…there
were hellish papers, re-seamed note fliers, and emotional turbulence: there
were vacuums, and enveloped spacing, while music skipped and lunged: such
grappling beige, this inlet of obscurity, this inrush for probing, or great
souls hunting whales: our loose smiles, our purple gavels, and innate
capacities: by turquoise roses, this feigned momentum, and those conflicting
memoirs…. …i find in passion—that we
ignore perception, or maddened by perception: our legs crossed, our souls
hungry, our minds evaluating a perfect capture: (this selective moment, one
tugged by insistence, or one needing to escape their palms: that trail of gofers,
those ruined gardens, or this freedom to ignore rivers: at sudden perception,
to shake towards freedom, our habits pressed to persist: our mannish ways, our
serious affidavits, or years studying a passive person: this frightened
reality, if but to exist, while brains sense resentment: at forced apologies,
to regain clarity, where one swears loyalty to self: those junky alleys, those
freedom valleys, where attitude becomes a classic ruse: our palpitating skies,
our cigars with resistance, or precious deer listening closely)…this raking
film, indebted to sharks, as gnawing from within:
those browning weeds, those lying mirrors, where it must be permitted: this
song chemistry, this bearable, insufferable chimney, or this unboxed
present for reception: such jute to
winds, such fire to canyons, or elements unstudied and roaring: our antithesis,
our unprinted manuscripts, while negotiating self as regards a good inheritance: those small
infractions, as to have this life, and look, Love is delirious….
…we
exhaust something essential, at terrible alienation, while listening to
background cellos: to gaze afar, staring at gazelles, and filled with
existential longings: our souls slung afar, our dreams laughing frantically, or
accounts stippled in images: this inner self, this private person, wailing for something to notice: if but equipped, to
maintain something pure, while trickling through peepholes: this glance at
self, this other person, where kites draw our attention: those symbols in
camouflage, this mental ventriloquist, or days to humming a sorrowful tune: at
moons smiling, at sunshine debating, upon a pair of Puma’s: this vex in souls,
when music subsides, while alone reflecting upon dignities: our erased
canvases, warring with habits, or shackled by examinations: such reluctant
awareness, such fretted realities, sworn to rehabilitation….
It
gets harder to sing, notwithstanding, luxuries, or hard-won alliances: we face
ourselves, this enveloped signature, as souls trek towards anything: if but to
forget, if but to erase habits, if but this yearning for goodness: our terms redeemed, our flinty faces, our encoded
behaviors: this tale about Neptune, this penchant for Pluto, if but to retrace
our innocence: our furniture rearranged, our carpets swept, at something
internal that remains faceless: (as I thought earlier, about so many faces, to
imagine why idols are cherished: this focal point, this need for mental
imagery, if but thrown into prayer: at serious powers, or grand influx, peering
at fibers longing for union: that sanity in men, this gravel in souls, or soil
so rich we escape our dilemmas: if but those realities, if but those dreams,
where agonies subside in durations): to imagine frustration, to need an image,
or designed to worship in some capacity: our cherished stars, those
constellations, or this part in self feeling closeness: while sights are great,
but sightless fairs well, for perfection streams highest: that witness
un-witnessed, this sheer internal sphere, or this war for clarity: our language
losing something, our metaphysical tears, or epistemologies becoming by
emotions: as rebellion at play, or this need to invest—in something that evens
out frustration: that message with lights, or this losing of souls, where it
was needed to travel inside!
