I
sense silence, this blue whale, this situation: our captive glances, this flute
with wings, this glen treading his valley: our reworked eyes, our rewound
cries, this reference for shuttled insights: those passive macaques, or
long-tailed monkeys, or tailored internal mnemonics: this euphonic life, this
inner echo, this picture speaking Latin: our here for now, or this revving
proclamation, while kindergarteners trace alphabets—our piccolo dreams, our
Pinocchio lies, our mental Stewie: as men captured, while laughing insanity, a
dream pictured with jealousies: as daring to fly, but afraid of heights, where
others are soaring: this infant alligator, this caiman gin, this adult human—at
tyranny’s lake, at mercy’s pond, or this insidious reality: that captive
feeling, our captive men, our swimming tadpoles: our bones with sinews, our
warriors climbing out of graves, our bodies falling to wind-pours. I met a mantis, I plucked a flower, this
exotic sap—those inner screams, this irritability, as but this segment in life:
those cranberries, this summer diet, this rooftop gymnasium—as, nonetheless,
this instinct in souls, and this California Sunray: to see too closely, to
awaken mid our discourse, or to walk away that sorrowful awning: this inner
psychiatric, those revving ancestors, this turquoise decision: as far too
subtle, this pain for alignments, this man slicing sugarcane: this tranquil
feeling, as having its price, where effort is afforded for racing: this urgent
world, our anxious urgencies, or this loss for lacking dispossession of self:
our itchy flesh, our Sahara Fires, our suppressed rabbits—at thickets by
nooses, to avoid tragedy, where a little excitement induces a Doctor’s
Mentality. I wrote Triolet(s), I dined
with shame, I laughed while feeling existence: this penchant woman, this firm belief,
those cagey investigations: to sing with hearts, to relive and rethink, while
affections linger in cabinets: this journal with ears, this silence with
vocals, this touch as remaining touchless: our perfect toes, our rescaled
intestines, this blank admiration: to cry as livid, or livid for crying, while,
nevertheless, it’s much ado about feelings: those casual husbands, or intense
women, or both as interchangeable: to sit with apes, to draw a monkey’s blood,
where a father sits with daughter afraid by history: whereas, we station with
pains, those skylark trefoils, this burning sensation: our analytical deaths,
our intrepid forgiveness, our dying enchantments: to border love, but devoid of
love, at love as mere a sentimental disclosure: this mood for passion, this
science as winning, while many are paying attention to decaying leaves: this
ladybug afar, this set of binoculars, or our upclose morality: this captive of
souls, our ethical conundrum, or this instructional magnet.
We
sing this life by ifness, or whatness, while attracted to thatness: our used sentiments, our used
prowess, our forgotten selves: where youth was wild, and middle ages were
dramatic, while old age cleaves to its insistence: those scales falling, our
Tobias prophets, this fire as seated upon mind auras: our hearts as penchant,
our guts as wistful, to sense with life this pulling gate: if that lake with
time, if but to withstand attractions, if but those controlling elements: hereupon,
these classic flames, this notorious ifness,
this infamous thatness: this
dedicated lawyer, this sophisticated Judge, or those insistent doctors: as
souls gunning, at oceans scudding, or this persistent office: as coughing up
mucus, or swallowing volts, to tear with life this power for sexiness: or casual
mafia thoughts, leering into
Scarface, at concerns our mother’s ovaries: our resurrected bark, our magician
branches, this feud with composing as one feels: this cryptic force, as
churning letters, to insist upon decencies: our souls needing life, if but to
sing at life, as one passed thirty is feeling unsung: this blank existence,
this winning crowd, this motion towards something that disappears like ghosts.
