I
pop my ears; I hear my throat; I see your courage: this vessel speeding, that
slow pace, that calm womanhood: as faces spinning, or losers winning, or
darkness sinning: that clairvoyance, those Cardi B tendencies, or this
stripper’s diligence: our guts to Lopez, our thwart frustrations, or unthawed
existence: to come through deaths, where rules were excluded, while
heads-to-heels this extravagant love: our photos laughing, our knuckles
breathing, as life before death our philosophic(s): as technical dungeons, or
hardcore women, to evaporate slowly looking at genius: those smart professors,
this incredible disappearance, those mental faxes: to ingest insistence, this
place for ruler-ship, and that need to decipher for our mirrors: our blue-blood
falcons, or oxygen to wands, those burgundy nightmares: to care so little, as
to forfeit billions, while holding to another soul’s reflection…this pool’s
dragonflies, this inverted tawny, or this remarkable imagination: at years with
racism, at moments with humans, or around this world meeting indecisions.
I
saw you gently; I died with thoughts; I resurrected in smiles: this
unforgiveness, this livid light, our personalities: as beauty to souls, this
Islamic revival, or courage to exist: this magnificent rose, this dying
marigold, this blooming daisy: alive with curses, as spoke our dreams, to have
what we barely see: as mental participants, and spacial indigents, while crucial
a sudden entrance: as trancelike albatrosses, or ships gliding offcourse, at
insistence this fragrance wafting nearby: our broken hopes, our florid
imagination, or make-believe elixir serving by justice: to sense marvelous,
that hall of banquets, or this speaking incantation: as but looseness, or hard
for facts, while, nonetheless, as worried as hell. …it’s been leniency, or miracle dreams,
wending to Jamaica: our supernal minds, our early mornings, our restless
nights: to want you and tripping, or to solace us and tripping, where Love is
wrecked and tripping: our itchy-sweaty-scalps, or brains pursuing missions, to
hear but whispers: this inner hissing, or this sound angel, to filch a second
by gravity: this woman as folklore, this feeling in allegories, or tenets
supporting but twelve months: those dying instincts, this photo of Love, or
places where money becomes shy…as irrigated passions, to exaggerate your womb,
where such becomes distressing: because life is Love, her body and gut, as one picklock’d
by pure Reality: as rapt’d in essence, or bleeding Jesus, to affront Yahweh:
that inner shadiness, this moonish collar, this pound of sea-garbage—as Love
would perish, or tremble a ghost, while so deep at penmanship: this marvelous
drool, this fabulous fool, or nights feeling abruptly schooled: this terrible
tendency, this remarkable inclination, or this grip freaking out his
intestines: to arrive lately, feeling offcourse, and smitten by pure genius:
our nocturne demons, or Junoesque renaissance, or rebellious affections: this
running cheetah, that grand splendor, to awaken laughing and screaming: where
brains are permanent, and kitsch is fleeting, to realize this need for chances:
as retreated a soul, and gutted a rule, where passion seems rootless….
