…faceless dungeons and growling souls and
thunder at imprecise seconds: this sign for angst, our sunshine skies, our
sparse clouds: to flee into Yahweh, this Jewish enterprise, this cosmic
entourage: our disagreements, as never vocalized, to come to realities this
cultic device: our phantoms to strangers, our Jesus in rafters, or this feeling
that destroys our intimacy. …i died
so young, at terrible beliefs, assumed in brevity: this feeling there, this emotion here, plus, a house filled with strange glances: this taboo language, but addicts,
nonetheless, adaptive and chaotic: this mother at Ghosts, this father too
aloof, and dreams that proved as falderal: our clingy, stingy cries, our
anguished parked for summers, or bars to a child twelve years of age: but this
is invention, this karaoke ventriloquist, or this palatial event determining a
child’s glory: our elders laughing, our uncles to success, as brilliant this Street
Life: our souls by yams, our greens with sauce, or boiled chicken wings: if but
to contest, as livid this storm, where professors cringe to meet another one….
…i explored those eyes, those rubescent
gems, this floret fever—as dying your mouth, to cut Jesus, as hanging in
gang-lore: this man to visuals, this smile as contagious, this man as losing
ownership: to dance with ice-lands, to feel as unreal, to hit traffic a chest
beaming: this ghetto mania, this fool dynamite, as accustomed to wild dreams:
if but to panic, where days were low, to enter homeroom devastated: for mother
couldn’t speak, and father was lost, and granny was screaming at walls: this
dead soul, this steak at noon, this angst at midnight: to scar an image, while
trying for courage, where phantoms approach closet doors: this blue moon, so
late in life, to assume that sorrow meant loyalty: this curse for souls, this
death for men, or this glory for one close to grief: as flying hard, too hit
this country bank, while fleeing and filled with bills: to cut left, that wrong
turn, at years this prison life….
(…we needed your wisdom, this flippant nature, this gregarious
ruler—where life was good, or determined by strategy, while, nonetheless, this
secret stigmata: that countenance, those energies, or that psychotic
woman—while inner a dungeon, and running from images, and dying with
reality—this fool for years, this conflict as ours, while professors were
pointing indexes: this lawyer peeking, this laundry leaking, this grandpa born
by pains to resist: our bleeding mothers, our dying fathers, and this realm
held up for ransom): whereas, it felt for good, this significant motivator,
this woman at her business: to float in traffic, headed to quarters, but
stressed for this famous dominion—as cursed souls, and feeling Ghosts, while born
to siphon glory: those broken glasses, this shuffling gait, or this strait
cliff blinking insanities….
…i come to silence, starring at mirrors,
or clawing our infant wall—to appear as whispers, to dig into sanity, while to
remember another brain is open: our fair child, this living miracle, or those
years to hating our guts: as mother wonders, as feeling complete, where reality
has gutted our existence: those wayward winds, this flight to passion, or our
reality that none are pursuing: this ignoble position, or our wants for
longevity, to fall so steep with pure expectations: as bulbous creatures, our
run through savannahs, and this trip to reality: those broken lies, our broken
kindle, and this lonely frontier: where children are parents, as parents are
infants, while our kingdom is ran by a three year old: this sound to paranoia,
this fan blowing incense, and this ceiling close enough to push: as civilized
manipulators, or casual sociopaths, while granny is pure at investigations:
this grape pudding, this vanilla coffee, and this long dark journey: to hide
for years, this camouflaged secret, while aiding corruption: at blue harvests,
or red grains, where it felt ecstatic to believe that Love would fly….
