I
think to us, I bleak into Jeanie Land, where Love is remarkable: this ace of
scrolls, those inner techniques, or this life one small game: as important thieves,
or cavalier smiles, to chance his guts: at ink portals, at music pains, to flip
as crazy: this mother portrait, that backgammon table, this interior wager: if
but to peanuts, this lively argument, to realize nickel and dime behavior:
(this terrible lose, glossed and ruined, while another woman repents: those
zeitgeist cards, this acrimonious penchant, as bones morph destroying its
body). It was years, Love; as one
strung-out, Love; adrift a sunrise, Love: this 2pac frenzy, our ending times,
those bloodshot eyes: at hours with Jesus, this exterior fire, to flush a
person laughing at Satan: this shrewd moon, our burgundy mornings, this Newport
& meditation: to cook while smoking, to giggle at unimportance, or to feel
mother this deep slain: as moved through traffic, this terrible blunt, this bag
of diamonds: those years, Love, this friend, Love, as to loosen something that
meant insanity, Love: at horror graves, those horror deaths, to dig into old
horror marrow: our fangs to concrete, our terror to God, as father tear’d in
trembles: this fear & dying, those ruby blue roses, this daisy identified: such
honest women, too destructive to reach, or seconds to morphing into Purple Rain: as not for capture, but
more for thoughts, to remember overwhelming feelings.
I’ve
adored flying—at moments forgetting beige deserts, where one doesn’t constitute
child abandonment: this package deal, as one for another, or lose and nothing
else: that inner Negro, our raging ancestors, this realm of spirits: while
shocked & broken, or open & sutured, where demons have constructed our
thoughts: this serious outcast, this bleeding mulatto, this lucky slave: while
Caleb strategizes, this small example, or those thieves in our temple: (to die
in us, this plus-life woman, or this minus-us daughter: that poor man, but
everso rich, where reality shadows something lonesome: those wistful peers,
this wistful dove, at alleys trekking into valleys: our guts screaming, our
mothers but deaf, where stepfather clutches his bowels).
…at
grapefruit laughing, this room petrified, this gut too insane to witness
insanity: our brains too mischief, our hearts silenced, our peers too bizarre
for mainstream: as energy rising, or woes curling, to perish so in motion—this
rearview mistake, this precious seed, or thoughts that endorse ostracism: those
wordless Haikus, this wordy Triolet, or this loveless Ballad: if but to
impress, if but to gut Lucifer, while a mulatto wrestles spirits: our hearts to
Jesus, our minds to Belial, and our souls mourning with Moses: this crazed
address, this morning to madness, this woman with father: as looking and dying,
or dying and hooking, while proud to resurrect: this familiar language, this
present mindstate, at remembrance our incredible fire: that afar Bard, that
woman in tulips, this begonia arguing about proprieties: as tangible creatures,
or intangible souls, to remember those substance experiences: this mystic
thought, those mystic Buddhists, this mystic Sufi—while daughters roam, this
Land of Children, this sphere of spacecrafts: to die in Passion, to outlive Aaron, or to sing with Bathsheba—this Solomon
fighter, this legacy of Wisdom, while so cut as destroyed: this vice born to Women,
this treasure in each persistence, while destined to create a rolling curse: at
deep abeyance, this King outsoaring Reality, to clutch for hidden guts: as
arisen and laughing, or laughing and arisen, pieced together by futuristic
longings: (our souls, Love, our Literature, Love, to have for commonality, Love:
if but to perish, if but to scribble, if but a written idea unbeknownst to its
creator: where mother resigns hatred, and father resigns fury, and seasons
pursue royalty): as pulses throbbing, at such harp arrows, while our brains
focus upon archers….
