I required rehab, this emotional damage,
guzzling water and popping Vitamin B. I
drove iron, sipped coffee, and pondered this losing legacy: if cursed we live,
this inverted reality, this phantasmagoria: our mental ghosts, those hosts of
lusts, our feelings desiring clarities: those bowlegged cries, such autumn
plush, this reddish-orange moon: as scratching fevers, or listening wisely,
while attitude flourishes at a
distance: [this livid monster, as composed swans, flapping for paragliding—or
hydroplanes, or cutting precision, or unconventional addicts…to die by smidgens, our women meowing, attached to pitted
guts: this teak design, this autonomous loser, this feeling as if winning:
those winter thoughts, this William’s travesty, our Roger’s stressed for
peaceful: that man running, this daughter howling, our mothers pointing as
amazed by manias: that fixed chaos, that blatant behavior, this reason to grip
those that beckon. I laugh as backwards,
as mother would chime, our lives as backgammon—or gin-rummy, or slamming
dominoes: that fair game, those vulgar gestures, that abrasive language: our
Collin’s Empire, this inner telephone, our quickness to answers: that shorn
provocation, this woman laughing, our dreams to tears as aborted—those welkin
hells, this contradiction, our wooden-vines: if but for love, as seeking
redemption, our darkest powers utilized to adore addicts: those concertmasters, as dictating behaviors, while
flustered this welt to actions: that passive man, those passive screams, while
comfortable with self only in privacies: those women watching, this stressed
overseer, this river that office our flights: to become whistles, as worshiped
madness, this welt bleeding its flesh]. Choreographers I grow in you, that musical symbol,
that psyche composer…but hell to Us, as
finding closure, those contralto veins—to cry as living, or die as spinning,
where it felt good to relive mother’s
enterprise: that woman crawling, while death was clawing, our gnawing on bones
in sheer celebration: this curtain call, our dates as demanded, this daughter
as far too gorgeous: where death was
love, as love was selfish, this angular perception: those psychs streaming,
this psychologist frustrated, our wails to sanity as born with weeds: our
incessant bleeding, our da-capo-arias, this velvet sunny sky: where cascades
bury, this sundry of flies, our Irish communities stressing survival: that man
churning, while scraping quarters, to find with leniency this demented friend:
our inner luxuries, this Anguish Fire, our directors committing treason: this
Foreman Empire, this loss by wages, this type by Hiccups: if but to sail,
fretting Poseidon, afflux a blessing living our curses. (I’m staged down, or rights-to-breath, at
membrance this fatal dream: our
throats aching, this liquor laughing, while rehab is calling: this perfect
loser, this losing perfection, those complaisant stars living by anguish—but
far received, their children whining, this luxury to appeasements). Electronics Let us fly, reaching tulip-skies,
affected by dejection: this changed force, those bright meadows, this time to
wail reflections…as sensing ash, this third-temple-universe, our scars to
constellations: our grand-opera, or heroic screams, to fiddle with passions
this stern agony: our perfect silence, as reaching compositions, to demand that
silence runs into vocals: our mental baritones, our banda paradises, our
daughters’ bel-cantos—as brilliant eyes, or crazy dreams, or duet brains—to
function slightly, as above our myriads, while barely at functions: that full
capacity, that violent stream, this tug for purpose while aflame: if but her
heart, or that subtle persona, as stresses our mental eyes: to appear that
second, while partial to residence, where it felt good to perish in you. Full
Production We trigger lights, as
assuming costumes, fiddling with legendary props—that autumn makeup, our
designed audience, this piano’s opera—as alive with vehemence, or velvet with
venom, to channel for charged at love so far those zephyrs: those brown eyes,
that slight to jasmine, this daisy-affair as strangled for reaching: those tall
vestibules, this summer’s hanger, our tales to lights where death was captured:
that necklace encore, this rich ensemble, our souls as rebellious electricians:
as but a dream, or casual seams, this thread those brains our treasury.
