Grassroots

…we start by surfaces, reaching through soil, and arriving at minerals: this steep fence, or that wooden gate, or tales screeching through silence: our magnificent cries, by spurts of sinning, to happen upon conundrums: our flying fish, our syrupy waters, or years trekking marshy anxieties: that inner film, this public cinema, and tragic inconsistency: if but by warmth, to saturate existence, where others are responsible for our joy: this magnet woman, those magnet wishes, as two extracted from society: that salacious heart, those rhythmic curses, by reason to falter….

I fumble blackness, I chestnut existence, and feel we die afire: this money chase, this riverbank, or seconds to tender thoughts: (this Wild West hostage, this internal gray sun, or eyelashes shedding: this blinking frenzy, this tiny hair, this large insistence: such crooked lights, those tormented agonies, as men playing for keeps: our mental reflection, our rich paradoxes, or pain as an antiquitous motif: to arise with passion, or to meet by essence, while denied clearance: this house of antiques, those ruby bats, or storage souls seeking serenity: at caprice magic, this inner portrait, as absconding with silence: those perfect tentacles, this fawning nature, or love so latent it fails to breathe): thereto, our destination, this bookcase of cries, this withering library!

…we treasure armchairs, our indomitable faiths, a bit plastic by morals: as algae grows, weakness increases, or strength so strong it crumbles: this willow bending, this soul winning, this mandolin growing limbs: as night rises, or sudden at presence, while men and women relax in fables: this purple existence, or this pale grave, while resented for attempting: this vetoed visa, this vexed vista, this soreness awakened when I sense your eyes: if but to live, as dreaming wide awake, while creeping through diaries: to outlive intentions, to rebirth Black Jesus, to originate as one soaring: those mind-readers, those moving replies, or this glance at something needing a raft: this porch tea, this patio beer, or better, this patio barbeque: as hustlers appear, as priests seclude, while monks and nuns travel atmosphere: this deacon giggling, this bishop mourning, this preacher to knees: as but our curses, as but our women, as but our attempts to retrieve our riches: as gilt’d in rain, or changing our armoires, while listening to this brain-fair narration: those beige vines, this rich nectar, to find that often love becomes adventure….

…it’s been years, seeing, looking, a casual gaze, at black moons, or distant graves, to reminisce by dreams: this remaining heartbeat, this threshed mind-core, or time too short for apologies: this cold lie, this frigid existence, this deep hurt: as Love laughs, or sinks deeply, while afloat a beach trekking shores: this bold excursion, this explorer insight, this cosmic intuition: to need his soul, to desire for seasons, to lose for disappointed: so angst be good, or angst be gone, while sinning and swimming in angst: (it had me, Death, this cell of dreams, this un-casual depression): this dirt sorrow, this silent avenger, our eyes weeping without mud: as chiseled for losing, or winning and losing, while losing became an expertise: our bowels rumbling, our souls scavenging, our mothers pointing at heaven: this static place, or this friend for adults, or this tricky reality: or persons, that Big Light, or pure, unadulterated energies: this cry for some, this absolute for others, while some have become a bit too fundamental: our deep shame, our ability to kill pride, while stamping souls for ostracism: this game at wrongness, our passions becoming torments, while we side with self-promotion: at grains splicing, at soil digging, at roots extracting: that space in men, staring for wondering, and compelled to believe in goodness….