Bipolar Rain Crows

We sing by flights, this fringe by survival, this dis-ease by wrangles: our remorseful porcelain, our teary intestines, our bowels rumbling: those catfish eyes, those Labrador cries, this tinge of perfection: as slanted coasters, or diamond memoirs, while trekking gray-sands: this burgundy feeling, those burgundy passions, this blue horizon: agouti tranquility, or meerkat curiosity, or marmoset travels: this red sun, those blinding vases, our wounds depicting perception: at but a glance, to determine temperament, to carry borne messages; and oh by features, this casual response, where simplicity becomes Mother Mary: this living space, this wooden frog, this ingrown mushroom.  I take to passions, admiring wings, but realizing that each becomes this kinetic warzone: our buoyant particles, our scorpion thoughts, our walls by both escapes and trapdoors: those rosaries, our melting semblances, our Duracell Batteries: as engines percolate, seated in stillness, this remote island: our ashes flung, our cigars churning, our thoughts that essence to resonance: to fair with gorgeous, this trembling soul, abandoned to Promenades: that tremendous nervousness, that voiceless concern, that immediate retreat: at purple dirt, a bit terrified, trekking this country valley: our indie music, our indri primates, or gates too close to vigil: our watchful eyes, our terrible cries, or this tendency to transfer feelings: that steep projection, as giving others traits, where said elements are mere possessions: this mirror’s eye, this third retreat, or by miracles, this chance to exonerate yesteryears.  I palmed an acorn, while trekking palm trees, while pricing trestles: I sought a swan, as pure simplicity, forfeiting her rights to anger: this foreign soul, this bleak sky, this orange/beige travesty: as born to legends, while attempting to feel, while refrigerators breed Iceland(s): this jasper warning, those jasmine apes, or those saturnine feelings—where God is interrogated, this pain in souls, where Job is said as one complaisant: this steep blaspheme, this terror with time, this possible position: our years at darkness, to perfect benighted quadrants, where innocence feels aloof from itself: this shorn rainbow, this palmed Alaska, this tundra of waterfalls—those electric mystics, this sign our arc, those walls too enormous for emotions: this intimate giant, this fair creature, this excellent masterpiece: this Rembrandt, this Picasso, this Beethoven—at intimate wars, as too complex for regulars, while bold enough to hide in public: that warm embrace, that chilled insulator, that intellectual eagle—where flipper becomes a confidant, while Bugs is eschewed, while, notwithstanding, private sessions point towards an impending catastrophe: this space in souls, this esoteric intimacy, this man’s soul stirred in quicksand—to leap with courage, this footing in Ghost/s, only to spin for fire this web of sentience.  We spend tears with lies, trekking raw rivers, or skiing frozen oceans: this polar bear instinct, our beavers fiddling snowflakes, or our travels to enter vestibules: those roomy domains, our worries stapled to walls, our harvest as something chimerical: this winter’s mime, this summer’s mystics, our autumn yogis—as filled with helium, afloat low feelings, while seeping into transmissions: this shift with time, this something to sober, as to encourage those winners: unraveled aglets, unbuttoned prisons, or unknotted traumas: this itty bitty spider, those screaming ropes, this particular space: our Brentwood Sun, our Santa Monica Moon, our Los Angeles Colleges: as filling our brains, this wild pack of alley canines, or that occasional porcupine: at souls, with quietude, this search for rectitude, in this uncertain certainty: our abrasive professors, our judgmental psychologists, or our stratagem joysticks: as concerned with mirrors, this dance through lights, this mantis camera: to come to passion, feeling emptiness, with so much more to give.