I
grabbed a magazine, I thought about seconds, I chunked it to trash: this remote
feeling, those incessant particles, this horrid reality: as beautiful compliance,
our Virgin Mary, this boot made by Depression:
such Silly String, or Versace nickels, or pennies in every transaction: our
graves awaiting bodies, our colors parachuting, our simplicities rising to each
occasion: this Doctorate’s Vocation, this easy going classroom, or sick with
roses: those frozen petals, those air-tight zips, those chains and cuffs: to
pant gently, to misspell Adoration, or
to confuse intensity for passion: those rabid concerns, as living this life,
while burdened by un-barren soil: this sickle for anthem pain, this threshing
for reality, as opposed to unwavering insanity: our children with eyes, those
balloon investigators, to ask simple questions: our whereabouts, our states by
minds, while peering into our countenances: our mother that glass, our father
that nose, while stealing little Penny’s lips: to sense wildness, in turn, to
give them back, while so entrenched in silence: moreover, a dream, to want it
badly, to resist science: our psychic physics, our mystic maniacal(s),
therewith, those vines reaching for pedals are thrashed: that revving machete,
stored behind brains, as mother chases his synaptic center: this feeling in
souls, those cold replies, or this dungeon fretted but intimate. I’m not an angel, but gifted for sins,
repenting for Love: to remember Job, repenting daily, for sins that might
occur: but a second, to gain or lose, where real rapture is forgiveness: if one
should trespass, you would see self, maybe, doing what you couldn’t tolerate:
this shifting locality, to need utter loyalty, while disloyal to self: this
casual illness, while another pops pills, where it gets hard to realize our
mirrors: that quick glance, those zippy rooms, or forged enthusiasm: for Penny
is growing, and Roger is grown, and Roger is indifferent: as rarely about
converse, and more about solitary, plus, that one girlfriend: to open his door,
to purchase his condoms, to argue with neighbors: something trivial, this thing
with parenting, this chase while last night things were heated: our radiant
nostrils, our lazy bodies, or self, a bottle, a pen, a computer: as Love points
out something obvious, or said author chuckles, while Love opens into
character: those remarkable traits, as minds drift, to realize Love is human: this
feeling-fighting, those tales said to self, while behind curtains something is
shoving: that small frame, for one must wrestle, at winter a bit more solid:
our giggles, our love, while debating this thing called, Love: our pedantic castles, our
whiplashed intellects, or reasoning
done with diligence. Imagine our
faces, upon something accidental, while roaming this light: that small smile,
those small toes, those half full lips: indeed, a giggle, indeed, a slight,
indeed, something meaningless: this sail through valleys, those valleys in
cages, those cages in brains: this pushy location, this irrational harmonizer,
where thoughts are intentional: while speaking about logic, this internal
overseer, where each line is written softly: our needs as monumental, our souls
as gravitators, in truth, we create such reality with boundaries: that Golden
Calve, that frozen cactus, or those warm, impassionate eyes: as sensing
attitude, those deep charlatans, or one arriving prior to complete training: as
vajrayana centipedes, or precocious
adolescents, where a little became too much: to sing with passion, our
daughters as Wiccans, our mothers nodding to and fro: thereto, this sighted
feeling, to sense its arrival, while seriously unprepared: this cadence in
souls, those rosaries at computers, where something holy becomes compelling:
this slight error, where allure becomes station, while we sully good intentions: that slipping
resistance, this thing for confession, or this Light peeking for entrance: our
angels watching, as Love feels pressure, to invade an island of virgins:
furthermore, this core reasoning, this public mirror, those public shadows: our
Square Biz, our wrecked souls, our
punctured faiths!
