I
was born easy, this miracle by rivers, this cottage downstream: that near-soul
hut, this roomy wilderness, those twinkles our dusty nostrils: at laughs so
even, at wars so soon, while becoming this life: our rabid hearts, alone for
cold, or warm that Maybelline goddess: to sense divisions, while cursed to
conceal, where capuchins play dominoes.
I ached for stature, I died upon petals, I loved sensuous music: this
riveting pulse, those cymbals resolving, this sweet and violent violin: as
pushing insistence, to have reality, where Love has become this art: those
schisms as loved, those raptures as adored, this picture as but a reminder:
that steep resistance, this impressionable mind, where family thrashed any
innocent conceptions: those eyes, looking for embarrassed, a tare disgusted:
this nauseous vomit, this redeemed infection, this person the only one where
change becomes irregular—or foreign this curse, while drugs seem rooted in
heritages and brains seem a bit high with such history: this rebirth, this
chivalrous monster, this mirror speaking of privilege: indeed, this aye-aye
friend, this blood sucking bat, this laugh as truly sinister. …there were three, at this insanity, to
discover there were too many: our genetics, if but that one truth, would redeem
our cultures: this dream at sand-bars, this metal as melting, this rapture as
curious: to damage feelings, while settled in clairvoyance, to realize that people
rarely struggle for clarity: this academic project, this semi-religiosity, this
atypical freedom—this adulterous apocrypha, this thrill with fornication, “if
but those prudes were more relaxed”: indeed, our faults, our disgusts, our
diseases: (if but our genetics, if but this root, while our audience is
awaiting our arrival: those night texts, scribbled upon brains, such by response
our huts): that bottom page, that bottom line, to sign at the headquarters of
travesty: our brains in makeup, our fingers in ocean earth, our knuckles
covered with barracudas: this sound for hereness,
this feeling for thatness, or those
pilgrims traipsing through dark horizons: (to feel nothing, to have ruined ashrams, while sick a taste refusing to
clarify options: as caught that soul, but a story to family, but another
restraining order—this lose I accept, I dance as emotions reflect, this
reflexive enchant): at myriad thoughts, at this inclusive spirit, or captured
by irregular behavior….
…we
enchanted chillness, this fatal explanation, this burning age-light: we
discussed cupid, we interrogated Athena, and we laughed at literature: at
tension this miracle, where ill-language sprang forth, where personal interests
became more compelling than family: that old friend, those old lines, this
fantastic climax: this fantast mystic, this offense to souls, while separation
is immediately followed by fornication: at not a breath, where minds are
selfish, where men are asking for something irregular: that chance to piece
puzzles, that chance to read minds, or that chance to fix heaven: (…this hate
in cries, this soul as reversed, to want for something decent: *for one to
behave as we perceive them, instead of constant disappointment, where Jesus
turns into some sort affected Adonis*: this Adonai feeling, this goddess in a
man’s dreams, this workshop courtroom: to lose respect, to hear you couldn’t
speak, to know for this tender damage…).
I felt concerned, this battle in children, this want to please more than
self: this heavy gut, this page in Zelda, this craft in Sonic, this restless
telic design: as bigger than lights, pushing passions, while forging this philosophy:
to know death, while requested to live deaths, where allegiance seems
irregular—this criminal curse, this hyena lawyer, this irregular take on
decencies: *to hear your eyes, at such contention, attempting that one go-again: this must to relinquish, for
choices are rare, where difficulties come with seeing clearly: this inner
sheep, this outer blacksheep, this picture perfect family*.
