Its miracle praxis, weaving as it pops, by
lights this contention: such tiny grains, or particle madness, by adrenaline
such rapid heat: our stomachs rumbling, at depression’s visit, reaching for
thrusting a glass of tetras: those particles merging, our hearts to wars, this
film replayed while discouraged. I pace
thoughts; I rummage blankness; I settle in this Feeling: I run bases; I sprint through lava; I return to this
desert-person: as ever this controversy, or ever as humans, at laughter
conscious by such. Sights are
instruments; Softballs are metaphors; as Bats become swords: this sitting
sensation, moving with time, a bit willing to believe in Intelligence: this person’s image, planted in clouds, as we reach
for similar releases: this coaxing by emotions, this fretting by sprits, our
luxuries at graces quasi-affected. Its environmental, or territorial—this
psychosomatic phenomenon…this kleptic chaos, this pelagic wall-crane, this
session for segmental realities: Our leaps
as crucial; Our dreams as Synaptic Gaps; by far this element we
confide In: this furious motion, as
conditioned in parts, this reluctant dance: our words as huts, flayed in
grinders, our Essence provoked as
Joshua’s Arm: such crazed sensation, listening by nuances, revved for flights
four hours to closing: this roaring picture, this inflated balloon, our faucets
as simile’s existence…this patient irritation, fleeing its capture, where guilt
ensues.
I sip coffee, at dreams through freedoms,
encouraged by myriad souls: our vocal ceilings, this steep craving, this
imaginative reality: our children muddy, our floors squeamish, this board
filled with thumbtacks: if but perfection, this second to second chase, while
keeping one another at joy: if but inhuman, censored by pains, this life devoid
of substance…while losing home-base, at faces beneath eyes, grumbling for
mood-shifts: this gleaning space, this familiar Feeling, our innermost souls—at pure concentration, doodling
rabidly, or seated calmly forced for activities. I chase silence, this keen insight, to
realize this inner conglomerate—as fraught with persons, those dots speckling,
this Essence at delicate
observations: our minds recoil, as realized this segment, to move as if
happiness rules: those platinum paints, those dimensional brushes, this
artistic realization concerning Oneness.
There’s steep observance, this holiday
map, this inner nudging through fires: our water with lemons, as successions in
time, this game we play with addictions: our refusal to participate, as
shifting in lights, to partake as one distant from ingestion: this solace
feeling, this killing by roots, this reverberation screaming at usage: if but
for selfish, as lost at wars, while pillaging those creative activities…so
exposed to feelings, as responding
abnormally, plucked, as just enough feathers: this frenzied flapping, disguised
seemingly, while those equipped
discuss our idiosyncrasies: this rich dysfunction, this trampling anguish, this
second with thoughts to efface reservoirs: those mental palm-trees, this wisdom
through Asia, those hieroglyphics—if but through Dead Seas, hungry for higher
thoughts, to remember this particular emotion—where souls reach, for fretted at emotions, to enjoy those eyes rabid for
gifts.
