Uncaged Binoculars

…alleluia—while palming blades, while scraping sanity: this island creeper, those trees as symbols, this ancient affair: our cursed chests, this talkative heart, our loquacious brains—as cutting ribbons, while sinning trespasses, alas, to die laughing without reasoning: those antsy millipedes, this fist of sediments, those rippling mirrors: at love winded, at tears’ forgiveness, at welts nibbling honey: this drug to intestines, this frogfish dynasty, our passions becoming prisons: as livid comedians, a bit naked to traffic, our Crenshaw impasses…with paranoid instincts, as so much hidden, wherefore, we side with reflections: our feelings validated, our chaos condoned, our winters to cocoa and coffee…whereto, this invisible essence, pushing its currents, alive for seconds feigning niceties: this crazed woman, that angry sanity, those violent mechanics: as testing realities, while replanting sorrows, to cut with ink this legacy…our dying men-shine, our satiate livers, our nuclear warfare: at inner battles, seeping into features, aroused by likeness: our shorn dementias, this boarder-line maniac, those cordial responses—our social faux pas, our marshal training, aside this empty limousine: those cameras flashing, our brains running, those vestibules speaking abandonment: this mental hospital, that glowing woman, those shuffling feet…alleluia—while kicking tracks, this hitch as ingested, our rumbling dreams: those foreign faces, this palatial sky, those reasons to cease resistance: but arts are good, this pressing pressure, our last screams to sky-summers: that delicate converse, as dissociative tendencies, while wrestling tendentious education: by nothing social, while afforded our reflections, where thoughts evade our reflections: to sip while patronizing, or sniff while realizing, at tortures to insist, This is living…to have your eyes, planted at his grave, where we demand internal affairs; or life as sentenced, this marvelous ventriloquist, this consummate actress: our bones testifying, our sinews winded, our lungs mourning our Holocaust—that rabid sensation, this profile for bias, our scams confusing our private natures: to battle at Wounded Knee, this city of disasters, our deserts fleeing as witnesses: that cactus running, those horses galloping, this mis-written fleet of clichés: that deep thought, that inner hysteria, this calming voice: while adjusting reality, at seated control, while angered they acquiesce.  We hope to live, this curious reflection, this ingested woman: our children whining, our grandparents headed to havens, our souls up-against our furnace: as refined sociopaths, or elegant psychopaths, while avoiding celebrations: this wishful thinking, to have as possession, to live as sentenced by reality: that cold force, those insatiable cries, this palm filled with warm chi: our Taoism as intricate, this misprinted insanity, our affairs becoming our prisons: that sharp woman, as lifted for chosen, where it felt good to heal her: our radical pigeons, this frantic squirrel, our spacial converses: this infant to smiles, our knuckles speaking, this clash into sandy shores: that beige Cadillac, that orange Impala, those church grounds recruiting those myriad features: this sickly hospital, our waxed heart-plates, this breath-mask—where love was essence, as misappropriated funds, while racing to find his escape—as not by persons, by essence by souls, while admiring that one possessed such formula…that incumbent tick, such by responsibility, without a thought to her sanity: if but with lies, to adore for sighted, our intuition running from images: as caged freedoms, or lenient surgeons, or atypical sermons…that cyan mountain, those turquoise stars, that mahogany sun—if but her life, cut into veins, to feel with purpose destroyed neatly: this stitching frenzy, that new reality, our ambitions at becoming this appreciated human: if but to live, or but to die, staring while reaching for callous arms.