…we
have mistaken life, this jungle of arts, that mathematics, this mental geography:
this tepee of riches, this supposed garden, or this private carnival: those
boisterous clowns, this melancholic mime, or this fair adventure: those too far
to reach, those too close for comfort, or this mélange of vampires: our brains
to meditations, those mind-filled museums, this trekking while seated across
fireplaces: those vinyl dolls, our living-room Monae, and this feeling that
wine is grotesque: our swimming arms, our kicking mud, this sandcastle
crumbling from pressure: as men holding life, or women knitting life, as two
come together realizing strangers. (I
seem sad, this natural disposition, this laughing phoenix: our sphinxly
dialogues, our intrusive riddles, or one admired at tactical behaviors: this
moonlit mystic, this Zenist monsoon, or our nights to rolling our emotions:
this spiked candle, this lovely charm, and those somber/sober feelings: to exist
in that place, chilled with concerns, while a soothing voice prevents
depression: this light about friendship, this sea-boat convention, where tides
enter solace: those grounds for thieves, this sad expression, while our writers
attempt to paint reality: our macaroni with cheese, our steaks with A1 sauce,
and our potatoes with minced garlic: this meal for queens, this partaking for
kings, where Love angers with hardened truths: as living life, this lion vigil,
our cornbread with honey: as souls with fire, to feel quite lowly, where a
sudden interest provokes a cheerful countenance: this weighty ape, this
internal gorilla, or this atypical ballet—where mother becomes wife, as husband
becomes father, where sameness becomes comfortable: roundabout questions;
roundabout avoidance; or this awkward sensation pointing towards something
hidden: those marvelous patients; this spectacular center-talk; or this way
with distressing calmness: that music with ignorance, this ignorant man, or
this person too involved to hear Jesus: this taste of inquiries, this flying
with rosaries, or this trance stemming from pure radiance: this woman with
lances, this arch while aching, or this sound to this enchanting group: our
ankhs with leisure, our fascination with Illuminati, or this reality too bold
to capture: this furious fever, this furious ladybug, and this furious,
frantic, and frizzy polar glimpse). I
hear ignorance, writhing in this helium, such torque resting within this temple
of fools: this resigned woman, those resigned thoughts, to disregard actions
while painting perfection: this forgetful island, this unrealistic self, or
this casual disregard for infractions: while another watches, reminded of
passions, a bit angry with our reminders: this channel as offensive, this
detached person as mean, while hell has torn into many intestines: this fresh
air, this intense confession, or this woman playing this inner guitar…to sense
something, as it lives un-confessed, where private perceptions seep into our
public squares: this inner argument, to leak upon this trestle, while one is
angry that others are oblivious: those fever days, those hours by nights, or
this appreciative silence: to know with certainty, this unutterable reality,
where two dance about secluding secrets: this public force, this public
exchange, at thoughts realizing this lack of evidence: this faith in winds,
this life, this grit, this imagined personality: that mystic Buddhist, that
yogi Hindu, or this incredible source as always irritable: this place as unbeknown,
those reasons as private, to give dialogue while resentful that one embraced
such dialogue: this mental movie, this gutty montage, or this angst concerning our
next appraisal: this other soul, while geared towards perfect, to have such
existential realities: our otiose resentments, this other as never rested,
where reality seems quite intrusive: this other laughing, as feeling complete,
while one is at home with treacheries: this growing beard, this palm of gray
hairs, or this man so smart he can’t elicit a response: indeed, to ironies, or
cliff-activities, while feeling cursed enough to outlive ignorance: that fair
thought, those fair morsels, while in reality each person wrestles with
life.
