…such
haven born loses, abused and ruined, our children repeating our experience:
those sweet or sour loquats, our mental temperature, or souls too lost for
rapture: by resilient ghettos, or restricted habits, to have for dreams
something unique: those battle cells, those warrior cages, while roaming our
emotional desert: this running sensation, those adamant bars, as unfastened
principles: steered into chaos, and sprouting violence, or collecting our
screams: this infant essence, this scrubbing insanity, or doorways collecting
dust…. …this mighty pressure, staring
at glitter, where it felt good to admire: this tender trumpet, those resounding
vocals, this hinge absorbing vibration:
our music empire, or sunlit personalities, to fathom such sacrifice: that small
linchpin, or that petit rudder, or this woman at three trimesters: our future
imprint, those trees above clouds, or this chorus to witness anxieties: our
closed remorse, our hurt sensations, our webs speaking Latin: as bought for sold, or picking cotton leafs, where
anger builds against passions: our lonely agony, our antique frustrations, or
women too proud to deign…. …our busy
minds, our diamond centers, or to sit engulfed that koanic womb—as buoyancy
gripping, our minds to shadows, this soul so close I must cry: this trove of
hairs, this flamboyant rebound, this man three days at ecstasies: to manumit
self, or slavery for purchase, or high rise masters: this thrust as ruined,
this bone as swollen, this entrance as intoxicating: our great grandpa, our
greater grandma, at gates speaking with Lazarus: this last talisman, those
immortal gestures, when all she cried was a breath of dejection: that soul
engendered, this ache ingratiated, and those kites cut for freedom…. …war by fantasts, or stargazing dreams, or
ignescent generations: those circuit eyes, this inquisitive soulprint, or
mandolins suffering isolation: at love-lot cities, or such physics by amore, at
romance with sheer mystery: this fugacious resistance, while never our touch,
at lyrics reciting our dirge: that aphrodisiac; to blind souled colors; this
alchemic oxygen—where love shivers, as dead to realization, her arms wrapped at
centers trembling: as cloudy estates, or paradise screaming, while a little son
holds his mother: those tiny ligaments, those emotional lesions, or typing six
words a minute: if but to imagine, as but to exhaust, this pool of ambitions:
those extended straws, this choice in life, as unmentioned this destined
calling—our breaths wheezing, our guts to flippancies, or to see with lights this
running configuration…. …we dote by
inscriptions, we dine with misery, we tear Dear God to shreds: our futile
Nike’s, our esteem through Versace, or L’Orèal mistakes: this line of soldiers,
this whip in womanhood, or supple eyes pleading our courage: to die for
grieving, or to grieve for dying, afraid to master ambrosia: this foolish man,
this distinguished gem, or seconds to meeting eye-to-eye: our enfolded
pleasures, our measure by profanity, or secular cues becoming holy trinkets:
that opalescent character, or this slight disgust, at windows scribing our
whereabouts: to ween about Love, this deep inspiration, but never for Love our
good mornings: this plangent feeling, this melancholic noise, those melancholic
eyes: as spinning for culture, to announce upon arrival, where years become
awkward…. …our oceanic passion, this
loving island, this reverberation: as taboo friends, pleading this
undercurrent, while scathed by thoughts: our shunga minds, or fresco paintings,
or this thought to living inside of portraits: our Ukiyoe Dynasties, our
neophyte hearts, or this recurrent theme: as motifs dying, or winsome sounds,
where Love scribbles an ink tall building: this subtle cue, this tillage of
souls, or architecture slipping at its fulcrum: this revolving pivot, this
falling scream, or mnemonic devices proving a fatal touch: those infused waves,
this running arc, or water falling into well-prints….
