…at
closed cliffs, prying for entrance, this vestibule of ghosts: this dinosaur
legacy, this shoebill genetic, at courage this lake walking upon sand: our
brooks laughing, our souls so close, our daughters picturing maniacs: this
watchful granny, this intelligent uncle, this pensive wife—as men drown, before
coming to life, to bat a layer those droppings: this keen fool, this losing
father, this forfeited friend: to cuss with silence, to act with behaviors, at
court-lands walking in shackles: those perfect errors, this fine island, this
frisky beaut: as driven capuchins, elated for at ecstasy, this poisonous
centipede: where mother was golden, this perfect replica, while death haunted
its subject…. […this account at hero,
this heroine at capacity, this daughter deciphering but needing guidance…this
plain view, those immortal codes, or these endless commercials—while deep at
execution, this guillotine laughing, this head to this pouch or rolling for
dusky skies, this daunting allegory, those mystic fens: our mayfly curse, this
intricate web of do-goods, or hell to
wings this darkest ritual…]. I adored
this rescue, this inner antenna, this inner shard-grief: while Love appeared,
this thought carrying particles, at dinner about a curse: our marooned
feelings, our taupe eyes, this sable rich galaxy: to ponder lullabies, or to
remember this filled palm, while aching for redemption: where mercy is foreign,
unless received, to request forgiveness for something most heinous—this field
of sociopaths, this summer rain, or chains dangling from perceptions—this living
matrimony, our vows stressed by barnacles, while Love is quite ecstatic.
I’m in-for-out, this mental vestige, and
those misappropriated perceptions: as far too easy, to suggest infatuation,
where one is trained in deception: such pale flesh, such rubric concerns, such
rubric cries: this husband fawning, this riveting body, this tale as too old to
vet: our mercurial feelings, this sudden anger, this course at magic islands:
this Fantasy Land, this Fantasy Island, this miracle of situations: to come to
peaks, aroused with violence, to cut for veins this trenchant elation: our
normal eyes, this normal soul, while requirements scream for a certain slant:
this given insanity, found in this treacherous soul, while morals abated become
tsunamis: that winking greenhorn, those winkless eyes, this tale for pure
control: to utilize prowess, this audience of thieves, this carnival of clowns:
where Love was perfect, as detached from sentiments, to evolve as one a Pagan
of our crimes.
I inked a number, this numerological
curse, our days at Taco Bell: this sentient mystic, this sentient meditation,
as souls become blurry into this picture: our years laughing, our deep
inheritance, this grain as convoluting soul-caves: this remarkable woman, this
other at detention, or both two worlds into chaos: this film of daughters, this
inner photo-shop, this misconstrued realization: if but for remnants, to expose
to colleagues, as facing something too horrible to redeem: so less to fantasy,
this blacksheep outcast, and more to reasons to avoid bleak realities.
