Drilling Desert

…this brilliant attraction, at art with forks, at Love with insistence: this beloved creation, our mother’s child, at deep infatuation: those burgundy ears, that headline accountant, those effulgent screams—as men dying, if but fabulous, to dream as one mad—those inner faculties, those morbid modalities, to seize with tension inverted abandonment: ( those liquid eyes, those droopy eyes, those guileless, fawning cries: at hapless childhood, or headlong passion, at latent insecurities: forthwith, this trenchant need, as about a dead man, to feel love those undertakers—at crypts screaming, those kryptonite women, as nearing and feeling deceased: at brilliant deaths, to inner-resurrection, while so good this divided soul: those opaque gestures, to reach, grip, and thrust into islands: that cocaine line, those liquor insanities, over a thousand mf’s bleeding for one queen): if but this professor, or but this psychiatrist, or special with needs this provocative waitress: those years to one, but fused and running, to grin with embarrassments: this old tyro, this beginning tyrant, seeping into Camus: a stranger of self, this machine operating, those tendencies new at arrivals: therewith, this traipsing, concerning, this gunning desert, to sense guts and die collapsing in a aria womb: those deep convulsions, this proud nightmare, to waver contemplating matrimony…this stippled massacre, such splendor as ironic, while Love clutched to die and felt for appeased: those loses craving, this thorn laughing, those grains as offended: to savor sauce, to savor odor, to love as adored and killing sanity: this fool for music, this cane while limping, those limbic mysteries: that breathless wand, this talkative ceiling, to find with death this other closet—where Jesus seemed to wait with berries....     I saw kleptics—I arrived, bleeding pash, where error seemed so appropriate: that amazed, anxious blunder and died, cringing those calves, (to land in tunnels and pitted in libraries): if but to adore, those green films, those sable cries, or unbolted feeling super fantastic: this sexual creation, this radical death-law, to thrust through dying as living: our guts, Love, our diamond testers, to pass through New York laughing with demolitions: this crumbling empire, or women rebuking, while rebuilding this nation: those symbols, this clarinet, those trumpets at that fatal climax: to thread faith, this foolish power, at séances bleeding with Elijah—if but for wishing, or fledglings aborted, to arrive right thereJ : that shadow giggling, those skirts too low, where secretaries have demanded this mistress life: our clocks, Grandpa, our brains, Grandma, to forsake just too much, Momma!     …it’s taboo, passion, this inner blouse, those button high cries, (while running into naked traffic): this plummet woman, this green apple, those cherries laughing with Elisha: my heart at earthquakes, this mystic reality, or at chance to relive this interior: those picture perfect smiles, that inquisitive squirrel, or those feisty ducks: to hear laughter, to warm his heart, if Love is feeling good!: those raptures, as deceased and resuscitated—to plant an emotion, to rethread a feeling, to collapse peering at strong fragility: this other planet, this fair token, at Europe admiring such appeal—or Latin a night, to Hispanic a crime, where Love is ruthless: our bruises explained, our guts roaring, to football inconsistencies: those radical apologies, this woman to floors, our children watching: to swelter love, to adore our suture, or screaming for mad at entire systems: our blood-blue veins, this unveiled creation, or this remarkable, endearing veneer: to pass out, so much to chivalry, at pearl womb broken with silence: our aches with venom, our fights with officers, to awaken cooking scrambled beliefs: at ever this core, this warfare maniac, those teeth bleeding his flesh: at traps giggling, at Love abandoned, to perform as actors: this superwoman, this superman, while reading backwards: this bold secret, our souls replenished, our rounds laughing at slugs: this bullet queen, this fantast dreaming, while everything was hallucination!