We oak through vines, our maple dreams,
finishing mahogany trestles…this element in souls, grinding marbles, pitched
afar into darkness…at cherry Maybelline, or raspberry wishes, thrust for
shocked stitching grasshoppers: our walnut castles, this pecan sand-beach, our
watermelon shorelines: where mother nestles, threaded into chaos, moaning this
intractable disposition—as incorrigible destinies, weaning into rosewood,
afforded one legacy called, Death: our
haywire programs, this ghetto infusion, our screams painted in Southeast Asia…moreover,
an echo, this teak majesty, bone to flesh her ribcage: those pine-leaf eyes,
this cry into meadows, those deers proffering handkerchiefs…as thought by
brains, this religious ash, mingling with beautiful spirits: our languid
goodbyes, this treacherous forgetfulness,
this hickory pyre.
I settle upon beech, while chiseling
birch, at tender memories: that fatal light, those rosary penchants, that tale
as told for joys: our cedar insights, this talcum satori, our seconds to deep concentration: by yogic daughters, or
Buddhist swans, according to this christic agenda…as casual dramatics, or
redwood crosses, forced to redeem hemlock…whereas, with graces, this face of
dungeons, crawling for content with mayhem: our gorgeous sensei(s), our radical
professors, this theologian too un-grounded to sing: if but our lives, cultured
for captured, spinning webs afraid to fail: this fir-stone, this pregnant
séance, our burning-man collapsing to shores: as dead sisters, or antiquitous
cousins, fleeing for flying arriving at Crenshaw: that luxury fortress, those
trimmed shrubberies, this night-house bleeding its fixtures…hitherto, this
silent ache, cut for drained, filled with helium: our spruce rituals, this
feeling person, our catholic allies…as, furthermore, or therefore, this lonely
auditorium.
Spoken
From Dreams
We sense taekwondo, this inner karate,
adjusting to this African Heritage: our screams muffled, our arts refuted, this
picture programmed by another’s inhibitions: as flying in rapture, our arrows
to synaptic gaps, this ideal feeling waning with likeness: to meet with
violence, this rifting song, while love broods as becoming indestructible: this
plate of peaches, those ferns to gardens, this tumbleweed tumbling through
mirrors: if but Garnier, or L’Oreal, our canvas painted by Getty—as panting
leopards, or desperate lions, feuding for rites akin to neutralities—that
mental jaguar, those sable-blond eyes, this taupe-green grass…as palms fluff,
while seated in thoughts, listening to whispering gusts: our ribbon-hearts,
this floret swan, this vessel too wise for mediocrity: to live as synchronized,
this synthetic existence, where arts prove this human necessity: that is, to
create, as for to live, while drenched in epistemologies—this small person, as
large in spirit, sectioned for adrift petting this lizard: our Geico instincts,
as insured by chance, at membrance those times to simplicity—as major
decisions, while pleasing life, where perfect appears so far aflame—that
captive love, as emailed silence, our blank screens pitching quarters.
Women wear Pumps,
while men wear Versace, as both wear Converse: our creative glory, reading into
syllables, depicting imperfect captures…as perfect beings, scudding this blemished dominion, flitting for gliding
those skiing philosophies…while dreamt a dream, this withered castle, but far
beyond cursed to exist…as wilted petals, in spite of abrasion, afloat a flight
staring at Divinity: our brows manicured, or toes scraped, our hearts to
patience…as some intrude, fiddling by design, at angers that sudden eruption…to
ballet with chimpanzees, as alive with sugarcane, feeding a group of
flamingoes: this tall tale, to water those eyes, where it felt good to hold Us….
