We live discomfort, those flares by
foreigners, but aligned in sensitivities: this squeaky knot, pitted in guts,
this lion’s guitar: to adore pictures, as perfected with grime, as sensed a
magician: our open doors, our closed skins, or this valley of bone brackets: at
skeleton horderves, or blood tinges brine, while broken so deeply we face
mirages: this child screaming, this woman to mood shifts, this freezer leaking:
those orchids dying, this song suffering, and those tulips spacey with
concerns: whereto, this infant feeling, those beady buds, or miracles engraved
in sky-tones: this old maniac, this new human, where mother laughs as fraught
by tears: this year to promise, this tale of old, and Jesus blessing our pianos. I grabbed an anchor, I sought earth, I
became scientific: this burning phoenix, this comic tragedy, or faces painted
hardcore resistance: to pant her brains, as disgusted her voice, while too
tired to retire: this living curse, this disobedience, and pants sagging
pavements: this Smith artistry, this Hilary mansion, or this Kerry picture
perfected: to silence intestines, while courage’d to exist, albeit, this inner
James Brown: our churns at ruins, our women dislodged, where trees bend playing
our cellos: this baby’s violin, this Beethoven enterprise, or bright lights
screaming about Stop Signs: if but to live, feeling some type by goodness,
while money purchased Love: those wailing graves, this cemetery of living
spirits, and our days to Levert and liquor: this budding tear, this daughter’s
legacy, or this feeling screaming, I’m
Right. …have life, Love—this
fortunate discomfort, this bleached reality: this plural postmodernity, this
color in trauma, our edgy cinemas: our radical maestros, our clarinets
internal, our blue-black musicians, and jazz becoming the new tomorrow—wherewith, our vivacious souls, this vivid vacuum,
or dreams so entrenched that God is wrestling: those candles flickering, as lit
by ghosts, to become this livid mediator—at crosses, or laughing at lakes, to
feed a tiger: our oily palms, our musty scents, and nature fleeing but dear
with courage: this infinite fear, this driving force, where father adores his
precious angel….
I saw a pharmacist, I thought to life, as
once too young for consequences: this bold darkness, this memory curse, and
miles to our friendly liquor bank: this trenchant ‘essence’, our tragedies in mega-sunshine, or remote an
undercurrent as remembered in an instance: this charged force, this raving
instinct, and those mega-geniuses: to pick a flute, conversing with ants, or at
tug-a-war with a mantis: this memory feud, this wheat grain, or that old box of
Cheerios—as Love is laughing, to feel this moon, where it reels goodness to
exhaust promise: this lavish fool, those cold distractions, and this FedEx
package.
We live as phantoms, this family curse,
this wide spread legacy: our days in Lafayette, our nights on Bourbon Street,
or this evening to Texas: this Scarface enterprise, this piece of terror, this empire
at Rihanna’s knees—those daisies as symbols, this symbiotic as graces, or this
resistance becoming buoyancy: our physicists flying, our mental-metaphysics
soaring, and this noetic apparition—where daughters chime, as speaking game, to
flood a particle: but mother laughs, to feel a bit good, while craving our
local news: this old maniac, this living priest, to take a volt and scramble:
where father saw damages, others saw deaths, while one believed in voltage…this
dream, Love—and utilized with slants, to induce a cryptic response: this telic
cultic, this ghostly flame, as moving in radical circles: this beefy soul, or
this soul to planets, while granny bakes lemon pies: indeed, to majesty, or
majestic stars, while mother speaks this existence: (such by absence, too cold
for language, and dying our decisions).
