…we’re speaking to frustrations, those
habitants, this language seeping into realities: our dearest cries, our
estranged children, our deranged categories: if but to live, as but to perish,
while feeling good: this avenue singing, this midnight ecstasy, or mornings
staring at plush rugs: our inner gambits, our gambling natures, or better,
those thetic guitars: as mothers scramble, our wayward child, or this need for
relaxation: to water his eyes, to die his soul, as music becomes symbiotic:
those long cellos, those accompanies, or more to life, this sip of Folgers:
(our bold dynamics, this uneasy permanence, this black sunlight): as hearts
scramble, moving to internal tunes, while flipping through cartoons: such
screaming compassion, accompanied by harsh realities, our throttles thrusting
through traffic: this young feeling, or those monster realities, while seeping
into darkness: this bestial substance, those lyrical liqueurs, or mirrors
yelling nouns…. (…it becomes ghostly,
thereto, immortal, while wrestling this mortal domain: our rites in literature,
our souls in liquor, our fathers stressing heavily: this need for perfection,
while absent for perfection, to claim disappointment: this abandoned arc, this
miracle feeling, or this cascading brilliance—as mother laughs, where life is
radical, to clash with imageries: this internal clog, this external jam, as
more to days struggling at an impasse: that terror at mid-seconds, or such joy
for mere minutes, as it becomes this chase for plural hours): wither, this
feather, as plucked mid-winds, or dangling so closely we leap: our living guts,
this angry countenance, or those unapproachable attitudes: to protect self,
this steep reality, for life tugs as pulling our breaths: such fumigation, to
air-out our corridors, while chasing brightness—this dark escapade, this
winter’s travesty, or summer by feel good elation: indeed, this daily death, as
alive in Faith, where increments lead to leaping…. I fell into thoughts, a tear curious,
where daughters see compassion—or souls cross lakes, or feed ducks, or chase
geese—those hungry creatures, this eighty dollar book, or that fifty dollar
pen: our moments as proletariats, or our seconds as parents, or our boulders
following through kitchens: this milky cake, those fluffy cookies, that foam
atop coco: at increments this life, this saga incomplete, this episode for
offspring: as seeping into justice, this rapture by evidence, as our cosmos
induce situations: to forgive as being forgiven, to rinse those trespasses, if
but our trespasses released: this exchange in life, but truth to arks, this
person that rarely trespasses: this innocent Existential, this black crying
dungeon, or this metaphysical winner: at highs laughing, a tear aside, this
month to beige.
