…this
infinite strength, this bloody heathen, our grandmother’s urn: this florid
blueness, this anxious death, this hidden principle: our black veins, our black
bones, this incredible black threshold—as built for deaths, to arise as
floating, this unstoppable force: our muddy rivers, our sediment hounds, or
this sizable Goliath: that man to wretched, that woman dejected, those
scientists bogging resilience: if but to die, this leafy existence, probed for
plagued sorely: to furnish habitats, to intimate snakes, this purpose eluding
recognition: this chiseled swan, this friendless cygnet, this flourish by
detrimental emotions: our scribbled sidewalks, our kindle and catfish, plus,
our Cabbage Patch Dolls: this catching fire, this endless beaut, this maxim
prowess: as born with hatred, this motherly cocoon, these eminent catharses: as
waxing eloquently, this feral déjàvu, this space as scented but forgotten: this
weak feeling, this strong attraction, this fatal nonsense: as men cleaving,
where women run, while wrought in fantastic fantasies: those lemur eyes, that
epitome chin, those idyllic curses—this found artifact, this wretched genius,
such as pain too electric to reveal: this steep malaise, this channeled
television, this radio screaming her name: as shorn nirvana, or dejected dakini, while
satirical justice tugged this panacea arc.
(…we vex with pride, this mental ape, this inner gorilla: this axis by
thoughts, this gremlin for Love, this scientist removed—as sure to seas, as
shorn by shores, as dead but alive an inner chamber: our deceased guts, our
resurrected intestines, or that sigh so gentle those psychotic seconds: awash
with fevers, or nautic with sentiments, this knot, this sculptress, this
invisible winner: our daughter’s brains, this invincible flower, this bloom by
December: our fables churning, our puppets as puppeteers, or this whetstone
psychiatrist—to befall his wills, this
therapeutic massacre, or this penchant mantra—where
pearls are motifs, this mastiff madness, this pearl bedded with lyrics: our
dying for living eyes, this field for deserted blood, this milk as afar
restricting its honey: to wax with eloquence, this seldom antique, with far so
many miles, to intrigue as if born a fortnight by adult passions: that vacant
lust, those vacant glares, to arouse for deliberate this maniac attraction:
while cut through thoughts, this jazzy queen, this mistress to myriads: our
kissing child-games, our imprinted stars, or this burgundy red carpet: where
love runs, as chased by intestines, to capture as forced by retreating: this
lovelock delusion, our bodies writhing by frustration, our minds playing
jumping-jacks—that steep koan, this Asian sensei, this Jerusalem depicting its training—as crocheted lagoons, or rabid but dormant daughters, or blackened
moons: this winsome pain, this whelming torture, or such to guts rebuking
failures: our brains afoul, our souls ruined, our bowels breathing adders—this
gutty fuse, this pregnant dove, this woman calculating calendar dates: indeed,
a circuit, this threshing mischief, this reaping where God has sewn). I shift currents, this remarkable season,
this incredible human: our doting zeal, this family life, as far too valuable
to taint by destruction: this deep pleat, this extra-ordinary galaxy, our lutes
aflame pure justice: this place for passion, to outsoar petty grunts, our
tattoos with Indian Ink: this opus flute, our outstanding confidants, this
person that betrayals statistics: if but to die, seated and rolling privilege,
this harp speaking Swahili. {I ache with
terrors, peeking at glamorous women, this vernal welt: our untold privacy, our
sweltering and boiling bowels, this timbal, this pregnant kettle-drum—where
passion exhausts life, while Love is passionate disposition, to grieve with
luxurious essence: this battle in men, this struggling Hebrew, this Vedic Guru:
our inner harem, this Isaac Hayes, this place coming by its exhaustion: this
inner Isaiah, this mental Jeremiah, this Greek goddess—as pushing through bad
times, to Give God favor, while pulled through jealousies: this censored soul,
while tugging through graces, if but this kettle of ashes}.
