I live mafia,
as paranoid insights, rebuking flavors: this syrup dripping, this
melancholic art, our daughters to gramps’ brains: if but for cousins, or
aristocratic uncles, our mothers revved with chaos—this abandoned machinery,
this mystic aircraft, this Irish ecclesiology: as vacuumed friends, this silent
volt, this volume as mere that crystal: our vases
rattling, our settees shifting, this ottoman but stencil our a.m.
ours. I see brooks; I imagine pencils; I
saw kindergartens: this Danish assumption, this wavy green island, our
Rihanna’s fluxed for driven: if screaming, gosh,
alas, this aha, to hear music as
spittle’s disdained: our arcs bleeding, by reservoirs this swamp, falling while
cleaving to father’s blackdamp: this marshy cave, our snails to ceilings, this
jimpy mind print. I adore you, this
light so perfect, as some caress un-sanded edges: this thick smaze, this soot
by villains, this fulgent disharmony: as Pyxis rising, our mystics at terrors, this slant this soul this vex-alarm. I lived a klutz, as refusing acquiescence, a
second to realize steep lusts: our quaffs by feelings, this odorous mood-shift,
that anger arising from furtive agendas—as, nevertheless, this gentle gore,
this ritualized swan, our grandmothers rifting clouds—as men dying, or women at
pretend, this gulf radiating truer contentions—as purple violets, or orange
tulips, those mahogany roses—but lotus affections, infused a scream, our monks
maintaining at war. We goad as falling,
flailing insanity, failing as envied this freedom to spirits: our compassed
tenets, our universal charms, this essence too perfect to ignore: those years
training, as needing this lot, fading into turquoise heavens: our panic
shifting, this person attending, as born crooked this affair: where damps wroth,
as seasons comfort, while arising for falling a tender short: this bleeding
credenza, this unzipped soul, this czar mentality—as broken pencils, or
abrasive erasers, fiddling a thousand dollar pen. It comes to riddles, as jogging potentiality,
to arrive at private epiphanies: this swan undertaking, this cozen reality, our
seconds to dying as forced to love: our aunties by law, our bolts by anxieties,
this arid approach to watery gardens; at terrors laughing, at rivers siphoning,
at teachers contending facts: our minds as antes, our days enchanted, this
young man wanting to destroy misconceptions: as old fools, floored for
abandoned, a soul to peek at thirty-five: while-ever-to-anon, amid discourses,
a tear able but feeling exhausted: this coal dripping, this engine thumping,
this woman at love for companionship. I
hark to feelings, this empty Invert, this
tale by angels: our trips to Spain, our Spanish contagions, this unsung Tao:
where yogis mourn, as accursed by science, to arrive at something too peculiar:
those facial ghosts, this inner disorder, this perfect insanity—as hissing
ensues, while tugging at religiosity, to acquire this balanced chaos. (We’re true to warfare, this curse to winning
souls, while carrying more that percentage—this slamming hilt, this recoiling
chamber, these metaphors demanding inquiries: our grannies’ patience, our
cousins at age, this language between parents: as subtle nuances, to destroy
imaginings, while gentle a steak with onions.
I’d ponder existence, if but to exhaust pains, this miracle as a tiny
kiss: this cheek blushing, this moon relenting, our sun a stepfather’s
mathematics: to cut with life, as forging an empire, living according to Values: as opalescence, or hives by Joys, as something saintly to keeping composure:
this loose cannon, this priestly raft, our years to appraising our
appreciations: our inner pictures, as sensing, It’s me, but fueled by this expectant person: those mirrors as
solemn, those emotions as unrelenting, this cage as censoring abstract
realities: our casual cries, this indomitable sister, our brothers steep at
concentration: this agile feeling, as shifting towards returns, while hurdles
are rapid our racetrack: that tremendous leap, this Kierkegaardian penmanship,
these theological conundrums).
