Sensations
wither softly, at cadence by rivers, this season for salmon: that frantic leap,
that frantic bear, this so-so address: as heavy souls, moved by French Horns,
at radiance through feelings: this tethered ball, this tethered dream, where
sensations become optic illusions: our hairs becoming needles, our plants
slumping life, our anatomies becoming ghosts: this loud essence, proving
dissatisfaction, plus, those noisy dishes: this pan of links, this listless
feeling, or this inability to eat: those times for teas, those bottles to
cabinets, as this intrepid clown. We
avoid wallowing, or give to wallowing, at fair price for such behavior: this
green legacy, this bind through threads, this passion conforming for souls: our
volcanic seas, this wild whale, this heavy existence—to insist upon easiness,
this uneasy culture, our minds taking issue with time: as honey-guide-birds,
this steep deception, our artful delusions: those tales by brains, this
luminous sky, this writing as breaking this curse: this observant peach, this
watchful snail, or such to anger repenting for time: our shallow address, at wills to seduce, but angry when others
distinguish deceit: to know our colors, to panic our hearts, while affixed to
dissatisfaction: but reason be gentle, this game at life, this sensational
monopoly: where badgers are one-sighted, while America wears a wig, and most
filters are reading through forced perceptions.
We dynamite pressure, feeling our low estates, while taking courage to
smile: those ebbing webs, this world by travesty, those tragic figures: at one
with belief, at three with faith, at home feeling detached: or love be good,
those clock-watch whispers, or seated nibbling chips: this world by menus, this
song by venues, our music as quite similar: our Country Classics, our R&B
lovers, or this inaudible feeling those chased by fens: this movie life, this
distant life, despite our treacherous intimacy: the sea kelp, those seaweeds,
this infamous nibbling through wires: as casual minds, at casual academies, to
become something super casual. I inhale
persistence, inverted by laughs, pushing misty energies: this polished
attraction, this wayward sphinx, this intelligible parakeet: this normal
mindstate, this abnormal genetic, this furious tale depreciating humans: our
need for comforts, our barnacles for closure, or this leaf seeming quite
interesting: as hopping kangaroos, this leap into existence, or this burden we
unleash upon souls: to exist with time, this collection of algae, as realizing
that newness is often this fleeting fashion: our running brains, this
inability, this need for something painful: this pull and tug, this late night
badgering, those sleepless agitations: those snippets about Kenya, this
inverted Europe, or this fascination with other cultures: our foreign eyes,
this retreat to escape, and those familiar warnings: those undressed
sensations, this sluggish address, this languid agility: our vitamins failing,
our liquor as tasteless, our hope as reaching its limits: this beautiful friend,
this beautiful brain, this slight agitation: where solace becomes loneness,
while loneness appears harmful, insomuch, this inability to reason: that
private world, as becoming silent, while it’s difficult to conjure images: this
toppy illusion, this dissatisfied patience, or more this animal feeling its
humanness: this need for travel, this need for events, while cursed this need
to express: our local mentalities, this senseless remark, this inversion
centered upon self-consciousness: our living parallels, our viable distaste, as
souls longing for broken chains: this pile of undergrowth, or this thriving
tree, our bark too thick for clarity: those remorseful feelings, this tide with
seasonings, or this portrait speaking plainly: our pictureless soulprints, our
scented photographs, or life to lights that leave us unsteady: this son in her
eyes, this daughter we wished for, or this soul-keeper slacking at our steering-wheels:
this sudden cramp, our intestinal responses, our forced receptions: as bright
minded warriors, accursed by wars, our ink but a fraction of poise.
