…we
live as thieves, kneeling upon Arch Bishop’s, drained for trekking purgatory:
such latent hostility, such blatant levity, as cries our wilderness….
I
vied in you, this chivalrous war-care, those infamous night-clouds: to sense
thoughts, those reversible outlines, or ghetto-concrete, and dead-men stalking:
our agriculture, our fruits and vegetables, while walking tension: those flower
bugs, nibbling at thought-matter, while eyes seeped into injustice: this achy
feeling, this vanished emotion, upon return headed by courts: our Sanhedrin,
Love—our radical, localized trauma, as men seeking sophistication: at Tyranny’s
Doorpost, or arms screaming for affection, or minds reverting to infant cribs:
those breasts, and such milk, as ever looking for likeness…this kind respect,
this infinite gesture, or years living with an alias—those inner guards, this
mental security, to find such loopholes: our dreams, our St. Paul, our prison
Epistles: as wild oldies, or flippant women, if but to subjugate chaos.
I
can’t sleep, so infatuated, approaching Our Goddess, Prose: this chirping
feeling, this Indian Owl, or this rabid composure: so drenched and winning, so
drunk and losing, where Love appeared as perfect: those inner sights, this
dying curse, to appreciate something dying—or at Love singing, this thought
dragged, this heart grogged: as midnight frequency, or a.m. passion, where Love
sits cruising a soul’s consciousness: those mental women, our padded
resilience, or this interior Us-party: as
abused survivors, or crushed insistence, where mother gave an alibi: this grown
gorilla, this squatting infant, or our Soul
at nightmares: that Kingly dream, to fit with insanity, to cringe this
existence: if but acceptance, to finally see self, while wrenched for panicked:
such teargas windows, this skyglass pistol, if but a shimmer of light: this
pigeonhole fire, this midday love, or hearts destroyed and sent to jungles: our
primate cousins, our primate women, or something so raunchy we seize it.
…we
need as rewarded, we die as living, and we confess vulnerability: those
remarkable incentives, this painful gut, or eyes that spoke Jerusalem: our
minds at hells, our memories at paradises, if but to club with insanity: this
last success, this first lose, where Love felt a bit paranoid: to sense his
mug, to dig as chugged, or digging for dug: this bold endeavor, and this was
life, our block too hot for grandparents: this pusher, this thisness, or
radicalized cages: to feed our palms, or to eat such dirt, for life is
disobedient: those fabulous wings, this knowhow woman, this tried for trueness:
as mobile reclusion, or public reclusiveness, while father returned to share
customs….
…it’s
complicated, to arise before dawn, at thoughts where wilderness runs: to catch
a glimpse, to sense family orient, while chasing Prose: this interior balloon,
this reckless damsel, this interior survivor: where Love pants glory, to see
such genius, at seconds to desire eternity: this subjugated incline, those
red-bush shrubberies, at mental games, or polite exchange, where a second validates
a legacy: our purple moon, our turquoise ocean, or jasper falcons—at leniency
tides, this black sunrise, this slant upon straight parallels: while teas are
sipped, and judgments are passed, where Reality has little to invest: this
mental pity, this deep sympathy, but muscles suffer from atrophy: indeed, those
glorious arcs, this terrific enchant, this torturous night-care….
