I
know for names, at love with vengeance, and married to fantasy: this local
genius, this mistreated fire, or pouches filled with fairy-dust: this knuckle
bleeding, this metaphysical knuckle, this yelling mother: at straits with
justice, or Cheers with mourning,
sensing Diane in myriad women: us classic
fools, at love with patience, or forbidden from Love.
We
feel different, a bit lonely, a bit intoxicated: this brilliant daisy, this
craving soul, while feeling, hooking satiability: those rosy icebergs, this
love about prose, or this miracle motorcycle ride: those dead, beautiful women,
this deep neuroses, those kleptomaniac curses: as feeling distorted, this
carrot of insanity, our gorgeous catastrophes: this breathless odor, this odor
by womb, this deadly inebriation: or days longing, or nights breaking loose, to
arise during morning pondering those names: this rabid sensation, this
dribbling athlete, by ages looking forbidden.
I
die skiing passions, at honor to resist our souls, while tending to sour our
castles: that remarkable lens, this crafted pixel, or years to becoming a
woman’s friend: those raging sensories, this cacophony of relations, where
aches creep into owls.
…our
cries invade China, our ills trespass Europe, and our sickness seeps into London:
this fool in brains, this dancing hijacker, those extra-ordinary missed missiles:
as eyes clinging, this inner winner, while lose abuses our losers: as cussed
for screaming, or dead for living, at one with criminal abandonment: those
dreams laughing, this sniped deer, those adders laughing: as inter-lies, or
intra-cries, while assuming our characters: this home-plate, this cosmic
controversy, where we resist proprieties if but to endure ourselves: this
captive feeling, those exceptions aflame, while rules of conduct appear
loosely: this pool of agitation, our contorted faces, to realize this created
universe: as sipping ink, or slicing paper, or composing too close to
reality…this localized scream, or uncovered silence, while becoming liquids.
…our
perception wavers, as felt by pure authority, this need for submission: to
carry on as different, to believe as normality, while tugged eluding capture:
this felt realism, this nuance by persons, if but accepted by this tragic
consensus: this unfair battle, this placemat for lies, as walking while
counting disappointments: as misperceived, our closets opening, our laundry
beneath kaleidoscopes: this space of behaviors, or this perfect response, while
dungeons scream for closure: our zombie attentiveness, or miracle arrivals,
while clutching our inner centers: or sober cries, or sober attitudes, or
hatred for self while sober….
I
have a dilemma—this crazy perception, as misinformed concerning motives: this
mental traffic, this moving by lanes, this red light: to pause and nibble a
chip, or swig a 7up: this realized attitude, this realized person, and those
realized insecurities: as indicative of rationalized thoughts, this protected
hut, this fortified mirror—as needing trespasses, if but to feel human, while
secluded within an alternative cosmos: our building debris; our deep
intolerance; while strangers lurk nearby: indeed, to create a problem, as
deliberate necessity, where one is partly predetermined: this casual presence,
while pursuing self-interests, while selling altruism: that wrench twisting,
those pliers laughing, while internally our group is at mind-wars: this
resistant heroine, this juvenile delinquent, or this radiant glow induced—where
agony is at home, as children possess this malady, while said heroine is
learning to fix a ruined highway.
I
spark tobacco, lost in water, and finding laughter resistant: this edge for
some, this clairvoyant catastrophe, this mirage of mirrors: this lucrative
dynamic, this trespassing army, or years at abeyance: this blackdamp, this
siphoned soul, this leaky persona: as men dying, or feeling good, our mornings
returning to home-plate: this inn about minds, those ghosts about chimneys,
even this crush about loyalties: our Christmas aches, our New Year’s
resolutions, or days to sitting in limbo: this casual affair, this insidious
debut, where hope wavers in either direction: moreover, this curse, at months
creating friction, while staring at an inner stranger: this need to fix, if but
this bypasser, in order to feel redeemed at home: or casual routines, followed
by casual outcomes, while one becomes disgusted by casual existence. …there’s little resolution, and seldom
undifferentiated redemption, while souls argue our defenses: this world of
treasures, this angle for domination, while losing interest in conquered
pursuits: this agitating reality, those charming bracelets, as indicative of
our scars: this urn of insistence, those years of warfare, or something near
normal feeling unsuitable: our damaged perceptions, our culprits needing
redemption, while inner realities tend to remain defensive: this slice of
indifference, our hypersensitive agonies, while forgetting our established
behaviors: where passions are distinguished, or inner sources are construed,
while reality serves as reminder of failures…our ticking clocks, out
trespassing sorrow, or this particular thought—where children seem aloof, or
preoccupied with judgments, if but to release those experiences: to churn in
private, or to excuse self, as but this needed mechanism: as blaming for
freedom, or resistant for liberty, while saddened deeply by images: our winning
society, our captive behaviors, or fire and barricades….
