…we felt ugly, this celebration, priding
our guts on ignorance: this absent friend, this absent advisor, or this
demented mentor: to slice brains, our electrical guitars, or this trenchant
voice: our mystic shivers, our mystic towers, or this trefoil blue blaze: at
terrible harvests, this winnowing million, at tears sold to silence: to yell at
Jesus, to condemn this spider, or to talk with patience: this resolution, or
sheer myth, to exercise with Gertrude: our account for rain, this meal near
toilets, or this last river…. I chase
wounds, I die with Christ, I live as one sentenced to years: our brains, Love,
this gut, Love, this long range clarity: to push a gallon, to carry a ton, to
court a python: where mother giggled, as gramps shook, while granny could
barely amble: this could trigger, this long grain, our souls braiding Africa: to
need for Europe, if but this iron, if but this angst: reading into nothing, to feel a bit of something, while Love exaggerates a good
feeling: as treasured for passions, or hated for confidence, where one exhausts
particular beliefs: this need to rotate, this scorpion dinosaur, or anxiety
feel for fevers—to laugh with pains, to pain with laughs, while one examines
this treasure: to cut Jesus, to curse Yahweh, or to climax laughing and screaming,
God: this terrific curse, this old soul, this reckless courage: to strip
thoughts, or re-screw perspectives, while one asks a simple question: (it must
be voodoo, for mulattoes are warlocks, or misinformed Christians: indeed, to
giggle, this Baptist with rights, this man taking to vocals: at lieutenant
anguish, a speaker for ghettoes, without a damn claim for impressing
Cinderella: this venom dripping, our fangs extracted, to make us all a bit
fluid: that odious countenance, this sameness through eyes, to reply to Jesus a
false account): this witness, Love, this Comforter, Love, this internal
visionary: as fantasts living, or cookies baking, to feel a bit close to treasuries:
this Colossians Book, this in-for-reality, or stressed with pure conjecture:
this Us for Him, this dream about all things, or this muscle becoming a
tarantula—this trapdoor spider, this infant adder, of this radicalized firefly:
where Love was green, this mid-wave attraction, to experience so much that
feels good: those held palms, those mental trails, as mother cries for feeling
good: this black horizon, this quadroon pride, this granny educating a young
warrior: as mystics dance, this parade of adventures, while a psych shoots a
fireball: this fire in tanks, this swoosh and release, where mother screams, I Told You.
…it becomes observation, with this need to
doubt, while disenchanted by mirrors: to remember souls crying, as needing
guts, while days feel a bit lonely: our driven bowels, this inner purgatory, or
years mentally in Avila: those ruthless sages, this ruthless artist, this
ruthless mystic: at powers but hiding, as never to utter metaphysics, while
swans soar our higher seas: those removed shackles, this address to
indifference, or this person lacking this ability to feel: this fetid curse,
this frigid insanity, while able to cry, nonetheless: our chastised hearts, our
false chastity, or this holy sinner: as far too evolved, or stranded to
coldness, at miracles bleeding this secret by few: to curse one for entrance,
while discouraging reality, to assume that one associates with general news:
this mystic carpet, this mystic rose, this mystic insanity—as sane before
times, or sane afore God, or too evolved to see tragedy—this steep concern,
(but what if I were white), indeed, this revealing enquiry: our days to
corners, as protecting success, where true colors stream before our audience:
this inner music, this playful yogi, this reality they can’t receive: as born
this way, where everything is a threat, even a man feeding the homeless….
