...where
heaven vanished, this saffron lad, as Chevy as grandfathers: our ghosts shivering,
our sandcastles laughing, this box a bit silent: to skip math, lingering
church-grounds, as petit as priests: as evolved souls, a bit for converse, too
mental a palace: our sickle’d soil, those bar roots, at ladders tugging God’s
ankles: these beastly fires, this beastly grave, arriving seven tiers early: at
Love with ability, our diamond crosses, our blotted agitation: those halo
thighs, that halo pocket, those high-rise attitudes: our guts moving, our
intestines giggling, while filled a dark night: that inner seesaw, those sandy
seaweeds, our deserts flipping oceans: our Tibetan thoughts, our Eastern
charms, where Love became a yogi: those casual deaths, to loosen something
filthy, while tugging something muddy: at ego slime, this inner portrait, a man
with hurt feelings: this Ransom with
wires, this hook with tentacles, at years perfecting a phantom: our rooms to
midnights, our grooming(s) reluctantly, our daughters a bit infuriated: this
aged soul, those tribal ribs, this sabertooth pleasure: at fires chanting, at
waters invoking, at caves scratching moths: to move forward, those old eyes,
that young figure, these inner classifications: absorbing travesty, whittling
oaken diaries, at Love as one scribing insanity: those treasured instincts,
those slight glances, or this methodical broach: as both office and officer,
where demons obey, while inclined to believe in spirits: as familiar ghosts, or
railway monsters, where Moral awoke speaking Japanese….
I
shift at feelings, amazed by ink, if but to re-thread those memoirs: this small
stature, this familiar inheritance, about as sane as Jesus: at winter huts,
ensured about invisibility, running through forests: this naked category, these
rabid emotions, while cold but warm this difficult exchange: at high standards,
while attracted to mud, where three-day voyages feel appealing: our tender
alligator, those caiman genes, or radicalized beige eyeballs—this firebrand,
this undergrowth, this inner music—at deaths with pride, at life with seasons,
at something too beautiful for passion: this crazed man, while seeking
immortality, or a dozen pianos: this habit in brains, to lay claim to
strangers, where reality feels a bit repulsed: that deep reproach, this battle
for clearance, while located walking through Europe: this mini Africa, our days
to sunlight, at cameras capturing imperceptibility: while Love would die, while
rinsing mud, where mud became a project: those inner macaques, this leaping
frenzy, our weeping hearts!
…years
became minutes, this economy of mysticisms, thereto, this war for roses: our
strained vision, perky to feel us, and eager to heal us: this Fool’s Paradise,
those colorful birds, or electrical incense: at terrible wits, exchanging
repertoires, so uneasy it becomes endearing: those serious matters, those
contingent suggestions, such emphasis upon destruction: our days to excitements,
our seconds by doubts, where something dangerous feels constraining: this hoop
symbolism, this American attraction, or that burrito at Taco Bells: in truth,
to laugh, this forbidden luxury, while concentrated upon heart-chakras: those
small feet, trekking through inheritance, treading upon serpents: at filthy
feelings, a bit depraved, a bit amoral—if but to perish, while filled with
ecstasy, a state meant for paradise: our musicality, our inner haven, where
instincts need to adventure: thereupon, those soothing tears, this realized
beauty, this painful trophy….
