I
can’t spell it, such troublesome cries, at fevers bloated: our discomfort, our
runny slime, as confused or anorexic: to slice silence, our guts inhaled, at
pain by Yahweh’s nostrils: to fuel like justice, at bulimic women, or treacherous
slaves, while starving freedoms: our legs at stillness, our eyes at shocks,
while running, nonetheless: if but terrors, our pantomime hearts, at needs
those that care: such spider webs, or internal movies, to ache for Love opted
for freedoms: this fuse rose, our exotic begonias, and fleeing this exterior
flame—as if to die, at lazy romance, to resist falling for passion: our claims
to light, our 5 steps, our 3rd eye: if but by ruins, this gracile
agony, if but to respect oceans: thitherto, this maniac fly, those maniac
fires, as never to adore as one dying: our kleptic arc, our kleptic ambition,
while Love rebuilt an empire.
…it
seemed inconsequential, this floating daisy, at something internal: this small
pond, those robust fish, this fighting frenzy: as one dies, another lives,
while Love is playing banjoes: our orangutans laughing, our souls at notes,
taken into something nearby: those damaged prints, this damaged hammock, if but
fretted for damaged: our milky brains, those milky waves, while Love invented
something treacherous: at rare rites, a second to exhale, while Love plays our
genius guitar: this wealth about passion, this inner surrendering, while father
took initiative: as precise violins, to adore quickly, where one is forced to carry
our distance: our films at midday, our recourses at midnight, if but to find
victory by daylight: hitherto, a secret, or plagued for scared, where too much
too soon our avenues: to paint something creative, where souls might entertain,
at young lives: that group of fledglings, that one acting grown, with little to
no appeals….
…something
crucial, or something noetic, as listening to ghosts: our guts, Indestructible,
our brains, Mystic Giant, to flux with thugs, this acrobatic Caprice, stabbing
through Miami—and lifted one stick, or sherm alley, while associates calm our
winds—those gunning valleys, that last woman, a team of identifiers—thrusting
as abused, or livid for addicted, while sipping this dramatic resistance: at
old feelings, a quarter a day, or drowning in Erk & Jerk—this party motion,
our granny’s exhibition, while knitting a young swan something groovy: at
thunder appearances, while fused in pains, to break insanity: as landing
beyond, or sprinkling damages, while Projects are runny by noses: this power
move, this young hustler, our dice over ribs….
I feel allergic,
those soil worms, this gristle life—at buildings looking high, at psychs a bit
ashamed, at therapists a bit too much: our deep selves, to keep it hidden, for
life can’t handle monsters: to love as fretted, to grapple as living, while
Love undressed a sentence: to clothe a feeling, to give wings to students, or
angry too evolved—as women diving, a hundred and two, racing down Crenshaw: to
hit Del Amo and stab through Dungeons our eyes beaming with ecstasies: this
exegesis—this hermeneutical—or red grains digging into grasshoppers: at Love
with excitement, if but to see smiles, while fused or abused by liquor: this
phantom, this Projects’ life, this ghetto empire: to Dodge big bodies, or Chevy
outlaws, while yanking clouds.
…back
to dreams, gutted by adolescence, at thunder paying attention: this chilled
dove, those rosy emotions, to touch, laugh, and abandon doubts: if but for
ruins, than purchase a fifth, or longing for a particular barbiturate—this
upper with gin, this downer for writing, or infused and bleeding: those purple
pigeons, this slanted thought pattern, at disease feeling a bit special: to
grind a nickel, to perish by night, at a particular parish: those cool priests,
those cautious deacons, or this atypical gravel.
