I
ruffle feathers, as unbeknownst at incipience, this havoc moon rise: this swanic
future, those swanic friends, this summer at leisure: this panting guy, this
brook with meadows, this purple monsoon: this rain falling, our souls howling,
our actors passing forth: those creative lines, as mother muses, retrieving a
subtle insight: our grannies reaching harvest, this prime episode, to grip with
essence: this feudal ballet, this symphonic allegory, those resounding
clarinets: our jasmine gowns, our turquoise evenings, this remarkable poet: to
lose her cries, as to lose her energies, while feeling sad over a stranger:
this steep humanity, this foreign whistle, this sudden whisper: our inner
glaciers, this in-sounding forest, this coppice of trees: our cedar roots, our
cypress Legos, this mesmerizing Yahtzee: our building corridors, this ghostly
vestibule, this ecstatic presence to hearts: our fire, Love, this holy
adoration, this grandfather’s clock: where days are macaques, as nights are
chimpanzees, while morning regroups its feelings: this feel-feel life, this
river by emotions, this inner italic. I love your mind, this feeling at
seconds, this steep realization: these Zenists Techniques, these Mystic Zenists,
these Buddhists Mystics: to push a little, sipping something sweet, at thoughts
concerning an old friend: this ruthless parallel, this demonic pleasure, or
those cemented tattoos—as conditioning existence, this out-leaved position,
while raking at chipmunks: our goblin sensations, our gorging steaks, or this
second for fasting: this Eudemonia, this Picasso Legacy, this inner Plato
Dynasty: our epicurean desires, our stoic heartbeats, or this round scathing
doubts: if but to pause, while thinking on Truth, to realize this caiman
existence: our aches laughing, this world abandoned, this shark two inches from
attacking: if but to win, while losing aforetime, this sub-planet of
pragmatists: as pushing further, to dance with Frasier, while Niles laughs
sadly: our graves as jewels, this return as news, to ponder our old souls. I adore a swan, if never again those eyes,
for we share genetics: this rejected force, this probing cadence, this inner
friend: as mother toasts a bagel, this lathering cream cheese, or this Pharaoh
screaming over marshmallows: this satanic satisfaction, this holy cauldron, or
better, this devil converting to Christianity: indeed, to broach topics, this
steep impeachment, or this ironic manifestation: as crying moons, or elated
Taurus’, to feel that life will suffice: this color we ignore, this quadroon
political, this feature in black cultures: or life drinking, or this perfect
countenance, or this song so steep it sings: (your miracle eyes, this palm of being-ship, this new adventure: this
world of friends, this universe of scoundrels, this want to give you this gift:
this shortened page, this rage in men, this dispersion into this suppressive
nature: as ethics watching, this ought in women, this cyberspace feud—where
Love was genuine, to effect a change, while torn for truths destroyed our ovens: this casual address, while sad a notch,
but revving this Ghost for clear advocacy): those forgotten prayers, this table
inside, this multiplication: our mother’s laughter, this woman trying hard, this
space in women attempting to perfect life: this rosy child, those rosy cheeks,
as dear to life such innocence: to ask simple questions, as father is patient,
to retrieve a thought of entanglements.
I end with wounds, as never to blackmail, but more this sky-crazed
existence: this inner zealot, this cultic friend, or this steep ingested
history: our deep aversions, becoming our charms, to gravitate towards
something that’s revolting: our serenaded flutes, this cello response, this
wilderness of orchestras: this beautiful swan, this precious insistence, this
lake as covered in petals: our sibling feuds, this place in years, to look back
with sentimental fondness: this soul spacing, this rhythm chasing, or more,
this scent of vanilla: our dreams in jars, our jars tossed to seas, our
ambiguity settling.
