I Read, “Stranger”

I know for vipers, this incredible friend, this endless matrimony: our sanctioned cycles, our motor-mobility, this fragile swan so undertaken’d: this filming remorse, this course with silence, this vacant ape-war: as cursed for deaths, while breeding lives, to cut into flesh ten years that dungeon: our current horses, our present rabbits, those rabidly inflated eyes: our yogis watching, our daughters to births, albeit, this brain conscious before thoughts.  I sipped Jesus, I ate his intestines, I lost while grieving such winnings: this blanket exhaustion, this miracle mansion, or our thoughts pretending manhood: that lev afar, those bars screaming, this ruthless tactic: to dance while heinous, or cursed for goodness, while here it dreams, this vicious theologian: our rafts bleeding, our elephant-whales, or this gut feeling such destruction: our addict mothers, our damaged fathers, to rear with violence this silent invention: as ruined for passions, or damaged for fortune, thereto, this diary by Yahweh.  (I drift.)  I thought to pains, this adolescent, as so close he screams: this ironic love, this concerning ache, at membrance concerning this author’s father.  [I couldn’t love, this stranger of souls, hearing this venom by lies: our perfect mothers, this contradiction, for her actions spoke too insidious: this casual thought, while dormant by ages, until this milk spilt upon carpet: this velvet rug, this inner season, this reckless abandonment]: as mystics soaring, filled with trepidation, or this baffling awe: those remarkable ache-tears, this need for normality, while both parents are frenzied-wars: this gecko pianist, this drumming iguana, as time kisses unspoken dreams: our phobic hearts, this friend whispering, while we ignore this angry swan: those years to subtleties, [if but he puckered ass], if but he ignored sheer disgusts: this reckless person, as speaking in dungeons, while divorced from inherit attributes: this flailing system, this rapid distrust, while it felt for heaven to escape.  (I drift.)  It was tears ago, this robust countenance, this psychotic feature.  (I thought of insouciance, or this combined nature, to analyze that some clash by nature: this remote daughter, this deaf sentence, our screams combined that second inside monsters: our boxing wars, this fleet of chi-science, this ambitious cloud-essence: our broken watches, our churning moments, or this reality being raised by addicts: our deep emotions, this catering to souls, this feeling afforded this loss by reality: our guts hanging, our words as tender, our days as feeling voices: a daughter’s dream, a sun’s imagination, while this stranger was pushed for cliffs.  I radical that thought, tugging an earlobe, feeling perfection in reality: this perfect friend, this perfect mother, this perfect cactus: those rabid incisions, this fleet of tyrannies, this indebtedness purposed with intent).     }…I shift to differences, this immortal mystic, this fleeing into darkness: our amplified wilderness, our saga as incipience, our souls at coffee fifteen years into our futures: this traumatic peace-keeping, this indebted warfare, those plums seeming so sweet: our alibis graves, this poet as enemies, this song as fractured: but more to gods, and souls to goddesses, while soaring for captured desiring a flute: this inner walnut, this babbling fool, our arts to brains as sensing something imperfect{….     I love as dying, I cringe as wounded, I drive as geared this election: this crawling tortoise, this musical violin, this drumkit bleeding our realities: this fleece of hatred, this losing battle, this cut as delivered: to hear this psych, while pleading his understanding, where something quite dangerous has taken its course.  I drift with life, listening to grief-lyrics, pulled by this shadow: our archetypes whistling, this swan to passions, or more this swan to loyalties: as sought to ask, this blindness of eyes, (and never this induced guilt): for ours is pure, as dependent upon emotions, while tugged so young as never a child: that penguin laughing, our Japanese Frisbees, our memories fueled by a stranger’s resonance: so live as conquering, and die as resurrecting, this science pursued by bilking dreams.           

Put it on Repeat

…you die imperfectly: this threat to men; and you die perfectly: this breath to men: this swimming daisy, this trefoil embrace, at Cover Girl fantasias.     I blast a coma, this resurrection, found in diamond crowns: that other life, this knowhow frenzy, our men dying for confliction: this model screaming, this reckless enchantment, this Beauty Reporter.     I grind softly, a medal for bravery, this inner mandala: our casual exchange, this mischief insanity, our years to growing aged as compassion: this mystic adrift, this yogi frontal a maze, while cut for splayed: this Shea Butter complexion, this Green Light Special, our sleet as sleek expressions: wherewith, this gravel bleeding, this soil up-chucking, our guts playing for fancies: this revelation, this office flame, our courts speckled with loyalties—as turns buttons, while grieving losses, where it felt ecstatic to pass life.     I savage intestines, this clinical depression, this laugh to witness kindred(s) appearing as gorgeous: our known retreats, this ancient artistic, those kangaroo courts—as but his baggage, or ghetto badges, at tyrannies afforded one last drum.     I know inner lights, this march on Washington, our eye-lift undercurrents: while dying resilience, or knitting anniversaries, with two to three gladiators: that infant whining, our sisters’ ghost-face, this person tugging from bottomless seas: this man dancing, this woman to operas, our orchestra flaring for disrupting public senses: this outer square, this office nuance, those long to grave-like sensations: our permanent colors, this weeding perception, those Clairol Frontal-lights.     (It was good to sever, or hell to wheels, where cryptic powers reside in kleptic souls: this morning’s grits, this mental dessert, this desert of dying sacrifices: this temple in Rome, our impending summer, our pomegranate with ginger: those redeemed eyes, that hair texture, this plight to souls as bypasser(s): this coastal line, this Pacific forest, our treasures found so far with boundaries: this admiration, after seeing such addiction, while warped enough to believe cliffs refuse to participate: this Aveeno woman, this down south soul, this sophisticated ghetto: to know by guts, to ruin by redemption, as I laugh to forget this mystery: our cultic voices, this cultic militia, this other person steaming greens: this Guess enlightenment, this reckless tomorrow, our direction with inner compasses: our blackened moon, this forereaching enterprise, this day to silence).    

Its 1920, or 1865, this man pleading his intestines: or medieval blues, at converse concerning arts, while ruined by plagues: this swimming sand-mind, this intestinal grand-flute, this fluid sensation: our dreams to women, our sails to Fiji, or such as women that distract inner saviors: our Own It mentalities, our meta-universes, those probable existences: our Jergens with oils, our wines with passions, our eggs with cheeses: as men running, while confused by facts, to picture Michelle proof reading: indeed to solace, or casual turmoil, to distinguish one’s sad estates: this genetic nightmare, this caiman agenda, this outer leviathan: as inward fools, or drooling insanities, to have for perfect this conglomerate person: that shift in decades, this year to centuries, our wonders concerning B.C. debutantes: as fevers are abated, returning to equilibrium, at struggles about utilities.     […its sheer fierceness, our turquoise Africans, our radiance as Always: our Revitalift, our incarceration, our buoyant apocalypse: this apocrypha, this trenchant realization, this daughter pinning certain phrases: our inner mothers, our redeemed fathers, this cycle as finding truth in repeated lives: our agonies, this blue-jay peering, this rope as unbraiding its cords: to die while relieved, or achieve while studied, as one coming into another’s future: our L’Oreal photographs, this capture with chimes, this remote feeling where days were gloomy: that sort by anguish, while threshed with permanence, to arrive with life’s resurrection: our unimagined selves, if but multiple persons, at intestinal squabbles].