I’m glow
to anger, reminiscent of this youngling, this inner/outer graffiti: that
unspoken introject, this natural chaos, this fluffy mistress: that line of
heroine, that ounce of chronic, this historical chronicle: our mother’s
spacecrafts, our father’s disappearing acts, our grandparents raising our
villages: this controlled acidity, this Instagram network, or this curiosity
seeping into relationships: indeed, at laugher, to sense debauchery, at
thoughts this soul admiring pictures: this fussy curse, this loud dysfunction,
where courage-mirrors are supported through strangers: but tears by lemons, or
sliced onions, while preparing our granny’s stew: our pastel women, our acrylic
captures, this age as eons we slept: this orchestra, this insecurity, as wives
ask concerning another woman’s beauty: this mature element, this ridge in
roses, this canyon drumbeat: as, nevertheless, this penchant for Love, this
inner nightmare, where arts becomes reasons: this big fuss, this aesthetically
drastic appearance, this tragic sacrifice: our gods battling, our angels
descending, our towers slammed to concrete: this trenchant nightsong, this
probing headache, or veils falling to face-chats. I’m baseborn, this struggling theologian, [we
know], those compelling habits: this coming eld (old age), this gumbo radiance,
this tale by those living plurality: our postmodern charms, our pragmatic
principles, while eyots (small islands), become inner frantic prisons: this
coconut bride, this inner castaway, or more this trip forbidding our exits:
this firth by estuaries, this bright soul, this luxury as sentenced to
friendship: to forbear for swans, to forgo for swans, while pushy enough to
cement questions: this perfect catastrophe, this futile shipwreck, or such by
irony cleaving to satirical passions: this mental fosse (trench), this classy
hologram, this mystic cinema—as men at birth, so destined for calamity, while
sorcery participates in eyes—this freshet run, this ruined stream, this cup of
pencils—where led seeps by veins, our idles graven in rage, our epithets with
near a gesture: this inner youngling, this laving by sunrise, this tasting by
raindrops: our woodlands screaming, our nethermost darkness, our souls reft
from tranquility: this snatching with ease, this pleading for heaven, this
destruction knitting Divinity: as counseled souls, our spoken silhouettes, or
shadows becoming quite intrusive: this game we play, where repercussion is mere
dialogue, where ghetto realities conjure respect: this deep confliction, this
inner lifeboat, or this ritual brainwashing its deliverance: this welkin
chaplet (garland), this unsated monster, this familiar compassion—where Love is
magnetic, this person pushing isolation, while familiar with juvenile
deaths. We see by glances, this bun too
tight, this impeaching head-storm: those romantic lines, that romantic
monogram, or this island racing towards aloneness: our spirits crooning, at
attention with dusky cries, at penchants laughing while mourning terribly: our
embarrassed daughters, our rabid sons, our mothers trying but pulled by
incorrigible forces: to have secrets, while angered concerning secrets, where
strangers catch a glimpse: this reproachable poet, this reproachable man, this
reproachable theologian: this cyclonic (violent) massacre, as invented in
brains, to find nativity close to guts: this fool despondent, this slight
exaggeration, or this mystic feeling special: our fathers pushing, our uncles
laughing, our sisters pleading invisibilities: as disheartened souls,
astonished, but fleeing, while running into this cactus haven: this group by
sacrifice, this fabric by sinews, this essence by Christ: [if but nonchalance,
while looking at American Red Cross, while peering into this catastrophe]: this
strata of souls, this remedy as forbidden, our sages invested in solitary
concerns: this mystic influx, those overpowering feelings, or this slain(ed)
evaluation: such primal passions, such close aggression, such untamed control.
