That’s Our Cymbal

It isn’t racism, as more recognized, this fret for centerpiece: our geniuses flying, our psychs to essays, our professors warring for tenure: our combing years, our daughters’ debut, our wives feeling depreciated: those wellic brains, this sonnet pain, our sestina joys: our a.m. wines, our coffee with bagels, those lenses our morning sessions: to laugh while dying, or die through laughter, seeking validation.  I find truths, our major addictions, this failure to accept resolutions: this cymbal bleeding, this marsh as breakfast, our fasting dynasties.  We ache as humans, this kleptic condition, while spewing anger to receive our intentions: this kindergarten lessen, this speech impediment, our left ears contriving slurs: to spar for survival, outwitted by special-ed, at travels this bedroom dungeon: our mothers as persons, those persons as instruments, those old feelings surging by steep reflection; but time dies, as emotion suppresses, this feeling in actual beings: our inaccurate sermons, while flushed with confidence, as befuddled contorting our gazes: this gravy deceit, our portraits speaking, this thousand paged dissertation.  I love as falling, a bit disappointed, as too, this picturesque mental origin—where father is good, while mother is wisdom, our lives devoid of drug abuse; but hell to fiction, as livid to survive, this man carrying his ghetto; nay, to hell with survival, as more to masteries, fleeing for failing into disquietness: to re-juice, an engine at resurrection, to plummet deep this reservoir—as captured galloping, this inner Alexander, this triumphant Aristotle—as eyes perish, this searching for children, to discover that Suzy has outgrown her inner crib.  *We chime as thieves, discouraged by redemption, while empowered through antics: this wordless world, this behavioral universe, while septic our guts unto vomit: hereby, cut with Life, our last ingestion, fumbling young minds: as superior illusions, or major delusions, while composed as twelve paged disciples—this apostle fever, this rabid rehearsal, our stages formed prior to conception: this man flying, this woman soaring, as both are without genuine friends.*  We urine acids, as seeping into flushing(s), laughing as alarming our spouses: to recover sanity, as maniacal nuns, floored for fevered at discovering, Gertrude: our English jagged, our grammar distorted, while perfection finds comfort in something broken: this fool to madness, this self seeking, our realization that, nothing matters: if but to adventure, as torn through galaxies, where breath proves this human touch.  I take position, as destroyed this perception, while needing balance: as tales to truths, while secluded within: It hast to be this reality: our children running, as scraped a toe, to kiss with life as feeling perfection—this reciprocal relation, this boxy office, our intentions convoluted by desires—as perfected titles, while residing in caves, to explore as pushed towards new fancies; indeed, another cigarette, another false belief, another woman too perfect for wifehood.  *I spas-out, reeling insanities, wishing we’d met ten years prior: that mahogany dress, as covered his eyes, those proper-sized earrings: that cave we live, this furious mirror, our clout in science as miscomprehended: this lack of jewelry, this simple dementia, as never a clue: those remote souls, as loving her kindness, while pines a demon afar: this rare forgiveness, this Lucifer bent, our dedication to illumination: this woman at deaths, if but to curse, a box as exploded into this rib-side wound: our telic delusions, this wellic illusion, this frantic confusion: insofar, a triumph, to know this person, to be granted this cadence: as loves a fool, while recruited this paradise, at moments, too involved to appreciate strategies.  I can’t to see us; I will to love us; as comes a test this father’s tribunal: to die as feelings, to wipe by fears, to ask forgiveness: those loose-fitting jeans, this period at cultures, this bloated exaggeration: while cursed for sinning, or sinning for cursed, this sin as birth: our courageous swans, our fearless mothers, for hell to death, That’s my child*!