…make
for pleasure, alas, for reason, if but for endurance: this rat race, this chase
by demons, this world building subliminally: our cagey feuds, our milk with
teas, or rabid for nauseous: this mad father, this liquid mother, or this cup
of ruby intensity: as aches a child, or satori
cries, lingering and arguing with epiphanies: that plate of salmon, those
intuitive states, or this sudden heart-blow: as died an infant, to arise as
ghosts, where uncle cleared our purgatories: this feeble enchant, this mobile
station, while infused claiming existence….
I agree with anger, but more with clarity, while one reasons through
insanities: that keepsake vengeance, that bittersweet smile, or agonies seeming
alone: those iron petitions; that tablet of sphinxes; or this morning’s
thunderbolt: this trove of trophies, or wants thereof, while reading this
father/daughter brochure: indeed, to galleries, those hopes with dreams, and
this inner tempo of kingdoms: our broken grins, our sightless adults, and this
societal music: where mother is perfect, as tales are false, where reality
flings our guts: if but those canons, or unreasonable Proverbs, where one is
struck by telepathy: at psychic pianos, or mystique violins, where souls become
adulthood. I adore your mind, I
ponder your character, and this is by wits: this blood lineage, if times are
good, where some are quite emphatic: this laughing senior, this telic wand, or
this gelid grandmother: thitherto, such agape
rationalism, this swanic oracle, this bad father: to cuss with gin, to ride
through darkness, or to hypnotize such burning hatred: but days are good, where
memories are sore, while forced to function as a reasonable human: at ultimate
shadows, or to click at that second, or to envision Buddhists crocheting our
serenity: this subtle language, this father with mother, or those years to
ruminating sensations: our cuts and wounds, our lesions and fights, or
courtesies extracting our blood-war.
…it was nice to feel you, this rapid index, this flicker as one purchased:
this sanctum sanctuary, that elegant nose, or those tart and odorous toes: if
but your soul as but your mind, to realize that times are good: this
existential, this mystic fuse, or observers peering through red tape: to have
met disaster, while guarding their husbands, as kids laughed with glee: our
pinewood, our eager cedars, or our cautious oak vines: while mother dances,
this brilliant chance, where fathers sense a taste of insincerity: indeed, this
feudal self, this trekking trance, to believe that personalities are
ingrown—where souls struggle, as running from God, to arise in similar
positions: this dreaded curse, this rehearsed bridge, where months ruin
innocent gutters: but swans are life, as self-conscientious rulers, insomuch, this gutted empire:
our fairytales, as brought into existence, while aunts laugh fretting
inevitability: that third chip, or those flowery cakes, to realize that nothing
has changed: our same thoughts, our selfish moods, and our torn individuality:
while trespassing Satan, to hate a man’s guts, where soaking for dying, while
admonishing his drinking…. I die in
us, exploding in fury, to have something precious at stakes: this impulsive
drive, this category in Kant, or this duty
forsaking its clarity: those brown pebbles, that green cactus, or this
ceiling screaming for deserts: that blanket of memories, this feud for
warlocks, to imagine such greed bent upon selfishness: to protect our
interests, to believe a dear lie, while one is pus and glory: this intimate
destruction, this client with hell, or those furious whiplashes: this wreck
upon Crenshaw, this spinning wall, or this man’s head bleeding his dreams: to
live as accursed, if but one night with passion, to suffer for eighteen hideous
years: this tale as greatness, our mothers feeling alive, while fathers laugh
feuding inner omens: this cellar of bottles, this wicked, plus, addiction,
while surrendering another becomes fiction: this other man’s catastrophe, our
lives wasted, while Love sutures a dying addition: this vicious game, this
heinous enterprise, where daughters live as absent: this self in bones, this
need to persevere, or at least, this venture to sense Reality. I hear you!
