…we inseam gently, while held for ransom,
sudden upon features: our celestial torments, alive and disjointed, where
dreams float by Reality: those wilted
thoughts, that internal fire, where perception becomes slanted: but eyes to Reason, as mantis survivors, while
cursed by invisible winds: that closet of Realisms,
or Rationalists Rites, while
walking through Darkness: that
perfect caress, those wellic buttons,
insomuch, this distaste for Normality: as
one slanted, or unnoticed, or unannounced: moreover, a radiant excellence, a
fault finding feature, or worlds divided into fragments: that forgiving wheel,
as once for twice, as twice for thrice: this mental gymnasium, or this
emotional carnival, where some ride endlessly: this tugging reality, those created axioms, or induction frowned into clown faces….
I know our dreams, those perfect roses,
this fairytale resistance—those indebted miracles, this indebted life, or
phantoms for breakfast: our remorse for pains or shame for joys, while knitted
doing perfection: those encased diamonds, this palace-vestibule, this castle
built upon raw emotion: our wheels spinning, our trials relenting, our souls
relishing satisfaction—as men running for justice, or women seated soundlessly,
while features erupt stemming from pressures: that awkward sensation, those
awkward thoughts, to wrestle a tad bit for clarity: this remarkable feat, this
seesawing reality, or this secret
where it becomes flickered.
I felt energy, I felt our purported Ghost,
and I whispered as both churned into roaring:
this vetted person, singing in silence, or paired with a certain few: this
holding to promise, our blues crocheting, or feelings climbing invisible
ladders: this Joseph insanity, or those nights by polygamists spirits, or this
chase for self as watched running into this mirror: to need insistence, to want
most things, or to realize a certain detachment: as hearing creatures, while
emotion wanes, where we’re reminded of our obligations: to arise in cinema,
this carved feature, while entrenched in something unrealistic: this inner film, those playing perceptions, this
rising chi: as miracle minded
minions, or million man marchers, while women have lived certain realities: this envisioned rainbow,
where Normality favors souls, while
one becomes phlegmatic.
…we inseam brashly, our philosophic rashes, our disconcerted
positions: those jobs becoming intrusive, this trek through mental marsh, and
those steep deductions: our phantoms
for lunch, our hard concrete for dinner, to awaken feeling for one that lives
as estranged from self: those incredible delusions,
those purposed illusions, while one
sits detecting violent signs: this soul to conundrums, those posits to gutters,
while one skates upon sea-grass: this blaring window, this inner war-glass,
while features retreat beneath surfaces….
I wish for poets, this pond by ideals,
those ideals by ideas: this psychologic chase, those erased doubts, or this
champion mentality: as souls at pace, this driven passion, while wrestling an
inner phantom: this faceless face, this faceless us, this face as it appears in
mirrors: that family curse, or persistence through resistance, where one
senses something extra-ordinary: those war-gods, those core-brains, or lights
winking at thoughts: those timeless returns, as vessels appearing distinctly,
while one internalizes certain decisions: or pantomime fires, staring intently,
where our Superego interrupts
possession: a difficult word, a plural thought, an inner negotiator!
