I
fiddle a quarter, our women’s admiration, those unfamiliar responses: this
black lagoon, this Nigerian soul, this achy Witness:
as men die, as women live, as both mourn our cradles: that violent
undercurrent, that silent undergrowth, this Cinemax movie: those antique
screens, this musical settee, this decrepit guarantee: as leopards cry, as
souls fuse, as sockets reject—this mortal bird, this song-note fly, those
syllables erasing symbols: our winter’s blockage, this faux pas, those miracle
eyes. I fiddle a quarter, tugging
cigars, a tear concerned about lungs: at eighty percent vision, while twenty
lingers, this chase for immortality: such asperity, such glistening promise, as
dying to live agonies: this soul bleeding, this daughter confused, this precious
memory: as partly human, those torn effects, this façade by disciplines: as
Apostolic, or corporate Baptists, or this event turbid with darkness: this Whole adventure, that remarkable
culture, or our suicidal mothers: as lives a dynasty, scraping feathers, while
washing tar: those faces screaming, this son fiddling, our brains to seconds as
feeling secure: that wellic moon,
those roaring shadows, this trekking closet: our mental scales, our inveterate
Jews, this man at deaths laughing insanely: as motors lost, or forceful
voiceprints, this Lady to gin with tonic: or toenail needles, or squiggly
lines, or effervescent pills: to die this life, as never by judgment, at
tournaments chasing his last alibis: this faceless woman, this pictureless
winning, those invisible addicts—as
wiggles a worm, at oblivious churns, those common pigeons speaking fire—to cut
with curses, while divorced from existence, this mere man as immortal by
solitary thoughts: that deep delusion, our muddy ashes, our noses dripping
mucus. I fiddle a quarter, sipping
russet wines, nibbling ambition: this dead flower, that male with child, this
enormous caiman—those shivering verses, this tremulous voice—where love is
anguish, as love is ruling, while love becomes sheer imagination: that exterior
rib, this interior connection, our therapeutic cigars: to venture as unsung,
scribbled as non-receptive, accursed for ruined: that steep consensus, our
American Europe, while ghetto children have been stifled: those ecumenical
spikes, this remarkable chasm, where children are taught to listen: as midnight
faces, or benighted charms, liquid at roots needing cement. Its terrible makeup, or enamored frustration, attempting by reach those
intangible skies: that inner roadrunner, those hyena genetics, this
intellectual barracuda: that sworn intuition, those shimmering eels, this
synaptic reef shark—as running into vestibules, shaved by rooms, at closures a
horrible human: or more at touch, this ascetic monster, a bit too gentle for
humanity: our sutra verses, our huts in Tibet, our under-courage adventures: this
luminous society, those miraculous models, this mystic illusion—as intrusive
chaos, or more as written, as coming
to realize this elusive war: our contrite hearts, our monsters shifting, our
souls born to alcoholics and addicts: this ignored reality, while
shaped by riches, our interiors dying with delusions: that perfect countenance,
that rabid truffle, this mental carnival: as cut with silence, or thrust
through by spears, this game at souls jousting for images: if but admiration,
than more our insistence, while dying those ghetto closets. I fiddle a quarter, while sipping marooned, this raft punctured by shames:
this musical vice, this musical charm, our musical travesties: our quivering
agonies, this dervish city, our Palestinian women: or Persian cries, while
seated at kef, our Rumi Empires: at arts flying, at keynotes destroyed, while
to function existence: our decreased zeal, our increased cynicism, our minds
without warning becoming quite skeptical: this band upon life, this ceiling
breaking, this sky falling—whereto, this mythical creature, imbued with
characters, a fire knitted his brains!
