I’m
streaming, Rachael, I pause at Leah, if revived than why such deaths: this
rehearsed feeling, this playwright chorus, or this inner liturgy: to take for
tests, this field of eyes, as a bit better typing: this crutch, this pool of
demons, this Negro emphatic: our ghetto rites, our ghetto eyes, or this ghetto
mother: to acclaims foreign, too days scourged, while seated with white women:
those mad cries, this senseless music, or arms to face and distorted: this
unquenched chasing, this radicalized harvest, this adore in pictures. I
search powers, this esoteria, these forces alive but fretting static: this
clinging night-gaze, those realized roses, to perish becoming begonias: this
mental gambit, this hammock of laundry, while Love stippled a psychic photograph:
this chilly atmosphere, this wooden office, this thread by rugs those psychotic
features: those un-sane, unsanitary, minds, those few with senses, or this
whirlpool attempting to distinguish: at midnight showers, or comforting vows, a
tear unshod and deeply extracted: those burgundy ceilings, this indigo
frustration, or thoughts plaguing florescent diamonds…to venture in mid-breaks,
to arise as semi-manic, or cursed with this insatiable war: these pistachios,
these walnuts, or this quite attractive brain: as souls need physicality, or
perfect everything, at slights a man this curse—those rainbow brows, that
aesthetic forehead, or those testy eye-pigeons—to cuss this existence, while
fueled with sodium, at alarms this woman seems for goodness: those allegations, this feudal defense, or this flitting
for frying while seated at Netherlands….
I
heard choir, while studying physics, where mystic manics salute Jesus: this
flittering candle, this fretted anniversary, this famous salutation: our Yahweh
eyes, our ghostly cries, if but through ruins sipping marsh: those manifest
screams, this running voice, or anchors too engrained to rescue: that vexing
shame, our mother’s insistence, or our realistic impositions: at neighbors
grinning, at wives laughing, or at solitary moments crutched to floors: such
reaping devotion, such creeping fey, at deep unsaid passion: to adore souls,
while eliminating words, where arts to guts so attractive: this husband’s
display, this tire’s energy, or days to feeling it’s worthless: this circuit
spirit, or violent thumps, where beards are rubbed and dimes are flipped: that
angry dice, this angry life, or souls indebted to darkness.
I’m
apostolic or inner apocrypha(s), sensing Tibetan fears: this long tusk, this
living-room trespass, or this shoebill’s fire: our dueling insights, this
twofold stream, or our elephants nudging reality: at loving daughters, spent
about courage, while listening to elevator music: this tenderly dry current,
this mental currency, or this cloud becoming our harbinger: at lava eyes, or
brown fans, while flippant concerning scripture: this young child, this inner me-ness, or years at terrifying
inquiries: this river of sand, or our exiled dementias, where one needs to feel
accepted: our inter-disciplines, our radiant cycles, or this written
disciple-hood: those wheels spinning, this cave laughing, or voices so distinct
we heave by battles: our easy fire-grains, or paranormal outcomes, while
secluded in public abuses: our astrological mates, or reason to believe, where
unsaid jewel is fire-maniac.
This
self-dragon, this miracle for existence, or those arcane Blues: at Jupiter
demandingly, at Neptune disguised, or rivaling over Venus: such cosmic essence,
such hazel tears, or one perfected in impenetrable lies: as families inquire
rarely, as told as sold, where it felt good to believe in purities: this
perfect philosophy, this workable invention, this A1 theory: where dissention
is brutal, and tiger stones are myths, while walking intellectual Kalahari’s.
