We hart and pant, our souls to reservoirs,
afield a feeling to capture theism—or deists’ tenets, along our prides, knees
to marsh buried in exiles: this prosaic bishop, those theological pegs, and
this faraway island forging this phoenix: those redwood eyes, this cry for
decency, our threshing ekklesia. We languish catharses, besieged with
chaos, at love those blizzards by flamingoes: our runaway arcs, shooting for
missing, or those missiles to dungeons: this inner telescope; those partial
realities; this feeling we dream—avoiding cargo, pressured daily, to arrive
dreading this journey through newness: this winter’s condition, this languid heart-drop, this tinkering through
monads—as fused for passion, becoming theoretical, formed in parts by
psychiatry—as fringes rattle, this jogging while measuring, a psych as
perfected through receptiveness: this classic study, as operative nuances,
where college becomes forerunner: this dredge of souls, this captivity at
Jericho, this biblic study purported as allegorical: that fine line, as born as
Catholic, while forced within to
refute [The] Legend of Guadalupe:
those mental lounges, this inner café, our sipping with intent to decode
through humanity: this mystic sky-emotion,
this potent illusion, this
realization that whispers resound—as cultic Filipinos, or African musicians, or
Protestant Ethiopians—those atom eyes, knitted
into syllables, our thoughts becoming our abysses—this fevered labor, drilled
by propositions, at wars reviewing pneumatology: those cherry-green souls, as
liquids through soil, by far too warm to confess, I feel you. We forget
data—by this operation of brains, receiving
new in-motion: as metal-shed fires,
or woodshed splinters, becoming as arising but keeping peace: this steep
phenomenon, our inner-pollination, our dialogical hearts—formed through
dialectics, or hungering through scientific(s), while spaced just enough to
adhere to previewed-realities: our
oak-wood birds, reading in silence, conditioned
against chirping: our Iceberg feelings, frozen about time, censored by this
inner trapeze: or this rooted sensation, eschewing Christology, while desiring
self as this sole existence of
power. We know for ice-storms, or more
for resistance, an ostrich centered in skies: this lonely venture, accursed by
destiny, fleeing for reliving such cul-de-sacs—this karnac essence, afire a
charm, reading rajah yoga…as born to
vices, stuttering in spirit, upon this spectrum of realities: those trying pivots; those miraculous eyes;
this curse afforded those seeking Sophia: as boxy feelings, those skyfall
sickles, to commune with strangers; while, notwithstanding, this familial
furnace, at decorated concentration—those
inner Buddhists, as tugging our wits, to envelope so steeply—our waking
realities, this plurality chase, where powers are multifold:—that shifting
swan, those moody clients, those faces established during privacy—therewith, a
scar, this agony of visions, that image catapulting pomegranates. (We exist beyond words, while utensils are feelings, while both are fire-glaciers: this edifice of ice,
this furnace between persons, this melting where particles become pitiful
epistemologies—that flagrant claim, as existential religiosity, this section in
history focused strictly upon rationalism: our inner utilities, so broad we
exclude details, or so pedantic we exclude brainwaves:
this beta-dimension, as relative
seekers, drawn by this search for
absolutes; if but sky-wings, as dreamt a fledgling, to find with patience
such soaring: our years to Paraclete; our hours to Infusions; our revamps but
rooted in Logos; hereto, this faint
insistence, as souls peek at disposition, inclined to suggest human modalities;
indeed, this fever as gray, to ponder its vehicle, while amazed at certain
exactitudes: those rabid powers, composed in a rabid heart, floating for
reaching while composed as lawyers: this beige reality; this jasper rose; our
swans to destinies peering into every Word).
