…it’s
mysterious links, or majestic humans, or mystic misdirection—this furious
slaughter, this serious delusion, this crucial penchant—our wistful eyes, our
deceased souls, or this cultic miracle—as pints of energy, those curious
waterfalls, this mental faucet: as mere a child, staring at cocaine, while
laughing at insanity: this split in characters, these mobile traits, as one
looking at funny existence: to adore something foreign, at memories at
insolence at patience—this foolish midnight, those deigning stars, these tiny
pebbles—to ache his heels, at varicose veins, or lavish for sick appealing to
maniacs: those high sky-crafts, this core-jet, those misguided cheetahs—at Love
with distance, or up so close we fuse, while seated as far we die—as inner
lieutenants, or running cops, or angry centered agents: such infiltration, such
ventures at doors, or ears knitted to concrete: that ruined maestro, this dying
ballerina, or warlocks seized by mysticism: that hut in Long Beach, this mafia
in Vegas, or this trenchant Death Valley—at, moreover, curses, this cherry
dripping midair, this peach laughing at justice, or mangoes flushed for
sniffing existence: that rabid brain, this sagic daughter, or such with hurt
this friend—our bowels blazing, this middle earth, this severing lunatic: to
sentence his mother, to exile our gramps, where aunts are sensing dysfunction:
this psych penalty, this inner therapist, or days to laughing while gripping
sandcastles: this barefoot, this reaching palm, or nails screaming in Mexico:
our damaged guts, this mud organ, or this harp silent by pure fury….
…we
could with life, this intricate code, this mis-haven maze: those long trips,
this harvest in Canada, or eyes so Australian we fluster tension: at mind-pits,
while looking at pity, to ask about such pitiful beauty: this fair creature, as
so sick, and thrust from midweek to eternity: those grueling alligators, this
caiman reality, those treacherous ‘transmitters: that rose, carrying mud, and
discounted by nature: this long existence, this cramp aching, this gut
trickling upon art-life: this saxophone, this wellic profanity, or beer seeming imperfect: that last cigar, this
need for deep insights, this need for something potent: this losing battle,
this man with problems, or poets too entrenched to sense freedom: that welkin
poetess, this strange essence, or this absence for weeks as straining
sensations: to sudden upon arrival, to sadden a living agent, where tarot
speaks this funny language: this spot in Pasadena, this curious Buddhist, or
this instrument jogging spiritual under-lords—at warrior instincts, needing
this one reality, while denied God’s Reality: those banjoes, this underworld
Christianity, or Africa amidst Californians—those ruby dippers, this dolphin
monopoly, or years to guilt built inwardly: this crocheted shame, this gutted
essence, as reality tramples its sister: this game with experience, this
intuition as bleeding, this cut as so entrenched: our cauliflower, our
sweetened broccoli, at intersections digging into concrete: that last blunt,
this creeping mania, at nights reasoning through communion: this tiny vessel,
as feeling life, with too many secrets to remain in solitary: our trumpets, our
daughters, our sons—as mystic winners, afraid but living, to grip sheer
existence….
