…this
subtle melancholia, eyeing this sleeping vex, attending to this imposing angst:
or dancing before crowds, this boisterous laugh, this hidden feature: as
pleasing humanity, while dearly at currents, where fresh air seems dusky: this
orange/yellow, this florescent green, or purple majesties—those ribbons with
signification, this radical frequency, those early morning prayers: or restless
but asleep, or asleep but restless, where hours pass with amazement…. I ate life, before I knew her dream, whereas,
these days I watch existence: this feudal participation, this sighted blue sky,
or this turquoise crush: as kids pass letters, as teachers intervene, our
embarrassed legacies: this old world, this old feeling, as emotions have
forfeited uniqueness: this bounce in music, this feral vision, this evening’s allegories:
to suggest a review, while having another’s scream, our cantankerous
underpinnings: this pump for oxygen, this water for coffee, or these images as
nonsensical—that daring star, to arrive at midnight, where Love, plus, I,
indulged in promises: this touchy feeling, this moment’s sincerity, this brief
explanation: to surf frequencies, as confused by life, to realize this hidden
feature: our Dear Maria, this clean but filthy miracle, or this metrical
riddle, or eyes too pure, for rapture’d souls—our graves at Sonnets, our airs
at Triolet(s), our passions as devastating literature—if but as sung, this
trenchant Tao, or those sunrise blues…those hazel jeans, this cocaine blouse,
by secrets appearing as un-captured or uncaged, or lost for dreams, while
agaze’d by living imprints…this tall tale, this unmoved motion, this redeemed
feeling slipping his grips: that achy monsoon, this tugging at guts, those
dusty particles: if but this rapture, to lend such resonance, where strangers
become indebted: at long doubts, at terrible realities, while skeptic
concerning pure decencies: those old reports, driven by Christianity, while
snatching courage to breathe slowly: this man at feelings, this ghostly
miracle, this source pushing particular emotions: our Dear Theresa, this glow
with penalties, this life with growth-spurts: this ageless sensation, our
bodies falling to decay, our minds, if captured, increasing at alacrity—this
swift attraction, this familiar uneasiness, where infatuation becomes this
casual interaction: our earth at blossoms, our tulips speaking this language,
our perceptions becoming intricate: at tensions with facts, while attending to
practical matters, where flights attend our imaginative spheres: this sky rose,
or those cloud petals, or our personalized phoenix: this fire-land, this watery
clear pond, or our attitudes seeming frisky: those purring kittens, this
barking puppy, or this vivid landscape: our castles coming lowly, our realism
appearing grim, while fantasies seem to flourish upon empty winds. (…such exquisite insights, such radical
concerns, such at life feeling inadequacies…this coyote’s trail, this jaguar’s
cave, or more, our beating drums: this tribal sophistication, this revving pure
energy, or better—upon a glance lost to existence: this bowl of grapes, this
shared walnut, this apricot with teas—where today becomes feelings, while
tonight becomes bearable, where in secret, our feelings become familiar: this
steep impression, this confusing fact, this dissipating reality: at certain
thoughts, playing tetras within, or
prescience with dice: this baffling reality, this rapturous essence, or better,
this person retreating from pains: as darkness ruptures, as alligators hide,
while bats are at stations: this cooling breeze, this warm sweat, or this need
for impartialities: this calm distance, this game for rules, while neither
party are all that concerned: this imposing intrusion, if but to stir deserts,
while this lizard runs crazily upon hind-legs: our seconds with clarity, or
this perfected craft, while wrestling with disconnections: this ravine soul,
this falcon spirit, or better, this part human animal: our mental positions, as
ravished for sacrifice, while staring too intently at blurry horizons: to dine
upon aphorisms, to feel in deep awe with writers, where our legacies have
become immortal…).
