…it
was days sunlit, according to trenchant psychs, as imagined by adolescence:
this anomaly tune, this crooning night-work, this rainbow remodeled: that
interesting mold, our dear lament, or those mythical gas-stations: our
daughters at chores, our souls at choir, our aches cemented in firm decisions:
as men notice, Love, this fair creature, where Love diminishes such promise: or
swans at lakes, fiddling algae, or feeding ducks: such delirious freedom, such
calming airwaves, such rippling undercurrents: our undulations, our deeper
thoughts, or this penchant to ignore indecision: as radical thinkers, those rhythms through reason,
or this illogical-logical dominion—where normality is talkative, while pain is
secretive, where we judge our natures based upon outer imageries: those short
legs, that wide smile, that inquisitive soul: our loquacious babies, while
dying for structure, and so precocious: (I laugh and feel good, to watch those
young, masterful aliens, to absorb a piece of self that remains hidden: that
mother with patience, knowhow, and courage, or remarkable senses by control, or
settling into negotiations: while under-seasons blossom, pondering discolored
waves, or listening to something yearning: that slight whisper, those withering
winds, or this fretful attraction: where most come by exits, or soar for
seconds, while others stick around for millennia: our casket grandparents,
those clear consciences, or such angelic intervention: (to gather prominent
love, to peek at dawn, while our living-room is disguising its troubles): that
spoiled milk, those dried up green onions, those expired eggs: this intimate
sign, this tale by Depression, or
years admiring a person’s energy: this subtle volt, as meaning so little, where
initial catapults felt a certain currency: this pleat in sinners, this winning
disposition, or our Asian lawyers): to cast a vest, to dangle in midair, to
sudden upon inner imageries: this cussing person, this ethical dynamite, or
those few infractions: where Wisdom is
gray, or feelings are iridescent, at treasures gutted but feeling elated: this
need for persons, this laughter simmering, and this penchant for something
esoteric….
I
remember at minutes, I remember at seconds, concerning this vague horizon: our
successful plans, if but our secluded motives, as others must perish for
escaping our deception: this field in life, this hungry ambition, this terrible
cadence: But Life is good, and things
work for majesty, despite, this cringing imperceptibility: indeed, our cups
are half full, our mirrors are pure perception, and Reality needs our insistence: that subtle approval, within subtle eyes, or writing failing
to compliment dispositions: our dreams as poets, our political screams, or days
at somber joys: those sky-windows, as capturing sentiments, to realize that
deepness appears as a curse: our running masses, those in-stretched arms, or
open to something that enhances our passions: those miracle persons, so adept
at Life, in essence, those People that Redeem
Us—this field of pessimism, or those drives that permit abnormalities,
where one becomes a savant genius: our fragile natures, this fragile kingdom,
or eyes that reveal a hidden message: as impolite insistence, this deep
infringement, where Love is reality as
long as we save Love: indeed, a bit crude, but this is our position, where
saviors are interchangeable: those talkative wires, that talkative countenance,
our spider’d inclinations—while frozen for Love, or warm for Love, where
imagination streams for Love: this strict structure, those daylight gardens, or
mahogany roses by star-lights: our settee witness, those moving tables, to
polish ambition, (to nourish a support-base, or to yearn for incandescent
harmony): indeed, our moods, Love, our deep reasoning, or our inculcated realities: to hurt when friends hurt, to
hate where opposition dwells, or to favor particular pains over those tears in
others: this Life by cadence, this channel by sobriety, or this feeling where
no one relents!
