…because
it chirps, this incandescent rain, this permanent feature: at remnants
baptized, at cultures by closed eyes, at remorse by something inconsequential:
that moving attitude, those slight remarks, this inverted countenance: our
brains war-locking, our wiccan tendencies, our daughters but one slice of
reality: this choice meal, this rebel attic, this jasper banshee: as
consecrated, pledged by allegiance, our American Psychiatry held high: those
rubric souls, those rubric cries, this impermanent decision: as mother to
rulers, or father to wholeness, where
minds mimic animals: that dark light, this limbo status, our ghettoes by
paining palms: whereto, this keyboard, this mental piano, this leprechaun’s
abrasions: as abracadabra, this
feline pacing, our roots slimy with intentions: therewith, this torn algebra,
this spirit-geometry, this inner melt-light.
(I wrestle by concerns, tiptoeing agitation, appalled by needing this
glimpse: those magnet hearses, those mystic knells, this invisible silence: our
screaming psychologists, our resilient psychopaths, this woman watching while
harboring sheer hatred: our lukewarm existence, or fervent dyes, at ponds
flogging this outward human: as terrible habits, to subdue existence, while
engulfed by troubling principles: this man laughing, as searching for father,
if but our mothers by intimate designs: this perfect creature, as never by
rebukes, where seekers are permitted to ruin existence: or life pining,
undressed by pains, reaching by physicality a lonely night: herein, this gassy fume,
this room by textures, this ceiling snapping life-portraits: as souls gunning,
abrasive with agonies, while longing as tortured this unbelievable ‘normality’—as rigid curses, this
gourmet soup, feeling for rubrics this partial consensus: as looks alike, this
feral capture, our days to exonerating sociopaths).
I lit a clove,
spinning by attractions, as multiplied by resistance: this inner freelance,
this inner dreamscape, our imaginations
promising electricity: that fragile warrior, that stern suffering, this music
alighting from heaven: those wasted years, this want with humans, our minds at
terrific pedestals: as if to differences, this salacious grievance, this
spectacular essence, [those centuries to perfecting womanhood]: as pruning
roses, or plucking figs, whereby, this art consisting of incessant waxing:
those brown eyes, if but by loyalty, as pledged to infinity: where days are
lethal, while churns are desperate, insofar, as clouds depict this immortal
caricature: our jasmine tulips, this cheetah empire, our top-speeds reaching
about a thousand kilometers per minute: this inner plea, if only injection, if
only supernatural joys: that small request, this island slipping, our volcanoes
becoming rafts: as change comes, or women cry, where men feel such relations:
our dry responses, where arts drain emotions, thereto, those eyes, as whet with
this hidden venture: that inner person, this creeping arc, those years to
wanting something damaged: that liquid wine, those liquid veins, this purpose
as accumulating debts. I reminisce, if
only too naïve, sensing a woman as deaths would die: our friends laughing,
while pursuing life, as going too by rivers: this delicate monster, this rope
tugging, this calm as insidious: our blackened moons, our greenish suns, this
illogical assertion: where Love would tillage, those neuronic threshing(s), if
but so intimate as to want for exists: that long egress, that chasing ingress,
this back to silence as dying captures: our fathers coaching, our mothers at
memories, this valley of impetuous activities: where Love is laughing, as if to
ruin, this light that remains by pillars of space: those endless vows, accursed
for ruined, while yanking for shredding immortal cloth: this alley
in-right-out, this essence as out-wrong-in, where Love was quite beautiful!
