…damn
near turned-out, and damn near buried, and damn near a lost cause: this furious
passion, this damned existence, this gorgeous travesty: as nine species, or
seven explosives, this dreaded fear: to lose his life, this dead-eyed soul,
just released from Harbor: our tiger instincts, this precise woman, this
priestly woman: our guts to liquor, our hearts to ecstasies, our bowels to
Febreze…. *…our beans with red nights,
our souls with darkness, our arms with love scars: those puppet eyes, that
puppet grin, {our women control passivity}: this jerboa race, this kick to
breathe, our mornings slamming shots: this curvy bullet, this bold mistress,
this shifty behavior: if but our deaths, those wild begonias, this lotus
daughter: our haven brooks, our torn distress, this precious insight: where
ghettoes are perfect, this perfect chaos, this stringent pantomime….*
I
sought parent roots, this strong current, screaming for aunty: this steep
sophistication, this jazzy wit clearance, this home too far to reach: our
sociologists, our homemakers, our lieutenants: those Federal crises, those
secret agents, this world of cultic warriors: that field of activities, this
mandarin with cheese, our coffee with cigars: this foul breath, this lively
love, this blunt testimony: as addicted to habits, while shifting personality,
to relocate our radix: this corner of dingoes, or that alley of hyenas, to cut
a turn into pure leviathans: this ghetto life, this rich cocaine, this
infestation of gram smokes: our mothers to flickering, our fathers to pure
Peruvian, our cousins sailing for cringing: our heaving guts, our asthmatic heart-cuffs,
or this holy catastrophe: where cellars dialogue, as chairs withstand, while
tables bleed tyrannies: this mental feud, this ghostly mirror, this shift as
perfection arises in deaths: our blatant arcs, like antiques by deserts, to
arouse this Aristotelian insanity: our science to love, our science to
children, our investments proving non-substantial: if but by fire, this
smelting misery, this chimney mother.
…we
panda existence, becoming twelve-headed monsters, able to discern motives in
but instances: (this beady-eyed soul, those lithium eyeballs, this risperidone
nightmare): to push with assertiveness, while one waits a certain resonance, as
deciding whether or not to act violently: this inner riddle, this place in
time, a caravan of warriors waiting to feel incentive: this cold kill, this
jetting through freeways, this throwaway vehicle: indeed, to laugh, while
frightened as hell, to praise without hesitation: this ‘somewhere’ God, this
inner God, this picture perfect God: {if but this existence, our
dreggy-nicknames, or gutty bear souls: as begging questions, while seated at
loyalties, where one has disappeared: this harsh tale, to think that thought,
where one was merely influenced}: this wretched divinity, this wretched
heartbreak, as mother fell damn near deceased: our casual spins, this life in
ghettoes, this evil-aided insanity…!
I’m
cooking salmon, a cigar at mouth, reminiscing as mother did it: this beautiful
queen, this misguided addict, this fair travesty: as cultured grandparents, and
resistant daughters, where profanity tends to relax anxieties: this cigarette
mother, this Malt Liquor mother, where such characteristics serve as warning
signs: our casual mothers, our deadly mothers, our caring and affectionate
mothers: indeed, with shame, indeed, with pain, indeed, to inhale and
dissipate: this truth be told mother, this gift to realization, this Tibetan
mother: our brains to deaths, this mother vacuuming, if but to carry this son’s
dilemmas: if but to live, if but to die, this woman screaming, Bloody Murder: to cut leaves, as sipping
sap, to then disappear into a mingy confidant: our years to seeking, our nights
to membrance, or those sights too sightly to mention: this roadblock, this
cul-de-sac, this rebel’s plant-life.
