…“you
must be good,” this prayer to self, this kef with embarrassments: our charms
harming us, our charisma spackling us, our deeds so sweet: to envelope minds,
to open facets, to cleanse tiny holes: this branch in women, this torch in men,
as belittled for compassion: that trickling tear, this wild island, our guts
infused: at blue ivory, at red ivy, while intending one last embarrassment:
those terrific lies, this lawyer with child, or deep for dead attempting to
breathe: our facial makeup, our intricate blueprints, or at thoughts those
abstract feelings: sudden to water, as non-provoked, to realize someone is
reaching: our portrait skies, our ambrosia wombs, while many are waning: such
deep insecurity, such feeble cries, to invest as lost while Love adores your
guts: those salient ribbons, this trenchant anxiety, to stipple pictures (our
daughter’s laughs, our mother’s potentiality): those serene addicts, those
serene moments, to find self acting so long it became principle: our chateau
minds, our chateau souls, while it felt like heaven to dream: at savior
enchantment, to savor emotion, while grandiose enough to reach forward….
I
didn’t love you, this thought with remorse, as coursing through time: that
intimate letter, that distant response, this seeming into acted behavior: at
grotto liquor, or matinee laughter, feeling but good: this get-high woman,
those get-high eyes, as wine has become integral in our lives: as but for him,
this tale in dreams, as confused as Houdini: those gloomy moments, those sullen
heart-screeches, this hesitant, I love
you: to resent what we adore, to adore what we resent, while wishing for
ligaments: at prophetic love, at prophetic guts, or prophetic whispers: listening
to Al Green, streaming through heart-thumps, but realizing it meant nothing
without Love: out thoughts to Moses, those wires through lights, to feel
sprinkles and denote a particular source: as tales are told, this truth to
brains, our ‘transmitters may deceive us!: as men chasing, as women feeling,
our mosaic sacrifices: this ephod bleeding,
or this person’s grimace, while another augmented this journey: our serious
mind-caves, our intimate chaos, at treasures attempt to evince something
esoteric: to dance afore you, too faint immortality, while gutted for
sentiments.
