I
tear upon gravel, immortalized in riches, while dying, nonetheless: this
furious canal, our mother’s womb, as giving this son life: at treasures
received, at earth a nuisance, while trickling through cavities: to banister a
kite, to knead a dynasty, where psychs feel hell and knowingly: that last bail
or that revoked bail, our years treading crazy monsters: while gritting and
grinding, where horizons blaze death, this challenge to awaken: such minutia,
this edgy milieu, as money harvesting maniacs: to destroy life, while cornered
by poverty, where holy endeavor spreads by chaos: those pistols laving, this
metaphorical catastrophe, where mother would cringe: our guts, Aunty, our
ghettoes, Cousin, while glens seem appropriate, Love: this death, Peggy, this
miracle, Alpha, while Bill is out to lunch: for havens seem just, while
free-spirits appear distressed, where hell seemed a redemptive legacy: those
tight waists, those long legs, in so much, a considerable majesty: therewith,
those blueprints, this dotted line, where excuses seem foreign: our alienation,
to work with treasuries, as a man where resistance became anger. I gut life, I trot beyond sanity, for life
is pure chaos: that beauty to bipolar(s), where calmness seems false, while
adaptive to creative inconsistencies: this coffee for dysfunctional(s), this
liquor for mother, while infused by purchases: our touch agendas, our radical
fly-traps, indeed, our sentimental horizon: if but to perish, at love ensconced,
while harboring this gutted integrity: our clashing morals, our evolved
leviathans, while so-and-so seeks a link.
I split in halves, as cocaine’d by uterus, our glassy eye-triggers: this
phenomenal woman, as searching for something, and promising deaths—this quiet
storm, those inner fences, while falling and claiming indifference: those cold
children, this African maniac, while courage seemed so swell—to dip in traffic,
a bit snug in seats, at eyes with something frantic: our slice to home, our
gutter-lane majesty, as assumed alone in this vast universe: as accused recently,
or recently diagnosed, where reason failed her enterprise: if but to music,
looking for perished, to walk away from tombs: those gray skies, this nacreous
sunrise, while tunneled by fuels.
…low
bass, high cymbals, as cold enough to survive: that inner tickle, our airwave
lungs, puffing a room to smoke: our guts giggling, our women laughing, while
filled with petro: this liquid flame, this trucking silence, while removed from
situations: our grannies at liver-works, seated in sophistication, to smile
with approval: our costumes, apropos once a years, at 3oo and 64 days of
combat: this loud ass mirror, this screaming ass membrane, or that resistant
amygdala: our tears at rivers, our bowels to salmon, where death was sweet
enough to live: this gravesite, those tombs, at terror laughing with spirits:
that last sip, those torrent adventures, at Love speaking in riddles: our
sweaty glands, our heater hearts, or souls searching for semblance: this deep
reality, this biblic enterprise, to become pure spirit: those flutes those
Blues those confused sages: as one punished, condemned to earth, at a thousand
years to unlock—this feudal mind, those rebuked tendencies, to witness
apparitions: our baby catastrophe, this child a young woman, that atypical
magistrate: to dip further, as lost to membrance, at facial recognition: this
command chain, those deep pits, that terrifying grenade: in army fatigues, and
running into warfare, close to a million commanders: our achy brains, this
flippant mentality, and those tragic letters…while accustomed to miracles, or
slithering in silence, or running with Sonic: that Heathcliff charm, those
bantering lies, our dreams scattered across battlefields: our names speaking,
our souls uncivilized, our armor imposing order: at something chaotic, as
living with breaths, while fused by agonies: that gray sunrise, those tragic
gray eyes, while affixed to one last dance….
