It’s
been seasons, this inner lucre, this beige mirage: this castled hope, this
roping scream, this vision alerting passions: this man running, this island
adrift, this well-walled chameleon: our Indie raptures, our Dalai Lamas, this
Asian dahlia: as souls relating, those energies debating, that passive
receptivity: those panda eyes, our vegan instincts, our Indian tears. We afire hearts, our yogic membranes, this
soul partial to powers: to imagine decades, flung into battles, as realizing
phantoms: those diamond shells, those tinkering monsters, those extra-ordinary
occurrences: that mirroring bear, those legacy paws, that frozen ocean: albeit,
only meters, at which, heavy sinus pressure: wherefore, this griffin’s sun,
this alighted feeling, while galloping torrent emotions. Our love is different, that vocal
mind-language, those inward spider-hearts—as losing time, fiddling this
compass, alive so private at thoughts: (it begs several questions, this
permanent chase, where life is evolution: those wishful horizons, while tugged
so gently, as gated gladiators): this reaching Tibet, our Tibetan cheetahs, or
that Tibetan fox: our shoji screens, that probing shadow, that geisha goddess:
as men to sights, fumbling casually, and becoming uncovered poetry: that inner
dynasty, that linguistic woman, our souls tuning pianos. I surf a mirror, seeing visions, but prone to
walk away: this heated debate, where souls are devious, while one accuses us of
becoming cold: that gelid ark, those warm dejections, this space that utters, I do as I want: moreover, that curse,
warring against infant instincts, where adults cage impetuous temperaments: our
fresh morning mist, our awareness untarnished, albeit, our sun shines upon
humanity: as sailing porcupines, or warfare monks, while nuns prepare for winter:
our salmon with rice, our eggs with sausage, those pains recruiting
innocence. (…at contradictions,
projections vs. agendas, our souls baptized in terrestrial genetics: or
supernal neurons, or omic vibrations, or this esoteric cosmos through science:
our lemonade-falls, our burnished ceilings, or more, our polished heartaches—as
souls soaring, a bit cluttered by life, beginning as something casual: our
mental antitheses, our rebellious songs, or that ninety year young saint): it
moves through souls, it pushes at unawares, it demands silence: this inward
dimension, that conscious portal, our gloomy weather: at drifts through time,
fiddling a fading leaf, while analyzing a snail’s veins. We war convenience, We dance arcadia, We sing
as partial to hidden lyrics: if but our destinies, paired as meditative, our
nights reaching for our last embrace: that christic influence, that sinner’s
convergence, our first recital—as mental fire, or liturgy sins, our souls
relishing volcanic flares: that outer countenance, our watching naysayers, this
jury by peers: as men surviving, or women weaving, even our sliced genetics:
those normal ponds, as void of algae, watching as suspicious of natural
DNA.
