Ink Swan

We break phobias, We break curses, We live according to drumming(s): this livid dynamite, this existential force, this pragmatic warfare: our dreams in glasses, our glasses in bottles, our luxuries purchasing bits of sanity.  I hear a swan, as casual as theft, an energized observer: this mental picture, that radiant heart-glisten, this buglike adapter: at myriad larvae, at pitted analyses, while skating this taste of infinity: our closet murals, this painted armoire, our brains to sentences as fleeing: that mug of coffee, this plate of spaghetti, our garlic bread—as seething literature, at vengeance with algebra, studying scientific truths: that inner piano, those strings to dinosaurs, this existence as providing that space for choices: at lights by candid vision, at philosophies with innocence, at traditions by marvelous radiation: that pecking pigeon, that gliding dove, those squirrels watching but rabid.  I live insistence, at thoughts by gardens, peeking for arriving lost at inquiries: those reachless plums, this metal rake, nibbling pomegranates in white khakis: our turquoise pumas, our sky-blue rugby’s, our Diesel denims: this miracle voice, as plastered upon plaques, our memories whispering during a.m. hours: as born again pilgrims, this visit through mica temples, this Mecca enchantress: as lives this turtle, harassed by this tortoise, at debates skiing through innuendoes: our smelted ontologies, our nauseating ambitions, our interior habits—at caiman gates, at genetic deliberation, at [the] blood type of existence: or mounts by ants, to watch with ink, wrapped afar but so near—as hushes an eagle, at tyrannies with falcons, swooping those vice-grip claws: this rhapsodic sibling, our joys your smiles, or more this trestle whining for comforts: that inner settee, this silent credenza, this bedroom ottoman: as fantast [the] swan, or graphic [the] mestizo, leering into nature’s advisories: to caress but feelings, our emotions as splendor, this indelible symbol.  Its music’s life, as orchestras wail, as sloths pause: or lyrics running, leaping hurdles, our ancient bibles in Latin: that pencil’s mantra, our silent Aum, this dialogue as soul-printed lutes: or ceilings evaporating, our acidic rainforest, this circuit melody by critical moments: that panting deer, those chameleon colors, this ability to adapt to both cultures: indeed, a faux-pas, for multiplicity exists, this requirement to feel comfortable with humans: as postmodern vehicles, agog by chaotic glory, this steep fascination with deconstruction: or nihilists mood-shifts, racing through philosophical islands, while nibbling gummy-worms.  I adore by foggy chorus, wrestling with deep emotions, wherefore, laughing for freedoms: that intricate being, compelled to surf, webbing a re-knitted koan: as souls fly, this gaily dance, our instructions coming through epiphanies: or structured cultures, as both would exist, our intuition re-stitching realities: as inner artifacts, or mental agriculture, this brain-flare cosmology: whereupon, this core-cosmos, this intellectual waft, our linchpins sewn into critical analyses—as mere breaths, heaving upheavals, realized about a second after realities: this driven force, that wretched curse, our lambs with red beans and rice.  I mimic insistence, as compelled a lighter-road, a bit enchanted by Taoism: albeit, knotted, singing a silent song, captured by ancient genetics: this voice we stifle, while afraid to look, indeed, at private hours lost with wonder: as pavement whispers, where bark recites, as branches form by dreams our personalities: this quilted reality, this hopeful fiction, our angels seated closely.