…we create dreams, too young to discern
dreams, as unlikely our fancies—or terror our concerns, or feeling manifested,
to win through loses: this inner Pacific, this ocean of memories, our tides
seeping into our inner courtyards: this man losing, this dreaming feigning, and
lies crafted internally: those beige eyes, those blurred laws, and our fuzzy
circumstances: where Love is blue, or mildly opaque, or dripping into
abstracts: those curious concerns, as one so grounded, to feel as sodium this
seasoned atmosphere—at crying mornings, or winning liquor, while eyes are
critical with advances: this puppet insanity, this puppeteer’s tragedy, or
relocated inner transcripts: our Congo souls, to witness our miseries, while
cleaving to something disdained: our animal souls, our poetic witness, or this scream where all
becomes forgiven: indeed, our unlikely adventure, our shorn crops, this
internal museum: as written pictures, our deep inconsistencies, or this need
for exoneration—as poodles glance, while babies reach, and mothers root roses….
We knew by neediness, this greed in eyes,
where ears tire of listening: as contradiction, this posit in Ecclesiastes, or
our ecclesial manuscripts: as tainted souls, this search for redemption, at
concerns that humans are naturally religious: this need to worship, while
outliving disappointments, or more this passion for community: those myriad
tenets, this principle in print, or this reason to exit our turmoil: (those
laws for suffering, this reasoning through sorrow, or our resistance towards
un-vetted authority: as simplistic/complex brains, or critical philosophers, or
apologetic theologians—at cities churning, or losing control, to feel partial
by enforcing laws: at Draconian instincts, pushed to force beliefs, while
tending towards pictured love: (to lose ourselves, or to find our travesties,
wherewith, those endless, internal skies): our mental rapture, this need for
equanimity, or this cry for equality: at internal rebukes, or pure racism, to
clutch for survival: at radical dreams, to give as dying, where icons serve as
reasons to persevere).
…by caressing petals, I evolve slowly, and
I ponder this feast of dreams: that dry-grass, this inner ape, or this ability
to examine ethos: this steep
challenge, this casual existence, where ears are correlating with analyses: our
deep undertones, this pile of wood, and our years creating those impeccable
projects: as souls flying, or memories harassing, or mirrors talking back: this
flickering flame, this magnet fire, or magnificent hopes: our radiant sky-cliffs, or this outstanding mind-crate,
where Love articulates doctoral material: this floating reality, our best as
merely pastures, while consumed to present concrete evidence: this link in
guts, this song upon ships, or this infinite doubt those eyes our dreams: to
live as Reason, or die at Logic, at inborn ferns...this raid upon
sentiments, or this silent structure, where professors are waging concern….
…stars are churning, babies are weaning,
and pelagic arts have sailed our lands: upon waffles and grapes, or eggs and
muffins, where Love sections reality: this lethal chase, this leaping hare, and
this marvelous bobcat: our years with feelings, to have as few vetted, while
our childhood becomes this compass: our adoration for mother, our needs for
examples, or this instinct claiming evaluations: as strategic lawyers, or chess
by default, where psychs are esteemed for wrestling: those linguistic crayons, those
remote artesian(s), or years perfecting flame….
