We sing this way, intervening upon
sadness; agaze’d by billboards—or Three
Stooges, this comical undertone, as unrealistic music. We murmur satire, relishing in apologetics,
our lights pitching charcoals. I
rekindle common graces: our secret will; our
unquenchable thirst; as,
notwithstanding, this sluggish syrup, this daily ransom. (I read epistles, pausing at memories, our
boxes our screams): this mirror’s Diaspora, this running personality, this
inner exegeses—by external calls, tugging for rescuing, while leaning for extracting:
where supper waits, debating moral will,
or those noetic effects through sin. I
loved for losing, to win for grays, wrestling an open theology: our Parousia
instincts; our hopes through redemption: this tag as seeming segue. I ponder free agency, alarmed by
implications, singing through sadness: as mud speaks, by a grasshopper’s
dreams, disturbed by frogs at formation: our irresistible tones, as
irresistible grace, as irresistible nightingales: our Pentateuch as pegs; our
Synoptic as release; our ethical
arguments as partialities: where paints become symbols, or terrifying
realities, by feelings unable to fabricate: this strong patience, as reaming
tendencies, a man at ease with motion: this clock ticking, this soul at
debates, our loses while seeking replacements: as rarely to healing, this
beauty with baggage, while an innocent-soul redeems a stranger. Our bias comforts, enlove with perfections,
at ease with flaws: this sipping county, this mental vale, and those torpedoes
drilling within: to ask about entrance, this inner portal, of
this mental or outer transportation: this line through existence, while
electric currents—this flourish through time.
I cherish interaction, this conflicted
soul, but sturdy enough—this wealth screaming, this forest to silence, this
morning’s chirpings—our sad cadence, this rubber-bandit alcohol, those
prescient under-hues: as hearts to tracks, or sages to vines, this atypical
bat-valley: those droppings but alleys, this science but conjecture, our
behaviors becoming suspicious—as flying voltage, or resonant passion, where a
lotus stares through debates: this crying whisper, our chi at flights, this
need to butter our popcorn. I stand
accused, this simple existence, our love for foods and wines: our dance upon
yachts, our games by nights, our Sunday Morning Service: this dream too easy,
this curse too at weeds, while our world studies frequencies—as, more, human
behavior, our shifting personalities, where even psychologists suggest this
internal flux: our Herculean screams, our Superman outfits, this Superwoman
accomplishing a tear through sadness—as caged dreams, or roving lions, this
tiger pawing its bunny: if but to escape, these gated compounds, feeling this
need to examine this pleat of brains: as one tatted, this symbolic crucifixion,
our days to irony while disgusted with representation: those gray mirrors, this
dusty window, our appearances becoming partial imageries.
