Debut

I’m sick about God, this method by energies, this fire storming beneath hearts…that cold river, this shivering leaf, that auburn summer: our ponds green, our algae orange, this frog leaping for sanities: our misuses, our puzzles, this psychological conviction: as made a threat, to consume liquor, a bit retentive about adolescents: those warm oceans, this raft adrift, our fingers conjuring spirits: if but to die, while living cadence, this quick return: as mother grieves, his number two injury, this woman as afloat a million scars: to insist upon life, while vacant concerning life, whereas, this novitiate claiming life: our practical courtyards, this evangelist ruined, this selling of dementias: if but to live, while captured Jewish strife, as to wonders concerning Germans.  I echo surveys, and psychiatric profiles, spent for dangerous concerning thoughts: this mystic waning, this man laughing, our souls merging—if torn disasters, at terrible melodies, forced for culture this design…at petroglyphs, or hierarchy, or hydroplanes—while fretted for deaths, peering at academies, weary that professor’s last reasoning: to ponder infection, this resilient message, as data inputs genetic breath: that passionate daughter, that lethargic aunty, those mothers terrified that daughters see life: as mere this confusion, abusing insanities, living for bawling while craving luxuries: that blatant rehab, those cross-pollinated groups, this feeling as arts are failing.  I’m sick about God, sipping and smoking and talking and laughing—if but to feel, while plotting in Plato, where it felt good to decipher Socrates: our brilliant scams, as confusing men, to look with realized disdain: this inner thought, where mothers listen, at wants with arts this familiar love: and oh for bleeding, filled with contempt(s), as radical as cultic lunatics: those psychs watching, this mad abuse, our miracles seated in human efforts: as needing proximity, to enforce resonance, or struck with afflatus this cynical brain-crash: as mere men, or radiant women, where silent that missile awaiting destruction.  It was shells, our albums skipping, those relic blues—wherewith, this insatiable fly, as seething existence, while purposed to continue life: those waking dreams, this using of liquor, those families at warmth concerning freedoms: if but to swim, those geese that lake, this hydroplaning swan—as but that glimpse, to petrify existence, while grandpa committed his faux-pas: our minute schedules, our broken agendas, this artist singing his background—that colorful death, this brilliant resurrection, our cloths as total reminders.  I’m lost at rehab, fumbling a sandwich, addicted to sheer silence: that radical pull, this radical shell, our clams peeking at lights: that jazzy woman, that pale woman, that distracted woman: to ponder perfection, while killing instincts, this winning for losing while pleasing our audience: or more to receptive, living our consensus, to awaken filled with rage: as opting for blindness, this evangelical life, where all becomes perfected colors: as losing grays, while cleaving to plaids, abused for sprinting afraid by mirrors: that lustful woman, that vagabond man, these at widths courting egos: if but to reason, this mind of Ithaca, that azurian Aztec.  I’m sick about God, this feeling burning, this clearance as reaching: that sole vehicle, those intelligent brains, this intensity while waning: those glorious souls, those fervent spirits, this miracle sprinkled to pains: our legacy fireballs, to reach wit days, while darkness has dissipated: this losing of persons, with gaining of persons, this group a bit en-tuned: where father laughs, trotting for followed, this Spirit grinning: to see with ghosts, this plethora of thoughts, while afraid to journey beyond as taught: those winded horses, this galloping essence, our energies sparkled for reaching membranes: that inner woman, that reticent man, those two to silence while igniting our universe: this place in gods, as mere but men, looking for tortured our curses: those bodily cries, those bodily eyes, this feeling as if all was forsaken: our goddess impulses, while treacherous to wars, infused by panic at sheer electricity.