…a
few rituals, a few hearts, a salute to something ancient: this series of gods,
those Japanese cartoons, this deep, rich, interrogation of energy: those few at
determination, this loyal aircraft, while this airborne evaluation: our seeds
feeling existence, our mothers cooking meals, our fathers to garage projects:
as mother watches, pokes a little fun, while more supportive than religion: our
base in knowledge, our supernal activities, or fond of something esoteric:
those cherished responses, this enveloped integrity, or those nacreous
characteristics: our fused guts, this airwave communication, or those days to
dying softly: at radiant feelings, this joy those replies, our banter clearing
orbit: to sink into Neptune, or wrestle with Minnie Mouse, where bedroom
behavior is sought through clouds: that rich fog, those glassy eyes, or
un-indicative attitudes: this beating heart, those ruby rescue souls, or
lactescent thermometers: to chance persistence, to become a bit mean, while
mother would suggest a different approach: this formable woman, this docile
mirror, while lethal for deadly: our chess with grapes, our intimacy with
resentment, where life was two at struggles
…those
torn debates, those years at deliberation, where time seemed inconsequential:
our Riddler faces, our Batman voyage, a bit concerned with Robin’s: that inner
image, that Catwoman outfit, those media intestines: as assured of silence,
while reserved in happenstance, where reality is pointing at Daffy Duck: that
beak blown afar, those wits as missing their mark, where souls are accustomed
to compromise: those few professors, dying to impute, where nights are long and
days are too short: if but to fly, this world of roses, seared with total
abandonment: as casual attendants, this American Airline, while seated in our
dens: those bold captures, this fleet of engines, to announce as arriving but
seated in doubts.
…we
adore passion, those redemptive souls, our minds tiptoeing eggshells: if but
immediacy, if but its duration, we come to taking our pace: this inner dream,
to walk with grace, to face life with open receptors: our catnip Simone’s, our
extravagant Monroe’s, our extra-ordinary Librarians: this fetish in men, those
blocks in humankind, where intelligence becomes intimidating: our Penguin
attacks, as rift’d asunder, while mourning our instincts: that sudden second,
to chance existence, a bit taken with clearing our ramps: those chiseled,
professional, emotional souls: those clairvoyant, demonstrative monsters, while
hanging mid-city as Scarecrow: if but those charms, those chromatic charms, our
legs locked in deep existential(s)…this fool astringent, this Garnier massacre,
or years to fretting this soul: as knowing for literature, this seldom
catastrophe, where one yearns for something they can’t keep: this needy
conglomerate, this Lisa Monae, or better, this thinking, manipulative vessel:
our screams in climate, our respect in initials, or this boot thrusting our
livers: as souls drifting, our minds to magazines, to experience life a bit saddened
by life: but media kills, as media rules, our nation looking for something too
beautiful to last a week….
…indeed,
with hang-ups, while staring provocatively, where tense inconsistencies mandate
approaches: this curious soul, this curios ambivalence, while surging into
planet hero: our heroine vines, our Sexton poets, this tall, lethal, delicate
enchantment: while chained through biblical(s), or dying for freedom, to happen
upon dregs: this inner civilian, those rubric calendars, or those agora enterprises:
at Sanhedrin courts, a bit petrified, a tad bit enlove with wombs: this deadly
woman, her sword drown, our souls to winds….
