I
wine emotions, at days sober, at millennia sorrows: this writer’s fever, this
deep electricity, this universal chi: our dreams as carpenters, our years at
agriculture, or by architectural sadness: this rope connectedness, this woman
eclipsed, this son by prodigal designs: our clinical depression, this game by
make-shifts, where pressure becomes this forced greeting: or somber
countenance, or energized fatigues, while jealousies ensue:
If
to know this feeling, this man laced with spirit, this imaginative apparatus:
those conversations, alone with Jesus, while reciting our prayers: or more
converse, this one-sided dialogue, where hearts grow into resonance: this need
to exist, this push to compose, this inner dungeon opening and shutting: this
closeness to miseries, this mental distance, or this sudden avalanche: aggravated
by diarrhea, these acidic explosions, while unable to complete a meal: this
haunting malady, this friendless advice, or this picture painting
partialities—as signs become transverse, or inverted deeply, to sense this need
to fix dynamite: this gentle woman, those remorseful ideals, or academia
becoming our melancholia.
I
dine emotions, laughing at times, fiddling a petal: this house of mirrors,
those influential academicians, those few psychiatrists that confirmed through
silence: this scientific enterprise, assisted through lost electricity, to
seize with irony—those moments towards extra-occurrences: our feral composure,
this loud box-carte, this scythe speaking its demands: to need flights, if but
to redeem sentimentalities, while feeling guilty those indulgences.
…it
lives as patterns, this ecumenical carnival, this silent, intangible weight:
this attempt to shift, this make-terror smile, this wretched, precise
introject: this person dancing, as looking for approval, while guts are heaving
intestines: this mental spider, this core gorilla, or this need to perfect a
glowing countenance: our wines with agonies, our sobriety with agonies, while
others are pointing at this rising catastrophe: those compounded, plastic
problems, or this film by admirations, or this treasure too sore to enjoy:
those achy eyes, this unison gaze, this humbled reality—to die a smidgen, while
resurrecting, to acknowledge that an old zeal is missing: this garden of
loquats, those ghetto fruits, or years to rewinding our parents trans-crossings:
(this essence seeming sweet, this intelligent agent, this atypical class: as
still a monster, shifting through glasses, sipping but too close to clarity):
this participation, this inner sanctuary, this difference between persons:
those temperaments, this treble-baseline, this aqua-sentimentality: by a sensed
gesture, our eyes doing mystery, our souls filming humanity….
I
grind emotions, at thoughts those loses, where a man must examine his image:
this plight by far, this muddy pond, this filthy sheet: his days to lusts, his
minds to angers, his tornado as something apparent: those endless chairs, those
psych evaluations, this mental profile: our minutes by conclusions, our texts
wreaking havoc, or more, our souls gravitating: this human demand, this tangled
weed, this inner tug resisting its image: as missing pieces, but pressured for
analyses, while one appears a tad bit normal: notwithstanding, sorrow,
notwithstanding, abuse, or, notwithstanding, this zealot instinct: this soul as
manipulated, that perspective as intoxicating, those nuances as tormenting:
this mental car, this revving sphere, those revving emotions—as so close to
reality, but sensed as ajar’d, while reality has become this adulterous
concern.
