if won, where thoughts become philosophic enterprises; indeed, our life-vests, our Neiman Marcus Pride, flippant at palladiums while doors are crashing.  It comes to lights, these closet applications, where one wrestles for adequate correlations: this one-to-one heart-print, our colors in Matte, those Maybelline modalities—as glossy treasure-palms, or sky-dome eye-aches, flipping for rising sprouting upon musicality: if but Versace, or reservoir reigns, while misery collides with our tailor made suits: if but to essence, to touch with life, this womb tugging with clauses: those outer tentacles, as terror-dome swords, our years to studying Samson—to know such secrets, oblivious as judges, while esteemed as pillars.  Antiquity is appealing: this luxurious outlook, those immortal scents: our Burberry treasures, our Women Protesting, our Underground Railroads: this place as cleaving, if but to amygdalas, this anger for Irrational tyrants: this inner Spinoza, our scientific Europeans, our women pursuing degrees in Psychology—as fixed but afoot, or broken as wholeness, if but this political disenchantment; where persistence layers, this face with deaths, as losing lives agaze’d at a sudden change: our Anne Sachs, our Jennifer Murray, our Midnight Soul Sisters—as life perpetuates, this subtlety by glasses, this ache thrown into oblivion: in truths, to silence, as at kayaks wrestling, this canyon of fallen cries: our music to love, our love as forwarded, our tales as pure resistance.