I
chance politely, staring in active mode, and destined for eight last tears:
this inner woman, this fragile passion, and those lethal webs—at delicate
adventures, to lose this life, as once a child of immortality: and, thereunto,
this zeitgeist mystic, or this cultural climate yogi, at eras a second
confounded by visions: our Eiffel Tower Romance, this Alcatraz Entrapment, or
Beijing War Pistols: our sofa songs, our soundness thunder, at trees twisting
through theaters: our last laugh, our first goodbye, such spider sparks,
stressing substance: at Love dying, at rules lying, while pyramids fly into
mere in-vision: that man choking, this tone distressing, our wheels to torrent
panic: to stitch an awning, or uproot an umbrella, such value to zephyrs.
I
cried to lose, while endless into verses, to realize that words mean so little:
our breaking wall, this tall branch, or falls to waters spread into dust: this
voice as volcanic, or this voyage as sitting stillness, at waves cringing, at
wheels with Ezekiel, or wounds yoked for fleeing into basements: those masked
mirrors, this marble attraction, or our mass ministers: as rulers of time,
filled with impassivity, while charging for ruined cut asunder: unnerving
music, or peaceful murals, but desecrated by talents: those diva queens, as
polite distractions, but quilted in quicksand: those gifted salesmen, as
sailing to Europe, or slanging dirt to dinosaurs: this storm by rain, this
sliced passion, this cigar to ashes—as lives attraction, those reapers running,
or this taste of emotional seeds.
…we
met at odds, we laughed in private, we knew for faults: our gunning guts, this
pleasure for poison, or realized discontent: those power positions, this parent
forking over thousands, where children ask for more: indeed, with laughs, as
never that luxury, while dislodged from Reality: those perfect women, those
perfect men, and those outlandish prices for prose: our purpose for rhythms, or
those skirts riding veins, or this sky sign terrorizing brains: that inner
apparatus, as sought your face, to sense with passion this in-for-out
schism—as, thereinto, this Vegas Film, or social arithmetic—where sociopaths
are chastised, and vague fools realize, if but this tension those years that
passed: our sorrow badges, this basin bait, or this battle as non-war: to
destroy life, those years to self, while agitated that crows decide for deaths:
that beastly bird, this bite in blood, or this cactus carrying DNA: as captions
bled, where cemeteries gave existence, this chain, this chance, this church: as
debts to misery, or decisions congratulated, this drum, this design, this
dusty/dusky earthquake: therewith, this engine bone, this building cobweb, or
this spider headed to rehab: while distressed for existence, or craving one
last cigarette, to ritualize this falling grace….
…we
collar dread, this habitual routine, or comfort through ritualized
dependencies: our codependence, our intra-rituals, or this feeling that
psychology, on multiple levels, works: this need for our fix, while never
changing, to curse, laugh, and sin: this condition for men, this psychiatry for
women, this small, indirect creature for Reality: as never by earth, but ever
by Divinity, as long as it works in our favor: those beads for prayer, this
change as resistant, our cries, our gates, our impulsive fiction: those field
of flowers, this fix for living, where mothers forbid their daughters: this
lost cause, this wild element, this sick sap: as soreness to guts, this pus
dripping, this man at oblivion: indeed, this mad poet, this feudal element, as
never a thought outside her box: as captive souls, held as prisoners, while
Love laughs pillaging brain-cores: that broken root, this foolish grandparent,
and that lying mother: if but to live, this furniture of ghosts, to look at
Love as never a truth to bones….
