I
awoke with us, this tender sentiment,
this personalized conversation: our intimate wilderness, our chastised
sensations, or better, this remote agony: our winded cries, our windy lies, or
better, this interior honesty: as children running, so aimless their chimes, to
sing about travesties: our bowls of cereal, our textured milk, our mental
vocabulary: this treacherous essence, as disposed to tragedy, while anxious
this coming forest: at books disappearing, at music those trepid thoughts, or
angry this stranger’s intrusion: where mother chances, while father gambles, if
but this boisterous sentiment: our broken screams, our private ships, or
tragic, this metaphysical attraction: while souls gather, this dreamscape
catastrophe, those welded concerns. I
met a psych, to witness your eyes, or better, this countenance transformed by
therapy: that first attempt, our serious replies, or better, our unsung
horizon: this mental-monster, this disgusted feeling, this shorn attraction:
our pages with blood, our ink with frustration, or frenzied for lemur eyes:
this pensive gaze, this insistent discomfort, or better, those realizations
concerning brains: our churning arcs, our burning souls, at fires by gestalt
techniques: to need eternity, to have comfort, where anchors have become
iridescent: as waves crooning, our opalescent enterprise, while our boats are
leaking: this mid-sea gravel, this inner ecstasy, or this public passion: as
souls die, to resurrect, our three month voyage: at horrific heights, laughing
at concerns, to ruin something speaking concrete: those taupe eyes, those
loosened winds, or better, this agonizing over something imaginative: this
angular conscience, this conscious aggravation, or tragic, this cut leaking
into intimacy: our suckling thoughts, our sundry feelings, at moon-fire
distorted by illusions: this running essence, this loss of weight, this
senseless confusion: moreover, a dream, as consuming life, while reality points
to disjunct, dissimilar souls: (that arm reaching, those souls retracting, our
banished elements: to cry for Jesus, this realization, if but to realize
Christ: our cold arcs, our warm feelings, our loins bathed in resistance: as
ever an ant, and more insanity, to cringe this example: our parents with cries,
our passions with deceit, this game as internal deserts: where legs shiver, as
hearts tremble, where sudden a thump, or sudden a thumb-volt: this inner
mind-print, this voyage through intensity, to agonize over mere fancy: [or more
this curse, as torn this blessing, to connect absent of whereabouts: this
driving reality, this riven absolute, this travesty becoming a father’s fuel:
at tremors gripping ribs and falling afore God—this casual observance, this
wrenching melancholy, this sad daily affair—to dine with sorrow, or sudden with
joy, as reaching your voice to give life]: this musical infinity, our epitome
as gunning, or more this similar pendulum: as mother craves, where father’s
oblivious, while daughters become best-friends: this thin exchange, this novel
revelation, this mystical novella: at nights jimmied, at morning’s provocation,
at seconds rehearsing this second gaze: those long and treacherous emotions, as
emphatic deceptive emphases, to censor words spoken with genius: this
remarkable ability, to dig while absent, where diligent pursuits are absent:
this clown at parades, or our inexpensive cuffs, while attempting to unlock
something restricted: those perfect behaviors, our shakes with scratches, our
tears with coffee: this depressed estate, this power stemming through
depression, or those radicalized psychotic features: to fair with passion, to
leap but uncertain, while searching for certitudes): this casual runner, this
jogging psychiatrist, this angular psychologist: our worlds with nuance, our
worlds with concerns, or better, our worlds with bars: this tragic event, as to
dine with privilege, while madly enlove with power: this inner blacksheep, this
company with meditation, this inner remarkable fire: as men frantic, or women
mesmerized, or both, too far those scars at Alcatraz: those revving
excitements, this hundred page devotional, or better, this insistence upon
something esoteric.
