I
dream of satiation—a tragic confused, analyzing spontaneity: this blue fire,
this wringing wire, this mafia instinct: our brains blown, this intoxication,
at granny telling lies: those cosmic fliers, this mental brochure, or Colombia
Enterprises: at movies splendiferous, at cinemas a bit drunk, at daughters
pleading opposite behaviors: this light as livid, this goodness as captured, or children screaming for mother: this confusing
land-shore, this crazed reality, or moons bleeding insanities: as cursed and
living, or reborn and striving, where Isaac is blazing, Jesus: this rustic
sentiment, or so lost it hurts to type, where miracles seem simplistic: to
unpack guts, our dramatic seeds, at calls three a.m., our sons as captured: if
but this piece, if but this ark, if but this haven at natural highs: our
mothers cringing, our fathers holding tight, while frantic but composed: this
wayward adolescent, this cop frustrated, our mothers needing to witness
something acute: at miracles, Love, this deep dispute, while holding to
security: that dead feeling, this living mother, this failing second force. I gestured life, our Bodhi souls, our
wretched beliefs—as told about practice, this mental pendulum, as becoming
indicative behaviors: at birthrights, at sky terrors, at hailstorms: if but
those palms, giving with lights, while abandoned to adoring one soul: that
tilting love, this dogwood fire, that upward spiral: to fly with diligence, to
escape by practices, or to become by desperation: our eloping wisdom, our
karmic universe, to prod, poke, and patent scriptures: those realized souls,
those realized windows, or this mention of Ingrid: our mystic realities, as
dear to hearts, by conscientious conscious(es)—those flaming kettles, this soul
unraveled, and mention by graces about seven tears: our palates dry, our fair
princess singing, where daughters listen for key notes: as symbolic creatures,
wrapped by muddy rivers, or managed to extract a cup of life-force: our fanes
damaged, at irreversible heights, indeed, while floating arising in cabinets:
such bewilderments, such thunder-rite down-wires, or this pricking sensation:
our ravaged guts, our wolves cringing, our minds traveling caves: such broken
passion, such belts and bells, or chi caged for fleeing!
I
hear your name, this wedge demented, this praise in spite of losing: as
creative priests, or magnificent nuns, if but to redeem certain beliefs: at
casual musings, attempting to bend spoons, or watching Twilight Zone: this practice with simplicity, while demonstrated in
something complex, over vexing realities: this cup wobbling, this ceiling
moving, or mirrors enveloped in appearances: our hardwood floors, our filthy flip-flops,
or bodily sensations striking curiosity: our inner oaths, our inner proofs, our
oaken tenacity: while Love is cooking, or Love is dancing, our charms amazing
our sensibilities: indeed, our modalities, indeed, our cosmic jargon, or
something so subtle we begin to flee: such mental motion, this wealth of
abeyance, as seated in spinning sensations: at karma giggles, as one dedicated
afar, by something rustic and inventive: those black lights, that flowing
cloak, or noises stimulating frightening ideas—to weep by numbness, or to
retrieve our captivations, where life appears different: those feeling persons,
this indebted essence, where two participate in keeping with gentleness: our
sketches reaching, if but by reason, our songbirds whistling in admiration:
such interior-exterior, such malignant battles, to realize it takes stamina to
keep with goodness: that surviving
soul, that ruptured compass, or this ecumenical furnace—as living green eyes,
or blue moons, while brown enough to redeem our struggle: this person he loves,
this soul he ganders, or unbound exospheres—by esoteric gravel, or mythical
pavement, or too many years at sea to remain normal: our minds running to
battles, our seeds witnessing Christ, if but this reality where living is
righteous.
