We
die at love, we live through love, and we exhaust becoming smoke: this clump of
grass, this flippant broom, those sheets of terror: this a.m. drama, this inner
Trixie, or days floating through Vegas: this mafia instinct, this Bugsy
attitude, or seconds to kissing knuckles: this blue daisy, those thousand
dollar purses, or travesties as actors—this red-print, these tear-prints, or
agony concerning invisibility: to type Jesus, or fretted for ruined, at fast for months—this four wheel Impala,
this cop lurking, or Feds bleeding: to sense Special Agents, or
extraterrestrial madness, while psychs concentrate upon mental profiles: this
tale for reality, to capture sincerity, while adrift written upon manuscripts:
this movie dying, this cinema arising, where Love was special: our primal
realities, this feeble enchant, or women seeming imperfect: this one for
bowels, this group for oceans, or built for dying while living her beauty: at
terror cuts, or ankle high skirts, to envision something merely dressed:
according to memories, or beige suits, or something changed, tough and strong: our
days with Love, this glorious invention, this woman with everything to give: as
rain kisses, as titles evaporate, or dingy jeans accentuate—our gravities, our
colleges back in session, our promises bloated tender with treacheries.
I
felt an opus, this cavalier extension, those two weeks of feeling blasted: such
alabaster syrup, or liquid sugar, where Adore
becomes this offensive enchant: our terrible songstress, our ink in
blue-purples, our mauve in blue-hazel eyes: this miracle-magnificent, our
nights to thrusts, our galloping deer: to understand pain, this inner letter,
this soul liquidated as phones: to ring in silence, this mental marathon, while
seated attempting to behave as normal: that watchful therapist, this violin
bane, or days at feasts commandeering neighboring women: indeed, this tragic
tale, or fathers so sick, of mothers with son-in-laws: heretofore, those
beautiful teeth, that aesthetic nose, or ears perfectly sized: this maroon
penchant, those dinosaur eyes, those sagic lips—to dream at tongue texture, to
perish at green weather, to arise petting her forehead: this grasshopper
laughing, this broom whispering, or silky, disclaiming tongues: those chin
dynasties, that rounded enclave, this navel for gin—as lost and loving
intoxication, while gripping ancient palms: this hand for Yahweh, those knees
as imperfect, or legs to toes our frozen admiration.
It
seems inappropriate, these legacies we chase, this intellectual wimble: our
nights with Jesus, this fair enterprise—our days with ghosts: to outfox
mirrors, as feeling distressed, to realize we have lost ourselves: this tender
rasp, this wild atmosphere, those tendencies with but one: to respect but
souls, while jealous of but souls, where Love seems an adventure a bit
richer—that countenance, those King Kong rites, these pains for one that hasn’t
earned majesty: this freshet of rain, those studded sentiments, while meaning
so little to one saturated: to flee through traffic, agaze’d and dying, at
Malibu Shrines afraid to weep: this pit intelligence, or such Greek Adoration,
while fretting this loss of Africa: this sacral group, this penchant for Islam,
or this trespass in Christianity: our marvelous fables, our interrogative
allegories, or days at thoughts those few souls: this man reviving, this heart
excavating, while attempting perfected realism: as machines giggling, to ensoul
a collar, or those few living with disaster: hitherto, this shy abandonment,
this lack of aggression, this subtle to lights while dying: that black reality,
this white reality, where reality is at war with reality: this debt to winds,
this threat to silence, or years believing that others may rescue our failures:
as dead but alive, or alive but wild, afire an instinct spreading pure
disgrace: those roses as souls, those souls as lieutenants, this last brooch as
confessing our abandonment!
