…it’s
a bit chilly, reminiscent of adolescence, snug tightly in a smelly quilt:
watching animosities, re-threading kilns, with purpose ignoring certain
feelings: that fair horizon, blue, red, and burgundy, upon a hurricane: such
darkened glimmers, such radiant darkness, our murky emotions: those years floating,
those days by new motion, our dreams further in hind-view: as men pedaling, or
women jogging, we see this testy resilience: to anger by countenance, or to
become chameleons, while distant enough to remain objective…such intimate
thoughts, while searching for something obvious, where abstracts serve with
syrup: our casual greetings, those steps towards freedom, or this poet missing
pinpoints…if but that feeling, if but enough to fly, or to maintain an ironclad
link: to keep us hostage, as loving our captors, while interchanging our
pistols…that rare scent, that rare beauty, those life-held greetings: moreover,
a feeling, moreover, a scream, while most are carrying something we must
tolerate: where resistance is brutal, while insistence torments, whereas,
acceptance becomes sullen awareness: that pensive nature, that solemn
countenance, where people discount sub-surface chaos: our fluting agendas, our
inner jurisdiction, or to lavish one with adoration: such soft music, such
beads of integrity, at orchestra a silent contention…. …we see our world, through pure
experience, and our reach is only as rich as those interpretations: that is,
our experience becomes wisdom, our wisdom becomes filters, if but our clarity
in alignment with reality: such dependency, such cadent resonance, such inter
and intra activity: those stare-good flowers, those root-joy replies, as
accruing subtleties: at clever eyes, or primitive instincts, looking at
something magnetized: our curious loins, our Inspector Gadget souls, pleading for something born to several
facts: our kleptic hearts, our thrusts through life, or pure fantasy proving
its limits: to exhaust and move, to move and exhaust, where reality seems to
exist through perceptions predicated upon experience: that nail through coffins,
those rubescent appetites, or years to sorting through adolescent minutia…. I smoked a clove, given to unfairness,
feeling a bit indignant: that righteous anger, through an unrighteous person,
at thoughts, those days, where reason gave up its ghost: that complicated
language, this bout with creativity, those eyes reaching into turmoil: this sad
person, this need to exist, those playful puppies: our similar experience, if
not too harsh, while wrestling with parents: our compounded confusion, our
clear sights, while tussling with logic: that fair creature, dependent upon
distance, as ever to instruct our intuition: as removed from self, in order to
locate self, becomes ironic: but days are leaping, time is crucial, where
reason must resurrect: to have such faith, those years at battle, while
culprits tend to disdain inclusivity: wherewith, this subtle truth, to need a
certain reception, where lack, thereof, proves an inconsistency: that selfish
position, our selfish hearts, where many are mutual receivers.
…something
screams inside, while standing in calmness, a bit alert to this truth: our
daily funerals, our catacombs, and our tombs misrepresented: as men running for
glory, or women running for power, where both are interchangeable: such wretched
design, or wretched feelings, while wretched enough to forfeit liquor: this
tale for today, those bars for tomorrow, while rockets strike tugging lamps:
that torn earthquake, to stand in stillness, while something interior is
reverberating off of several people: this thunder through souls, or that
shunned darkness, to realize its participation: as summer grins, or summer
travesty, where existence seems to surf on by: this man in dreams, this quilt
getting warm, this night-come reflection: while daughters rest, and old
feelings simmer, where one never wishes to meet eyes with one that knows: such
to giggles, such to rain, while feeling a particular universe….
