…we
lose ground, filled by hatred, and fretting false explanations: iced at brains,
bleeding at arts, to arrange something treacherous: those nape lumps, this
goose city, our ruby wines:—to exhaust fantasies, at something fabulous, or
casual this friction in men: those country rangers, this gecko dissertation, at
millipedes discussing tentacles: those black/brown eyes, this green/purple
mesmerizism, or mauve dreams repudiating Prince: our fair dynasties, this
luxurious dance, or our seconds this vase became liquids: those blue eyes, this
brave jacket, or those khaki imprints—at mothers un-graved, at diplomacy to
fatal faults, where Love gave a rats
ass: indeed, such charm, at father’s leniency, while bent over toilets: this
taupe vomit, this drinking at ruins, to feel this beating gut—our rowdy livers,
our rowdy cognac, our nights with Richard Pryor—this ignorant exhilaration,
those bashful blue eyes, this red interior flush—at treasures scorned, at
miseries blessed, while infused for livid this luminous beige fire…. (…we fly this gray, gripping for ruptured,
at tears trekking Santa Monica: those Malibu cries, this sinner about mischief,
or rabbits crazed with sexuality: this deep fear, our men needing suppression,
while women desire beyond this beating numbness: to arrive laughing, to become
formed by women, at casual texts prior this alarming faction: our nervous
grunts, this picture in 3D, our glasses performing in Pagan—at Jewish
rudiments, at European ethics, to find with life this winning science: our bold
passions, our cursed loins, to want for fever this absolute loser: this
brimming diamond, this city in Sienna, this private female Confessor: as
charged to brains, this electrical magnet, to want for fervor this arc: our
women laughing, but dearly at pains, to lose so much giving a rats ass: that
rubescent stature, this iridescent picture, those curves as too beautiful for
existence: where souls gun lights, this mental portfolio, this swelling
ligament, this gust of pride, this neighbor gawking, and our Love tangled for
grounded in treacheries…): I run on, this laugh in crowds, this red-eyed
catastrophe—to love guts, while torn this writer, at tears to escape poetry:
this cacophony, this symphony, this tender Dear John Letter: our cowardly
pavements, our pale blue miracles, while too dead to survive this lethal prayer
grind: as cut and ruined, this pierced maniac, this vox too close to ingest:
our scared brains, our forward women, if but to suggest this plural universe:
this theologian, at tears with reality, at wars with inner conflicts—those
gripping travesties, this queen in leather, this curious ant shushed in panic:
our vocal stripes, this Baton Rouge cry, or strategies designed to redirect
sour eyes.
…let tears die, this frantic lust, and this bubbly
atmosphere—this atlas born, disguising treacheries, and laughing at Love: this
tiara kingdom, this inner allegory, this writhing mallet: this midsummer
gesture, this notorious brooch, this language removed from concrete meanings:
our orison nightmare, our William James—this treachery playful by interior
tongues: our Brian McKnight, our Aaliyah castles, as brought to life angered by
resuscitation: our cabinet tyranny, this nautical Malaysia, or gravel to
spittle this tale of diamonds: such unborn romance, or intimate disasters,
where garments become memories: this perfect curse, this throttled flame, and
unfledged chaos—where Love becomes jasper, this hour of resurrection, while
uneven a number called, Snake Eyes: as perfected dearly, those midday fantasies,
to rev with arts that fire: this ghostly dust, this cloud of particle ghosts,
indeed, whereas, we cleave to miracles: this tiny frame, that delicate voice,
or moody a notch when tested: our green pastures, our burgundy art-crane, or
peace to justice this irregular cloth....
