I
rollercoaster, I reach blindly, and dance like Tyson: this fistless fool, this
pistol for deliverance, at chances bleeding intestines: those long attractions,
as if for difference, as living while souls capture: this left remedy, this
senseless romance, as born alone intoxicating a nation of strangers: this one
to livers, at nights guzzling water, to urinate past three: our miracles
lively, our apes speaking Chinese, or black communists running to Egypt: those
driven curses, this revving Lamborghini, or this whisper too soft to discern:
our Pac children, those daughters to Swahili, or white mothers tugging pistols:
if but to live, as but to incarnate, too young to mention cigars: at thoughts
with psychs, or yearning for dramatists, while pictured a glimpse those
cinemas—to die while breathing, or live this miracle, where mother became a
totem pole…indeed, as treacherous souls, at evenings with menacing, to gut for
vomit sipping pure vodka: this woman dying, this song as lethal, our years at
UCLA: this doctor laughing, for ruined by wretchedness, to collapse a
living-room rug: this thousand dollar square, or this million dollar whore, as
running from Jesus: to cuss as deadly, to love as mischief, to need if but
twelve mistakes…those leafy rivers, those metaphysical crocodiles, or this
diamond winking for falling into another man: as graphed for failure, or mapped
for success, as one genetically disposed to Malcolm.
I
ingest passion, this acrylic mistake, where Love felt quite adamant: this dead
father, this deceased mother, and this failing grandfather—as granny would
cyclone, or perish those nights to ecstasy, while Love spoke too many truths:
this ruined gut, this filthy mentality, this holy contradiction: this aunt to
liquor, this alpha running into deserts, or Maggie to reach for her first black
passion: as Spanish Corridors, or French Glasses, where marble windows strike a
nerve: this African Kite, this European Mahogany, or years to managing a
crucial Sanction: those American
Gangsters, this inverted sanity, where certain brains are filled with
voices: that small secret, if but to illusions, where behavior condemns its
internal clock: as mothers to oceans, this yacht bleeding pigeons, as at
flights restricted to groundless waves: that purpose at midnight, this infused
manikin, to assume life fluffing our pillows: wherewith, this sightless Ghost,
this romantic android, where avatars chance this island of humans.
…we
trouble expressions, laughing at hearts, feeling that fools are gruelish: this wheezing
helium, those perfect calves, and this maniac behaving as priests: as cold to
centers, or raging in nightmares, where onlookers label as dying concerns: this
person’s theorem, as built in whiteness, where blackness is deemed as inferior:
our same stories, this mistook aggression, or nights to madness seeped into:
and, thereunto, this maniac woman, protected by titles, where daily that close
to snapping: and, hereto, this mis-enchanted rainbow, those tendencies towards
violence, or this mission where violence becomes nonsense: as psychs dancing,
this inner psychologist, to realize this need for humanness: this existential
light, this paranoid manic, or days to creating something foreign: this
treacherous butterfly, this lethal maniac, to shiver and disappear: those
measurements, those black cities, those white suburbs: to eject reality, while
thrilled for tetras, where many are running from HIV: our mothers cringing, our
fathers debating, or granny to blood work…indeed,
this life, those fires, this wall too high for clearance: to want something
gentle, aforetime, that realization, where such and such misses for longevity:
as social misfits, or radical lovers, to hit with patience that sacred
location: if but to fear, this woman as vocal, to arrive sensing something akin
to passion: those reaching astronauts, this woodblock romance, or this Juliet
catastrophe: our Shakespeare souls, our Indiana
Jones haplessness, or ponds leaning or shivers at ceilings or realized
ghosts scribing our interior.
