I saw colors, this free agency, our cries
beneath converse: this pulling vehicle, our satin lies, this one at ease with pluralities: our telic
observation, as aphoristic sachets, this gnawing through tea-bags: as dying
creatures, explored by deaths, a bit wretched but whole. I took it home, this present feeling, this
rebel’s insanity—as casual pageants, veering through cosmos, affected by agape derriere: those insidious wails,
that tale about legs, this atypical inlet: our remorse to sharks, those
incipient screams, this island void of sand; but intentionality, this vague
curse, while more a thought impending: those flying whimsies, this sagic
goddess, our years to losing such women: that White prince, that Asian guard, that
alley of Black men—where mother panics, cut for sliced, our intestines pushed
into agendas: this typology, crushing his guts, such vehement atheism: our
Jasmine Sander’s, our Mystic Valleys, this pilgrimage as footed in
pit-slime. I’d lie for love, as
enthralled with shame—rehearsing our decades: our Emily Aarlook’s, this phantom
African, our trips to pagan Paris: if but to touch, as dying this sin, while
ingratiated by salvation faces: this cleaving order, this concerned minx, our
years to striking perfection—as cloves spark, this pacing yogi, our
irresistible graces: this Danish Ruler, this Irish Calendar, this German Mishap—while
floating at terrors, to dine with Japan, leering for rescued by inquisitive
hooks: this bleeding masseuse, this grieving nun, this Ibthaj Muhammad
legacy. (It’s good to fly, as creviced
souls, peering at something we need possession: this segue charm, these Lynwood
Berets, this treacherous pursuit for Happiness—as college flytraps, or webs
long that course, to run through Manhattan pausing at Asian cries: those beads
dripping, that Lotus weaving, those jeans disclosing personal features: this
city of questions, this last endeavor, that revving Corvette walking through
Ralphs: this eschatology, this whistling epistle, this Messiah Tendency. I’ve lost curtsy, to gain demands, lost at
intentional calls: to harvest knots, while disobeying texture, at walls pushing
in return: this trenchant hobby, as men want more, while floored to this
dangerous vice: our tragic Degrees, this Stooge
affair, this volt as but a distant encouragement: while fueled passions, this
inner ransom, our hearts to fires as but a glance: such two-toned eye-shadow,
or three-fold crushes, this stranger communing with a possible loser. We tear to years, at love a fantasy, where
time sits laughing in pains: our wills
tugging, our brains perfecting, if but this cage conflicted: our social norms, this tattooed fool, our mothers
debating our latest issue: while Mormons cry, where Amish retreat, as mystics
pause feeling this treacherous convergence: as inverted souls, this woman’s will, our ecstasies toppling through
admissions: to cuss as vicious, this form to privacies, our doors to penchant
smiles). We grapple skies, this mental
break, our years to solace: as met a force, those decades to perfection, as
giving for dying at reception: those exegesis-hands, that long nape, those eyes
speaking heresies: as winded aches, this last thrust, that noetic orgasm: to
come to self, three centuries late, removed but medieval at arks: that genteel
dynasty, those Confucius tenets, this open morality—where love is dead, as
arising a force, to demand with vengeance our upheavals: our addicted lusts, by
mere a glance, to seize with patience this losing observation: as young men, or
sophisticated mystics, this pocket of Ritalin.
(I retreat a soul, as doting beauty, forced for cursed this theological
redemption: those achy stimulants, this torpedoed god, that goddess as new
while spoken afar: this man to crushes, this feeling but life, while testy a
style leering at veins: our casual feelings, those myths as mentors, or
something to becoming terrible at existence).
