…these
soft lights, this florescent star, our deep aurora…this buried mother, those
suffering addicts, this daily accursed blessing: our inner courage, this
weekend sipping, this anathema—as bleeding priesthood, afforded to rituals, our
curses wrapped in roses: this garland sacrifice, this living by Our Eucharist,
or more, this passionate Wiccan: as accursed souls, welded to calamities, while
surfing with wings: those wretched lies, this merry sorrow, or this feeling
about being human: our vase-dreams, our Skittles with lime, our pomegranates
with lemons: this loquat ghetto, those rare satiations, as founded in Augustine
simplicity: these hiccups with vomit, this tall tree, these omissions we die
through: our preachers facing suicide, our priests facing lusts, or our Bishops
retreating into practicalities—this moving moon, this striking sun, this blood
blue river: as torn for you, while resenting you, where it felt good to solace
you: this immortal land, this holy hand, our rites distressing our integrity:
this beautiful butterfly, this alarming, hummingbird, this alarming romanticism
(this gorgeous music, this mental intake, this casual infatuation) to perish as
children, holding palms, or grieved by negligence: our immortal amygdalas, this
prehistoric texture, our soft lights: while fused for panic, this mystic
allergy, our remorseful tetras.
I
feel heaven, this gentle dove, this marvelous sinner: our river courage, this
Bhakti enlightenment, this remorseful epiphany: these acacia spears, this
elation too steep, this forward office: as dying swans, too angry for insights,
too cursed for quadroons: this pigeon appetite, these caiman genes, those
chirping emotions: our deathly mothers, this all night sore, this pilgrim to
Mars: our weekly addicts, our blatant resistance, this incorrigible habit
as existential
violence, this sword to brains, this split in Jesus: where father is mourning,
where mother is gathering, where stepfather pleads his existence: this rabid
tale, this coffee mug, this steep intoxication—to garner forgiveness, for such
was life, this splayed agenda: our gramps to feelings, as torn asunder, to know
right while begging forgiveness: this immortal swan, this cygnet ring, those
avenues as convoluted: indeed, with passion, laughing with mystics, while
confused concerning true friendship: this dying soul, where mother was vicious,
aside those polite encouragements: to make her happy, her only son, spewed for
cursed and spat upon sewers: this grave enchantment, this granny to hearts, this
moon bleeding pure agony. I die this
way, swayed for delivered and seeking Love.
…it
was hell’s delights, to shift perceptions, where this song sung its Danish
Retreat: this Irish whetstone, this inner grandparent, or this mother peering
into injustice: our blatant infusions, our effused passions, or this eloquent
design: our mystic rulers, our mystic meters, or our melic mystics: this man
running, as getting to mirrors, to evade while staring at ceilings: this gutty
soul-fury, this yogic insight, this psychotherapy—where mother appears, as
invested in every woman, to cut with diligence improving this man: our eyes
running, our guts ruined, if but this glass of champagne: while gramps is dancing,
feeling this life, but struck by deep malaise: (to see that countenance, this
passive sincerity, while wishing for something gutty): this patient life, this
inner hospital, to see this woman glowing furies: as mere men, as delivered
souls, as not to condemn importance by one infraction: this swan leaking, this cliff
blinking, our days to studying Abram: if but to exist, this kiss but
forgiveness, to ask that each lives this life.
