…at
intricate movements, this dying in frenzy, aborted but living: this
soul-greenness, our innocent marrow, as spent alive as currency—those eating
ears, those hungry eyes, our thirsty lungs: as needing a clove, or needing
liquor, to imagine addicts frowning: that slip through darkness, that black
haven, or crows spewing lexicons: at regurgitation, at vomit as canines, or
coughing up mothballs: where Love is purple, or cyan fuchsia, at temple
violence: our mothers watching, our women singing, as but a jewel this broken
man: at death insanity, our sun sitting stillness, our blood as blue as
literature: that burgundy tinge, this copious warfare, our old lovers hating
our guts: but life is motion, or water is liquor, while daughters perform about
benighted gems….
I
approach life, as algebra knits numbers, as women denote genetics: our beige
sunrise, our heathen currencies, or something allotted a reckless tyrant: to
drift with heat, those deep inclines, or radical upon Batman: our dreams,
Suspicious, our screams, Indelicate, where it felt good to divest us: such
financial gain, this livid and rabid butterfly, or turquoise proclivity—this
dying fantasy, this mystic dynasty, a bit too indelicate for television: our
shoes, Adored, our heels, Remorse, as pitted for arranged while sliced by
genetics: this slight infraction, this mystery miracle, where Love agonizes
concerning a stranger: our French captions, our Spanish rendezvous, or Europe
so precious so misidentified: at running speeds, as opposition leads to love,
and dedication leads to sacrifice—this daily agenda, writing as dying, or
living as writing: or at love so gently, or radical upon a sudden gesture, to
spend a stipend entirely.
…alleluia,
Terrific—this fireball, this demon-roll, this revived encyclopedia: those
gremlin eyes, those creased shirts, or khakis heavy with starch: that picture
perfection, as deep in sludge, or catapulted eyes peering as Spirit: while so
enlove, or wandering souls, to realize it gets better: that deep Psychiatrist,
that trenchant Psychologist, at thoughts concerning this Therapist: our
scientific lives, our inner Superwomen, to bring it home in mother: this
furious soldier, this glamorous warrior, at tales told for instruction: this
gentle, kind, elusive, outspoken maniac: but times are short, and Love is
watching, and Love knows for disguises: this futile soul, this worthless
Christian, this fabulous, outlandish, historical mystic—to outlive insanity, to
sense a murmur, while sensing deep turmoil: our tentacles beaming, our sun as
Germany, while striking flowers: those Jewish Scriptures, our Gentile nature,
where daughters are spasms over deep realities: this mother hawking, this
stepfather gasping, or those grandparents attempting humanity: our eyes,
Trenchant, our guts, Deliverance, to space with chimes this galaxy…!
…this
old tired mystic, seeking The Beatles acclaim, at wilderness those dark, spooky
nights: our brains, Lord—our cavities, Yahweh, our souls, Ghost: this broken
vessel, held together by glue, at supernatural instincts: our Mexican cousins,
our Asian Forefathers, as spacial as lunatics: those deep, lighted times, at
thoughts concerning us, while pitted to floors raging at neighbors: this tear
trickling, this old friend aloof, these days to carnivals: those benighted
clowns, our liquor breaths, or this fantastic Queen: to drift into madness, our
characters blemished, our mornings, as
if: indeed, with sorrow, indeed, with shame, or so claustrophobic our guts
are developing outwardly: this strife with living, this cage with existence, to
realize as never this conviction: our scientific mystics, our biblical
scientists, or priests so dedicated as confessing other avenues: at bold cries,
at public tears, to remember mother a perfect picture!
