Wing Opera Swan

…you empire gently, this remote dizziness, our furnaces aflame an arcade…this immortal ephod, at dungeons pleading returns, this precious enchilada: our brains for guts, our guts for heartbeats, this excellent remission….  [I adore amore, this door to pelicans, this beach towel filled with locusts]: as casual sacrifices, endured through decades, this fleet of addicts conducting our worlds: as healed leprosy, or radical leapers, our grandmothers seated at stillness: as accustomed to barks, while laughing at self, this ten-year cord our inheritance.  I laugh at feelings, tugged for purchased, affected by trite(s) so trivial—as adolescents, pardoned for crimes, a thief to his flutes: at scratches bleeding, at memories seething, while mother imprints this nest of cries: our distant bodies, our local arcs, this beating affection.  We open coconuts, or slice pineapples, while unthawing emotions: this wretched passion, as sensed for dangers, while said judges pine for existence: that rabid kitten, that mystic puppy, those ferrets running with laughter: as broken eyes, or inverted brains, this slant as seeing differently.  (I felt a gem, while courage retreated, where fire seemed reserved: this fool to mountains, this cloud to assistance, our smoke at stars afraid to fly; indeed, to riddles, as one laid bare, infused by almonds this symbol-adjusted-love: our blank pages, as formed in treasuries, this balance created unfairness—those metric eyes, that rubric ache, our rulers papered with leniencies: this facial mask, obliged by Neutrogena, as mud speckled with blackheads—or spaghetti-sauce, this fever by tomatoes, as hankering for ground-beef—or lost connections, if but for smiles, this precious invention fraught by calculations).  I dine with love, this fantastic miracle, at trails pegging concrete—as abstract sadness, cultured for disease, a bit amused we see feelings: this electric swan, this fabulous melancholy, our oxymoron(s) dictating imputations—if but his mind, stationed with legends, as mere naked serotonin—abased for scattered, as choosing through loins, while advice stared at stubbornness: this mental disaster, this unworthy lot, our ambitions to sky-persons: where time is hectic, as at flux with seconds, about a minute to become a solid adversary: those tall cries, this inner sanctuary, this bishop pledged by ironies: if but his life, alone to deserts, if but his love!  [I read into passion, washed in Garnier, bathing this infant duck: such moisturizer, such soothing calmness, if but this existence by mirrored ceilings: that beige image, that torn confetti, this miracle a mile into revivals—as pure darkness, inverted by cages, to arrive one sentence by perfection: those fiery dreams, those waking ghosts, this resistance seething with democracy]. 

{I admire strengths, steady at silence, aborted for redeemed: this lavish life; those echoed meadows; this thirsty and rigid oasis…where father scrapes, as scrounging for clearance, while whips tear through flesh…this deep image, those tales untold, this perspective dictated by historians: our ancient aunts, our gracious cousins, this legacy concerned with first principles: if but he lied, or held his peace, if but he died…where secrets destroy, while some hold to graves, where inner guilt afflicts a person’s countenance: this miserable deception, if but through bodies, while, nonetheless, loyalty is deflated by treachery: so one to madness, for Love shall leave, while all to science this self-fulfilled prophecy…our bagels with cheese, our sausage with peppers, this cream abundant with calories—if but to drift, prior to censorship, while certain to love a household of strangers…that inner mic, this mica phantom, our caricatures fraught with insights: as living forever, this immortal essence, while seated afar to touch a swan…our mother’s sanity, our father’s aggressions, our overseers disrupted with sheer disgusts…but more to oceans, as more to love, our trips to seasons where thoughts are dolphins….}.