I’m
not envious, at spacial concerns, or fantast screams: this millipede, this
centipede, this bottle of executions: this daily name, this rich resistance, or
portals by charms: our ageless disgusts, our Santa Fe Springs, our Redondo
Cries: at angular breath-beats, or daughters with atmosphere, as rewound dying
this resurrection: as losing self, to regain a stranger, while recruiting
characteristics: this file cabinet, this memoir of dungeons, this fair,
attractive poetess: those Muslim souls, this Sufi Gin, or this dervish
flattering our guts: our aesthetic climbs, our rich inheritance, or this grace
befalling mad scientists…to reject life, while chasing life, to awaken peering
into life: as rhapsodic jewels, or capricious sensuality, while aching this
pictureless scream: our nightingales waning, our grackles shunning, while one
becomes devoid of evidence: this aromatic resin, this blood for water, or
tender a scar our independence—as aloof creatures, tugged with ease, to debate
ourselves into love-wars: that chaste harlot, those chaste screams, or more,
this complex reality: where Love is crucial, as Love becomes crises, to find no
greater ally.
I’m
not jealous, while leaping this thin cliff, to grip with claws those screams:
those racists trumpets, that racists sickness, or years at racists combat: to
sense with passion, this swirling conclave, where overcast becomes demanding:
this polished mistake, to plead an audience, to ask that Love does as sameness:
our saving faces, as if souls are numb, where our fleece is covered in
treacheries: this scolding eagle, this reflexive machine, or this portico
bearing witness: our tempest attraction, this tempest warmth, to endue souls
but unbeknownst: this gamut of rules, this you-in-me, where behaviors become
apparent: this leading example, where ghettoes harbor fears, while suburban
life harbors entitlements: this gutty pith, this gutty noise, this righteous
disposition—as laughs a priest, or cradles a nurse, where philosophies are
sodden within marrow: this bone leakage, our serene knitting(s), or this
spectacular human agitation.
Love
has seen mania, Love has dined with depression, and Love has gathered
fragments—to mend this deserted desert, this dear damaged soul, while deception
demonstrated: this feral cabbage, this canine bark, this cagey lexicon: as
misty wilderness, this daughter’s landmark, while truth reveals this hidden
disposition: to become mother, this fabulous volition, while caged at honesty’s
milieu: this dripping passion, this sanded fang, or those years at becoming
grandmothers: to hide in ceilings, this memoir attic, this signet disgrace: or
Love as black art, this sudden pang, this woman as ambrosia: to give life, but
never enough, to reignite those first few months: this fawning nature, this
passionate icecream, this whistling persona—as sick for Love, while dying for
Love, to spend days mourning for Love: this dismal position, this crying
levity, where reality jogs our mental-marrow…where prying is necessary, as too,
offensive, while caring, longing souls, stipple an inner opus.
I’m
more ashamed, this gifted curse, this miracle with Christ: this twofold
anxiety, this taciturn resemblance, this quell, this loud audience: our
statures with illness, our citadel
emotions, this artifice omen: this trickster of seeds, this reality as contagious,
where we must resist humanizing this inner season: this anthropomorphic pond,
this soothsaying biblical, or our eyes seeking undifferentiated succor: this
introspective sword, this likeness to antiquity, or this rabid, but social,
miracle—where gentility is beauty, as beauty isn’t necessarily wholesome, while
cries ache for longing: this medical file, at leisure those rudiments, while
truths are buried…this gust of feelings, this tangled, confused mass, or this
cavern of screams.
