I
love pain, this miracle mother, this phantom father: our bleeding ghettoes, our
lights barely lit, our candles our darkest years: this cocaine frenzy, that
last hit, this explosive liver: our dreams shaded, our angst wailing, our
countenances blending: this medley of dysfunction, our loud voices, our morning
breakfasts: this high nature, this low current, our discombobulated chakras: if
but this winning, as sung Dubois, or this maniacal sensory, at terrors
excavating graves: our caricatures, our Venice, Beach, our Santa Monica Pier:
this boisterous alcoholic, this lazy alertness, this fracture driving through
gravity: our cuts, this daughter, as never those cries: our bending winds, our
broken fires, this coal smothering this inkling: as branded insanity, to live
as chimerical(s), this treacherous unreality: our ashes digested, this tale
with blood, this grandmother’s intestines: our blue furies, this pale
conversation, our days as outcasts—to witness sameness, this group of perfection,
this mother with souls: to pass to darkness, or to surrender while dead, where
affections yearn for glory: our waking charms, this inner glossary, our
familial dictionaries: this so-so knowledge, this so-so home-base, as driven
with killer ambition: this academic, this furious river, this excellent
first-glance. I love pain, this immortal
swan, this kitchen by decorations, this granny that potty trained: if but to
luxuries, where thoughts are abated, if but this mystery with chimes: this
unfair ambit, this mental rosette, this California Camera: our Kodak Moments,
our blurry horizon, this treachery as pure falderal: as never this cut, as
rarely this lace, this touch of fortunate losers: where mother laughs, this
other side, pointing towards father’s indecencies: to pause and sip, where mystics
are cringing, while pushing gladiator spirits: this man loving, this compassion
for Aaliyah, and this Four Page Letter: this
midnight gray, this leopard’s bones, this meerkat’s brains: or honor this
duvet, as lain to sanity, where gramps must admit this reality: our guts
freezing, our sentiments tarnished, our mothers cringing—as dying this life,
while fraught by secrets, to have for comforts this strange island: indeed,
with wisdom, indeed, with knowledge, indeed, a young warrior—where hell is authentic,
as psychs to tears, where therapists digest an inch of pure fire: those rabid
feelings, this churning arc, this psych to wonders: but truth was honored,
while lies were abated, to omit where tension is tremendous: so more to love,
as more to sacrifice, while it feels good to perish for Love. I love angst, this intestinal vat, this
mystery with repercussions: our garnished brains, this mystic endeavor, this
unclean African American: our guts hanging, our phones as radical, our
sensories bleeding sanities: this fair market, our grassy blades, our palms
sensing this familiar life: that old self, that dying self, this terrible
breastplate: at Ephesians grunting, at prose listening, at hearts as pure as
our first inception: this voltaic nightmare, this indomitable figure, this
queen dying deliberately: as lives this gut, this pure admiration, but mother
died so early her existence: this fair creature, this innate mother, this
innate mystic: as too, this inborn yogi, this mental conglomerate, this
Catholic Education: to cut with silence, these myriad friends, this time
attempting purities: our holy diamonds, this field of rhinestones, this world
of dead allies: our purgatorial(s), this naïve pith, this thought that ‘all’
yearn for accolades: this good quality, this outer psychologist, this old
therapist: to gut his bones, as dying his mother, to find father pleading
resilience: our cursed existence, this metaphysical enchantment, this old
professor laughing at Destiny: if but for perfect, to feel while dying, to
laugh in good humor: this barbed-tail, this inner dragon, this daughter by last
rites: this introduction, to give as taught, to add nuances: this breed
bleeding, this harsh existence, as Chinese Laws: to turn with incentive, to
gravitate towards pain, to yank at self pleading our guts: this rabid mirror,
this rabid mother, this rabid father: our achy legends, this inverted veil,
this extraordinary fire.
