...such
vatic energy, such rich enchantment, such rusty wines: this space of termites,
as metaphoric thoughts, or semi-deliverance: this intricate wilderness, this
ancient rose, this frozen tulip: as kissed particulars, to evade our Love,
while charged with violence: this antiquitous ache, this antiquitous daughter,
or our return to acres…this silent need, this silent craving, to possess your
wits: this cagey scholar, this infant’s anger, this remarkable training: our
jasper sunrise, our jasmine pollen, as sudden this tropical tear: that salty
resonance, this salty lake, our leaping turtles: indeed, with nuance, to gather
these souls, if warmth becomes our coldest glaciers….
…we
requested passion, this angst for Love, this incredible summer…as cringed our
guts, this feud with adaptation, this evolutionary language: our mystic giants,
too humble for war, or too crazed to resist…this penchant in time, this
outstanding rage, according to our sixth sense: as frustrated geniuses, this
push through life, this simpatico Condition,
or this feeling tugging our strings: as men gunning, this psalmic war, this
insidious cure—while so infatuated, upon this thing called dreams, upon this
essence bleeding its humanity: those rustic charms, this castle elegance, or
our infamous retreats….
I
dreamt about pecans; I awoke feeling thirsty; I lay there pondering our
hunger…this mythical kingdom, this sagacious entourage, or this emotion
attached to invisible essence: our blackest moon, this fantastic pain, or our
opal palms: if but to sing, while whittled by scars, while this fantast
screams: our seconds at comforts, our incredible abilities, or this reach
knitting softly: our cultic waves, our emphatic grave-life, and more, this
arrow pushing through existence: such deep blessings, such lethal ammonia, if
but to likeness called, Love: this rubescent sun, this fatidic conclave, and
more, this mental-merry-go-round: those challenging words, this need to feel,
while afflicted by steep depressions…our legs crossed, our knuckles swollen,
our voiceprints cycling through kingdoms: this yogic pinch, this pensive
passion, this wistful electricity; and more, to agonies, and more, to
vacillation, if but this region of brunette leaves: our deep insistence, to
adore beyond reality, to touch this incessant heart-wrench: our pliers falling,
our women catching, our indelicate wars occupied by swans: this force filled
fragrance, this mime dancing, or arts to life, this suggestive longevity: our
coquettish remarks, our chivalrous pastime, if but this belief in brevity: that
brief midnight, those otiose promises, or this fever parted by deaths…moreover,
a dream, this cadence with existence, this palatial mid-sun…our seconds as
automatons, forging our religions, and forging our philosophies…as,
nevertheless, that fair grim-reaper, those flowers too heavy for transport:
this inner reality, this esoteric charm, this morning to fantasies…those inner
recalls, this fruitless lettuce, this raspy e-coli—our days as pigeons, slowly
this wind of eagles, to retrospect upon those years as unthought: this cavalier
woman, this misspoken wrist, this misspoken breath, this lose of something that
lived its essence: this steep secret, to tap into dispositions, if but to cull
out those rabid instincts: hereunto, this reluctance to push, this reluctance
to claim Glory: that magnificent mystique, those magnificent feelings, this
space leaping by signs…{as mere souls, at love for decades, at patience but
existence: this tragic tale, this tragic glint, or this reality so tragic it
fits: our shivering tequila, our nightmare wines, and more, those unsavory
calories: if but to live, to place this peg upon life, our firs bleeding animal
rights: at lethal charms, so entrenched by sexuality, to gift this terrible relation}.
