…we glance gently, afraid of mediocrity,
but thrashed by necessities: this dying philosophy, our guts rebuilt, or days
to rekindling our courage: as explosive agents, in this high paced environment,
while seeking refuge: those silent whispers, those violent cries, this vehement
projectile—as men living secrets, or women damn near dying, while infants cry
for milk: if but a ninety night plan, or an unthawed heart, where reality
blends with perception: our casual therapists, our intense psychs, or this
variance that differentiates human souls: those rising waterfalls, those
seconds in hibernation, or those metaphysical icicles…. I sip a.m. hours; I reboot by noon; and
hell to gravity this incessant war: as crickets migrate, this brain of
indifference, while something tugs claiming its daughter: those moments by
fertility, this round by decimation, or this realism depicting sheer hatred: if
but to fix Life; if but to dream perfectly; where chainsaws are dripping with
success: this ruined cage, this unlocked bolt, or those seconds to feeling
Jesus: as crying men, or wailing women, our minds born to cocoons: those
radiant charms, this hassled liquor, or grandpa distinguishing passivity: as
never by ledges, for one foreign, but ever by clear profanity: that second to
clarity, as shunning its existence, while a porcupine searches as a delicate
sign. …we disgust otters, this
laughing frenzy, as squirrels penetrate our calmness: our African Sun; our
European Moon; or thoughts gazing through countenances: that black scar, this
Sahara Atmosphere, while seated in a casual office: this blatant
deliberateness, this shallow inquiry, as views are formed through sheer
personhood: our rabid resurrections, our building disgruntle lies, or one
uncultivated but condemned for passivity: those flying waves, as becoming
nonchalance, while psychic cameras are blazing with hostilities: this
indifferent soul, as speaking to self, while too exhausted to give another
decade: especially, by strangers, this foreign reality, this inner Madagascar…. I study lemurs, those curious contours, or
those neighboring bonobos: as something missing, this vital link, where
realities are discussed: our sugarcane, or bamboo skies, where mantises serve
as pure examples: to ravish nearby bugs, while praying to invisible weather,
where one becomes as Holy as Thou: this river divided, this person feeling
justified, as nary a clue to responsible behavior: our aye-aye insanities, our
eye-eye realities, while wrestling with thickets.
I thought for rushes, this seeded captive,
this sullen reality: I thought to passion, at least with motives, where common
ground has been established: if but to whisper, while cut asunder, where one
has access to origins: those radical eyes, that radical countenance, or vampires
peering at likeness: this shift in brains, this core resonance, while
unbeknownst to its hosts: those hell cactuses, or this haven in heavens, while
reality senses its grandest destruction: our plural daughters, this woman
searching for clearance, while involved in myriad distractions: as lively
trolls, or rabid gremlins, as to morph by Cinderella: to ponder brain-litter,
or thought-hoppers, where twigs are speaking in tongues: as livers ache, or
mothers plot, while children distinguish slights by error: our gummy emotion,
those chameleon cries, or this mothlike inner cathedral: where humans are
imperfect, if but this freedom for self, while psychs are encouraging pure
nature: that running current, our primate eyes, or intestinal sakata rugs: if
but to realize, this distinguished truth, our souls set for capture: as loyal
penguins, or promiscuous octopus, either/or, we select our realities: to dine
with terns, or to sing with song-cries, while ignoring our hands setting our
configurations: emperors killing thousands, for something lodged in
personality, where children become orphans: that beaut for sin, that inner
voice-over, or trials produced by behaviors.
