I
remember this feeling, amazed and dreaming, wondering about its return: this
petite dragon, those complete majesties, at thoughts concerning natural odors:
this running Quixote, this spinning Windmill, or this existence of typos: our
salty-waters, our intuition, while afraid to accomplish importance: this land
of darkness, this place in mystics, while light shimmers through mud: our
mental Empires, those European Histories, or this respect for one unanswerable:
as upbeat gems, or rebuilt addicts, while bolts peg souls to myriad
infractions: this bag of skittles, this psychic migration, or this sore soul
indebted to Jesus: our classroom antics, our dear distrust, to witness ethos soaring: this authentic syrup,
those authentic lenses, or papaya as our dominant color: while Love was good, where thoughts are inquisitive,
while art to breath I forsook those calamities: that vicious spectrum, those
terrible behaviors, where one claims boldly, I’m sober: indeed, by breaking sails, our deep ocean blues, or this
living-room whale: those sky-drifts, those sky-traumas, while one ignores this
pain creeping into discourse: those selfish genetics, or genetic intelligence,
while we abhor eugenics: those get-high frogs, those aquatic feelings, or this
soul too with existence: to give as treated, or to shy over inconsistencies, if
but to maintain this place in souls: those trenchant eyes, those prehistoric
limbs, or this emotion pushing towards unreality.
We watch
closely, at functions disturbed, while lying to this radiant mirror: our deep
penchants, our pensive graves, or by chance this purchased insistence: our
obligations, our steep entitlements, while meditating upon emptiness: that sore release, this vest of intention, while thrust
in heart this reluctant spear: to pierce intently, to claim for argumentation,
or wrangle with ghosts: our ninety hour fast, this life by Eucharist(s), or
this internet trip to living-rooms: that woman at degrees, this existence as
frozen, or this midnight retreat to Kansas: where Love was cyan, or Love was
golden, or Love sang as eagles—this flip through principalities, this rope
dangling, or cuffs to mid-brain philosophies: this postulate for review, this
inner vehicle as logos, while we
avoid slippery slopes: at terrible pressures, or integrity waning, where we
resist upon pure principle: those maxims with grace, this shift in dignity, or
this woman with child.
I
remember, Segue, this fancy with losers, this insistence upon purities: as
beautiful flowers, at tension with love, as to exercise sheer instincts: this
wealth in souls, this obedient self, where something natural enslaves: indeed,
to riddles, as opposed to overt candor, while at points candor slips into
focus: this tell-tell woman, this spiritual trapeze, or days treated as a
nameless person: to call us by numbers, to examine our behaviors, and despite
responses to write our inheritance: this system with life, this call for
living, or brains at guts but torn to breathe: those freshwater gators, those
city vultures, or women that surprise our jaded insistence: this troll at
gates, this love as affectionate, whereas, reality suggests an impasse: this
man to fancies, this woman to gains, while life concerns itself with winning:
that moment with time, this underdog glamour, while wistful for something that
may not sustain life.
We end
with candor, those blushing eyes, this caiman gene, those psychotic
allurements: those elegant temperaments, or endless legs, while we remit into a
frenzy: those tales for souls, this light for woes, while Love grips her safety
cord: this person we need, this deep vulnerability, thus, our hostility towards
strangers: as intimate spirits, to float long terrains, as but an energy flung
into cavities: this weeping heart, this laughing heart, or days at deep
meditations: to come to casual, while seeping into mental, where Love caressed
an ancient trinket.
