I’m
at life, this blatant fib, while reserved in something good: this thinking
vehicle, this sly ability, if but to absorb esoteria: at bowels watching, at
money relentless, at psychs paying attention: this field scholar, those pedals
thrashing, this zip through traffic: to feel substance, as living this life, or
accursed for helping: to reach out, as one aware, to know he’s indebted: those
flavors, those inner actresses, or this mental cable: as so alive, to feel
something celestial, where sadness sudden his brains: those spirit habits, this
call-off, if but this war call: at feelings can’t explain, at emotion too
over-outstanding, or guts too insync to describe: at call-downs, at glorious
passion, to feel where death has called: our blatant disenchants, our liquid
economy, where it felt pain to erase you: this close friend, this dying legacy,
while reality showed a false foundation: if but to die, as aloof to life, while
cornered by said life: or ensure to me, this luxury come death, where Love
would adore a singing spirit: to educate, to grin softly, while professors
stood shaking their brains: this hung blemish, this killer surprise, at mirrors
debating weirdoism: this sullen water, as nothing prior, to imagine Love lodged
in his eyes: as needing charity, if but too harmless, while dead for alive
peering into sky-beams: this man running, this gage churning, this plow to
senses: that coming dream, those gunning visions, a man running from his mind:
at tore reflections, battling something reflexive, to admit that every deed
comes back to haunt you: our hearts, Love; this mission, Love; as mother keeps
a particular balance: that man killing, those waves churning, while seated at
earphones: this milky telegraph, those channeled demons, or a woman so
provocative we must lock with key.
I’m at life, Love—this lab-work hillside, where every moment becomes a
quest: those green blades, this foliage empire, those American Gangsters: as
something disenchanting, where goodness has to do with love, as respect comes
from normalities: this pregnant soul, as swollen with pride, to feel deeply
ashamed: those split dangers, this failed reality, those academic on-seers: our
laundry to friends, those questions as difficult, while hesitance would have
destroyed us: (I’m scarred—attempting a miracle, to ensure that Love isn’t
scarred): those blank dreams, as stippled by imagination, while reaching angers
our souls: for father was lost, while mother was suffering, and only if father
was here: to acquire solutions, to adjust our thermometer, if but to add film
to our camera: that lovely woman, as so tender but so kind, to set pace as
realized, This is life: but humans
switch, where death becomes passion, while a single drop becomes something to
hate: those eyes, Passion, those cringes, Passion, to imagine this language,
Passion. …we dream about outcomes,
while reading Lancôm, at mental campaigns: our elbow grease, our enabled
programs, while embedded in incorrigible habits: our mother’s enemies, as my
enemies, while at deep islands: but it means so little, if swans are crying,
for we require obedience: this family of owners, these few assistants, as
daring to call us something epithetical: this edifice in skies, these
remarkable problems, those aged re-apathetical(s): this hit or miss, this life
or death, while serious concerning my seed: if this is magic, or release this
fool, for mother was active: indeed, that mean theologian, this capital
missing, for time has removed this ideal: those bottles for fame, this daughter
as drifting, while words have become something important: that wife watching,
this brook shaken, or mother flippant with pure indignation: to write lately,
while ruined lately, to adopt to something uncertain: this planet of noises,
this white-noise castle, while a few disagree with this course of action: those
airport feelings, those camping emotions, or candy so sweet it becomes sour:
this twist by casts, to feel perfect, where valleys must repent for analogies….
