At
idyllic dreams, we invest in fantasy, for reality seems imperfect: our mediocre
routines, or whimsical passion, filtered by strong insistence: our beating
larks, or that inner whistle, where energies tug with perceptions: those deep
lagoons, this flushed witness, our torrent tides: our days by reason, our
encounters by logic, or seconds confessing our chains: this difficult tragedy,
this reception to fawning, our curious needs: at years through colleges, at
nights with dreams, or perfected as one standing aloof: that inward protection,
that mental projection, as one vibrating pure sensations. I’d perish by high school—at
differentiating souls, sipping cranberry juice: such youthful eyes, this
insistence for tomatoes, our shared sandwich: those aphrodisiacs, and that vine
of grapes, and this greenhorn admiring a wild-rose: as months become familiar,
where others are vying, where souls need disasters: our green onions with eggs,
our sausage with syrup, or those sugarberry cries: to live with motion, to
approach with beliefs, as dying so early: those feisty moments, that constant
tension, or a woman that never argues: this plight by souls, this creature of
times, or darkness such insanity. I
became saturnine—lunging into landmines, attracting wild sorrow: those poison
berries, those shapely voices, while churning clouds with this Scorpio: our
daily papaya, our opal plums, or our almonds with chocolate: a slight
variation, a devastated existence, or souls proud to carry chains: this deep
belief, at time as bars, where each
person carries tragedies: those kiwi souls, reading Langston Hughes, or
wrestling with religious documents: that longing heart; those longing cries;
and such desperation—as mother advises, where aches are dramatic, while
strewing seeds from havens: such pineapple love, where persistence moans, while
minds travel insatiable valleys: this chase for satisfaction, if but
protection, if but this knight willing
to die: at born friction, or sophistication, while out-measuring her options. I come to life, imagining paradise, and roaming through
categories: those blue daisy chambers, this fret by nightfall, or hours sensing
something like oceans: this watery danger, this luxurious sky-map, or someone’s
pottery: those paw prints, embedded in experience, where one needs accordion
behaviors: as feeding our graves, or lavish at arts, while perfected as this
clone: those similar words, those reborn petals, and that familiar outcome: otherwise,
we re-stitch seams, and unthread disasters, while interchanged as therapists:
those wailing aches, this familiar stranger, or claiming our neighbor’s
calamities: to sing to dignity, to salute pride, to give all dying our course:
or lights to brainwaves, this religiosity, this reason to believe: our guava
with wafers, our midnights with vulnerability, or sliced and ruined by beliefs.
We
long for sophistication, to outwit condition, if but to lay claim to something
cultivated: this fair existence, those probing ants, or this glass of mango
juice: such glucose deception, laughing with feelings, and gazing upon Reality:
those minute shifts, that solemn insistence, this habitual dynasty: as livid
souls, or broken harps, or radiant survivors: to dine with beginnings, or to
flute with seas, our crosses warn upon our flesh: such powerful passion, such
radical intimidation, where men review their philosophies: this inner fig,
those weaning cherries, or nights too stressed to close our eyes: those soft
palms, that encouraging voice, those trickling fears: where emotion impassions,
as time evaluates, where two carry
this unquenchable resilience.
