Umbrella Montage

I rain passions, lashing at flesh, while gnawing at gnats…this welted leaf, this wilted petal, our backyard hearts pushing curses…this outer leaping, this inner hijacker, our tears while chain-smoking: our mental eczema, this core bleeding liquor, our a.m. invites—unto sanity, pressuring clarity, seated in programs: our fathers’ addictions, our mothers’ chasing, this lonely feeling: if but to perish, as abused by existence, while laughing our eyes filled with bathing(s).  I loved as sickly, this intimate distance, presuming silence as armor…that wild island, this ceiling of guinea pigs, those messages scribbled by hyenas: our casual distress, this second to pigeon-emotions, this article as obsession—(while reasoning with cheetahs).     [It was death, losing our arts, painting in flesh-works: those torturous algae, as cleaving to pools, our eyes spewing liturgies…this cavy curve, this sky-terror, those summery missiles—while searching vestibules, to capture that smile, at shivers a bit too abstract…or nonsensical, or understood barely, while wrestling this stormy bear: those weathered feelings, this brain at repeats, this familiar desensitized light…our hours, combined in months, but a hundred and eighty minutes a year…this essence to life, those evaluations, as more to hunches than facts: that autumn conglomerate, this authorized agency, those desktop manuscripts…while smelling almonds, or sipping cognac, where papers un-crumble…that last thought, that quick jotting, this electric river…those smelted agendas, this intuited odor, those days to feeling ambivalent—while pressured by conclusions, this inner liability, this sub-brain asset].     It was good to meet, or hell to extinguish, moving with mystic magic: our self-directors, those all-night ghosts, this city of overseers: those anti-eyes, those antic-chains, this ability to define holiness: our lavish reckonings, our ability to function in silence, or more this covenant of geese…where life becomes rhythms, this inner motion, but far too invested in silence: this maddening exploit, as pathological science, or links within this correlated abrasion: our local shamans, this affectivity, those snakes by psychological apples—as humans desperate, or trees to converse, while deserts retreat into vocal-silence: those palms laughing, that mirage running, this camel sipping Pepsi: as, wherewithal, this inner, thereto, while appearing where pages churn: that pregnant sourness, those seconds to disdain, while never imagined, (our skills pertain to insanity): this monstrous instinct, as pushing waves, by far, a threat to sociology.     [We live blackjack, our tables with brains, our hearts with armor: if but existence, as testy psychologists, a tear too advanced for normality: while inner dangers, this space in passions, where contours become fluid—or boxy chemistry, gunning at artistry, entrenched in scholarship: our mental leopards, this outer moon-tide, our hours to determining distrust.     It fires this edge, fleeing for coverage, while at wars with mirrors: this trenchant spear-sin, thrust at portraits, while choking fragments of self: this tipsy image, while feeding masses, a tear to miracles by loafs].     …its truly gray, Love, this city of powers, our seconds to mesmerisms—our local eyes, our inner whirlwinds, this cadence so early at ingestion: our mother figures, our father figures, our deep yearnings: this music, so sweet to intestines, our hands bleeding: if but to move, as cascading, this penchant for red beans with rice: our angry shifts, this beige tear, our muddy pies: where passions churn, while hearts river, to seize with time this intuition: that tragic event, those callous responses, this fleeing into meadows—where love was sacrificed, as for arms at distance, while aliens swarmed his brains: our aches to flies, our dreams to bees, and our valleys to sugarcane: this morning’s rituals, those touches by chi, this welkin figure distorting shock-waves…as mere vessels, becoming with lights, as lost to reserves this pillar of eagles: at love with arts, or torn by symphonies, arising a feeling attuned with genetics: this course with souls, our emotions soaring, our waves afloat.