…true
to reprinted thoughts, by reaching sensitivities, causing syrupy anxieties: our
ethnic or colorless states, our fern music, where rationality becomes obscure:
our scrapes in solitary, at public feelings, and reprinting internal noise:
such wild beginnings, our ‘norms’ seeming controversial, made subject to
indifferent tolerance: as stolen vessels, unable to record dysfunction, while
leering at society: this ghetto location, this ghetto Brentwood, or such
realities filmed through Sybil: those aesthetic cries, as artistic embodiment,
but involved in absent behaviors:
those clumps of grass, or weedy analyses, at facets pleading our clarities:
such ninja confliction, such ninja addiction, insomuch, this ceiling
of terror….
I
flicker ash, while observing dragonflies, while seeping into sadness: this
friend of ours, this familiar loci, where absence becomes intrusive: this
cinema of dahlias, or this primary caregiver, or those loses while feeling pity
for others: this deep confliction, at wonders about genuine agony, where it has
become this method for entry: (at fiddling emotions, or gluing ceramics, or
chilling potted coffee: this light concerning riches, this kingdom of
desertions, or this silent discomfort): our souls inching, our rulers bending,
our measures touching exhaustion: to find such joy, while aiding others, by
reflection to remember we have forgotten our woes: (those windy clouds, those
turquoise dreams, or this feeling by pruning repeated thoughts): this inner
diary, this mental chimney, or hours rearranging soot: this company for men,
this laughter for youths, where life hasn’t become this jaded enterprise: to
admire souls, as dedicated fury, where one has determined to mimic motion: our
sunrise roses, our ironic enclosures, to realize that ingestion equals rain.
…to
dream with thorns, to read with vengeance, to absorb something subtle with
reading: it’s similar to life, or cases being different, despite, such clumps
of grass: this inner presence, those white ice cubes, or trenchant awareness:
at lost-and-found, retrieving his instincts, while listening to wisdom-tidbits:
our Freda empire, our re-valued politics, or that subtle ‘thing’ evaluating our
participation: as feelings become art, or art becomes inclusion, while gazing
at a glass of reality: this sinning soul, those sinful years, and this hunt for
something becoming quite quaint: this breathing skeleton, those scarred sinews,
and this emotion fretting its horizon….
I admire
discipline; I chisel failures; I arrive seated in penance: to feel existence,
as deliberate this chase, even while stationed in meditation: this prep-school for seekers, this reality
for patience, and subtle to life this growing intolerance: that inner secret,
while speaking softly, while churned through vortexes: our memories becoming
judges, our feelings taking precedence, where right-and-wrong possess little
jurisdiction: (at cleaning his claim, where some are adamant survivors, while
many are suffering for justice: such faint lights, as to strike wonder, where
we inquire of intelligence): this place for rivers, this soul for deliverance,
or aches staring at human static: that gray cart, those tetras wounds, or
moments sensing something acute.
…we telephone
feelings, we ignore emotions, and we function as super-humans: this fire by
agonies, this web by exclusions, or flame becoming an internal language: this
fight for dominance, those souls for justifications, or this anti-insistence:
where arms are folded, and symphonies are raging, while passions are arousing
inner sentiments: those sudden tears, those deep crystals, or this looking away…!
