I
picture a son, this casual environment, or this welded daughter: our
experience, our existential screams, or false axioms: to live that life, while
so reassured, where Reality is pitching psychiatry: those bold roses, this
shrubbery of persistence, or this clash with Wisdom: our pipelines, our
hydrants, or this cold kettle: our heat patches, our dreamy passions, where
Reality seems unfair: this morbid professor, at sophistication, while churning
a private fantasy: our almond shakes, our inner guts, or rodents outliving
humans: our evolution, as suffering deficits, for rationality is spurned: those
queenly interests, this glass of prune juice, or peaches becoming
philosophical: this re-sealable zipper, those open embarrassments, or this need
to become father’s adored: at clashes, Love, this mental entourage, or this
person too distant internally: our achy lights, this fumed background, or those
principled aesthetics: at livid cries, or inner skies, while feeling that
justice in unjust: this tale by scavengers, or wheels by divinity, where agony
breeds in close proximity. …we sense
sincerity, peering at childish disdain, while admiring such bravery: those
purple ideals, these wellic symmetries,
or captured for strung by theologies: this feeling for intelligence, this slave if insistence,
or riches exposed for subjugation: this need for ‘things,’ this cry against
wolves, to sense a mirror gazing at this coyote: where hecklers dance, while
feeling insecure, by raptures abusing new enterprises: while mother is silent,
if but to grandeur, while daughters sense a subtle charm: our rabid aches, our
rabid secrets, our realists acrimony: where passions are interrogated, while
random thoughts are at air-claves, where hearing analyzes its overseer: our
rhapsodic minds, this opus projection, this internal fray—as clad in deference,
if but this acceptance, where we need a cheerleader: at coaxed emotion, or
grappling with tales, as two sleep while wide awake: those droplets of
indecency, to repeat forgiveness,
while addressing something formless: to kneel and pray, those scientific
alarms, and this need to be intelligent—at
delicate tides, or dry wines, absorbed by difficulties: this challenging
existence, those indwelling jingles, or this newborn miracle….
It
became a dream, this fabulous woman, this satiated monster: those sidereal
passions, this thrust into legacies, those indestructible charms: if but to
die, laughing with angels, as cried those first few seconds: while Love knew
suitors, and Love danced suitors, this realization that women are immortal: or
canvases through arteries, at synaptic mountains, where religiosity had little
its space: our dark concerns, this need for balance, those four compartments—as
strewn with concerns, this lavish cry, as realized a child was born: that dark
cadence, this benighted elegance, while, nonetheless, a tare conceited…if but
by voices, our deeper rivers, to allay a thousand concerns: this world without
condoms, this touch of three fathers, this deep insecurity: to live that course,
infested by raw-beams, selling this mental bloodstream: as casual neediness, or
cheerleader deception, where suddenly pom-poms are discarded.
…such
melodrama, this philosophic cliff, or this pragmatic conundrum: at tears with
sights, at feelings with arms, or radical a similar distaste: this psychologic
atmosphere, those rare beaut(s), while souls are blind to cotton jeans: this
fair enterprise, this rich feeling, to have invested such diligence: this film
in brains, this fantasy at desks, or this permanent indecency: as, moreover,
this giving force, this life of memories, or that cryptic distance: to have by
heart, this potent goddess, but feeling torn asunder: those fireflies, this
distressed second, to emote as trueness this curse: this chance to pontificate,
our women admiring our status, where it was more important to impress than to
uproot indecisions: as fools laughing, this deeper pleat, this pure
acceptance….
