I
felt someone; and I inherited deep thoughts; and life was artsy heinous: those
baggy jeans, or tights for yoga, or business attire skirts: this film at
morning, this thunder come eleven o’clock, or nights sleeping alone: this busy
feeling, this tetras illness, and those loses we called, Friends: this laughing daughter, as caught midstream, as realized
disharmonies: this wretched sin, this wretched piano, or fruit-baskets and
dandelions: those inquisitive squirrels, or our Getty imagination, a bit
partial to Rembrandt…if gods are humans, and humans are immortal, I dare speak
this conclusion—as lost souls, or vampire legends, where movies constructed
trickle into billions: those jogging legs, those mobile cries, or thighs to
stockings a subtle scent: where grandmother instructs, this woman with wounds,
if but to reconstruct this generation.
…foxes and fish eagles, or African lions and kingly symbols, to polecat
existence, this wild cat mentality, where a man enters his first revival: this
parrot mocking, as wild dogs linger, to realize guts speaking tribal passion:
those cable-eyes, those sable dreamers, or too many geese to feed: Our Last
Supper, Our Empty Tomb, or arts to lies or catacombs those rare experiences: as
mother died, racing through vampire bats, or settling in Asian Lionesses: this
gutted drool, this mischievous artery, and those red foxes—to meet a
psychologist, where days are rough, to drive engines calculating this web of
feeble claims: those water-dragons, or jackal eyes, and this pure deception for
hearts are warm: where magpies speak, and masked owls listen, while Reality
appears a lonely fool: our polar bear attractions, our silver fox mating
grimace, as tugging this pure metal Cross: those Eurasian Swans, tugging at
life-vests, while cleaving to something familiar: those gray terns, this grey
savannah, or this beige pier: as fathers chuckle, to know deceit, but fearing
this turn becoming an immortal scar: those lying women, at full with pride, as
one excluded from sociopaths: this gutted cement, those abstract skies, or that
sudden film playing incessantly: where introjects appear, after weeks of
exclaiming, Dormant, where misery attempts
to pin a tailed-deer: this swanic magic, this ludic cry, or this feeling where
enough has occurred: therewith, is terror, our tree creeper birds, our rivers
flooded with Buddhists: to ask a question, this life by forgiveness: Are blacks excluded?
I
decoded childhood, codified in attractions, but a foot speeding through
thunder: our wing stilt women, this gecko pride, or road lizards a triumph in
black culture: those miracle breasts, as seeming a bit crude, while watching
where minds simmer in passions: those lemur lenses, those deer runners, or
eyelashes nibbling cottage cheese: this pot of greens, this leg of ham, or
purple pleasures becoming his torments: as livid fools, or drooling castles,
our eyes sensing our parishes…this bobcat feline, this dolphin squirrel, or
this delphic/prophetic damsel: as brockets laugh, or that tiny voice, or that
languishing whisper—to dance with sights, petting a kangaroo, while sipping
Egyptian Water: if but to ruins, this dreaded creature, a woman without one good
memory: those jungle cats, or African civets, adrift a curse staring at cape
cobras: this linger in shadows, to expel our guts, or hell to earth realizing
Jung: this genet isle, those island screams, or wild oceans delivered through
wombs: our nighthawk eyes, or coyote brains, adorned by beauty’s presence: this
small vehicle, those humming bird wits, or wings so embedded feathers are
shedding.
