It spawns hostilities, this craft by
calendars, and those year-in excavations: so subtle by arts, this test of wits,
or, moreover, this temperamental genius: to know our contender, to analyze our
adversary, where unsaid Fern is acting naturally: this need for conflict, this
life-giving merry-go-round, while tried for trueness: those preparations, about
something induced, where realization becomes partial: this foolish man, this
angry man, as never to address his mother’s intimacy: nay, just more for
rampages, or something physical, as to enforce this five year notion: to cut
with intonation, or to shift Legos, while, nonetheless, venom sounds so
insincere: this ambivalent essence, this man with psych, or this man alone this
pitiful office: our cages screaming, our timidity with the word, Heaviness, or
this collage of subtle frustrations: to ollie when good, or to manage while
cringing, at something intimate for I confessed this mother: (our homes to
membrance, our missing but present children, or this soul-keeper failing those
duties: this palm of pills, this malignant pool, or our days misconstruing
feelings as pure reasoning: whereas, it felt good, this no-all buffoon, up
against this twenty year veteran: those membrance hospitals, those years as a
child, this countenance so smart it disturbs acceptability: this
abnormal-normality, those friendly hostilities, or more to arts, It shouldn’t distress so deeply: this
insidious belief, as charmed to die, where one tells its receiver how he ought
to respond: this deep dismissal, this sworn craft, while comfortable to resist
until one falls enlove). I can’t see
it, this love for something disrespectful, this tale through ages: our frigid
bones, or more, this curse, where one senses that all is lost: so steered
aggravation, for He would never love me,
especially, someone dying: this light at temperamental(s), this stage as pure
confession, and this project for pure catharses: our women threshing, while
winnowed by pain, as infused by something so neat: this life as an
investigator, this drug for insights, or this God she would near to scream: or left at Avenues, this old loser, or
better, this immortal seeker: such brains to ruins, so perceptions to
esotericism, plus, this strange reality concerning this obsolete creature: our
love for one, as possessed by another, where clairvoyance screams for
acceptance: his hard countenance, this milky professionalism, or better, this
woman feeling rejected: but hell to violence, as rudiment silence, for one is
afraid of pure intimacy: where Love saw passivity, I saw humility, while Love
suggested that this ain’t living. I take liberties, I fabricate existence, I
speak in presence concerning events from my past: this tragic receptor, this
instance with aggravation, or this woman so gifted she missed my reality: this
man needing fiction, or that last project, where animals were linked to
dementias: or better as told, this shifted tissue, this link to shoebills: as a
rapid writer, of a lost child, our courage coming through frustrations: this
driving fire, this mother with rain, or more this psych tripping our cords: to
die that rug, or to reject those couches, while surely at takes this private
picture: as overseers speculate, those thirty years at meditation, to realize
that something seems out of line: (this prison-soul, this poet-soul, this
theologian: at graphic arts, this sentient wit, this radicalized experience: to
tell his story, as partially read, where maybe our psych has jumped the gun: albeit, perfect, by perfect
calculations, or stressed concerning this cross-cultural mirror: to see a
child, speaking of mother, where mother worked her inheritance: this shift in
spirit, this camouflaged empathy, or this ocean green with anger: to ask that
question, concerning, Princess, where resistance in fluffy and cuddly: this man
admiring women, this soul enthralled by radiance, to peek at a sudden
disposition: this claim in mother, this womanly countenance, to find with
essence another angle: this self-conscious reality, this dying calamity, or
this need to fire as but to live): those alienations, this steep mountain, our
days counting our minutes.
