We exonerate faces, while drenched at scars,
forbidden our luxurious screams: this soil-rhinestone, this porridge honey, our
vacant redemption: as minor-prophets, seething liquidations, coiled within
extravagance; or subtle souls, rabid a dream, too uncouth to seize
harmonies. I felt love, as needing
insistence, while toppling through sugarcane: this dearth of wheat, this
plethora of plums, our satin blankets. I
felt passion, this awkward extreme, at ruthless heights about ruth: this pitted
existence, at ruminations, afore a castle those showers: such persistence, at
depth this breach, fueled through brains our thoughts: our delicate memories,
those pirate monads, this lexicon as hostages; wherewith, this excruciation,
those relic pendulums, this soul forced towards reality: that brimming body;
those courageous legs; this house so eclipsed with sheer affection: if but he
sung, as stressed his life, that last visit appeared his mother: those rigid
protruding(s), this death at skies, that feeling of shorn securities—as
bleached serenity, at casual effects, to pause with essence this life indebted:
our brains washing, this surge of seas, our oceanic wing-screams: as frantic
advice, unheard but imagined, to point to needs throttled through psychiatry:
this length as wretched, this carrying of persons, alone a room with ten
sensations: as reckless souls, or determined for perfections, to admire a dream
three feet to dungeons: that width afar, those ivory dimensions, this person at
tears pulled with silence. I know that
heart, but not its brains, at aloof mathematics: those catholic garments, this
space in high-school, such as remnants afforded their graves: that shore of
sea-turtles, that realm of flight-dolphins, this shower our drains with
petals—to silence self, as dying self, accustomed this lake of
exacerbations. We’re rare our cares, but
elaborate in kindness, while pulled afar this passionate control: our skillet
desires, this spatula of woes, that diary those ten pages: as floods pour,
where dams withheld, while curious this design; wherefore, this touch-resistance, this tugging through
principles, our imaginative lives. I
cramp with feelings, this nauseous ache, that taste of vomit: as nerves
fortify, while acids germinate, this frantic-itchy-skin: those tales as told,
that hold as vivid, this inner denial as farce.
Morning
Ritual
I felt self, this intimidation, observing
inner wind-casts: this volt-communion, this settled soul, our abstracts
becoming absolutes: as miracle souls, our grandmother’s stew, this urn of bone
made dusky: those handicapped brains, our crutches consecrated, this man
screaming obscenities—as wildness-monsters, this ten-headed dragon, this
beach-line flavored with insanity: this speaking beast, those thousand entries,
this one page: at interior designs, this settee watching, as armoires become
courage: this fatal tale, our morning breath, our last seconds with
strangers—while scratching paint, as reaching for doors, found by
janitors. I dine with faces, those immortal grins, this hat transferring
through intimacies: those royal garments, that essence in class, this remote control dictating responses: at moment’s heavy, far often a storm, threshed by
nonpartisans: as needing life, as vitiating promise, while listening for
bipolar-positives: this man about clearances, this dungeon as home-base, this
mechanical approach to strangers: insomuch, a crane, this inverted anchor, our
religious bolts pegged within: if but
this lesson, or this fraudulent response, while labeled as hostages: that
maniacal mirror, that indifferent fire-alarm, this register calculating totals:
our torn percentages, our malaise interests, this person reflecting his
deadness—insofar, this living, sentenced to Alcatraz, seated at corridors: that
long passage, that ceiling of grasshoppers, this blender filled with locusts:
those minds running, as met again, this faceless voice becoming weather: our
lots to bulls, our horns to mysticism, this slant in proclivities.
