…if but
our souls, our axiom eyes, if but our guts: such long cobbles, such splayed
relations, to win by drastic cries: our ghosts giggling, our sins whistling,
our cloves one last rebel: at warrior passion, our years through seas, our
years for anything but worth: as behaving—this misguided portrait, those
misdirected inclinations: sipping at a.m., crazed by noon, ignored by five: our
puppet instincts, to feel ice melting, our turkeys seasoned and baked: at this
type for texture, those round marbles, those jumping jacks prophesying….
I
lost grounds, I peppered insanity, I lost something easy to renege: those
glamorous cuffs, those cufflink eyes, those diamond sharp heels: our women in
tuxedos, our soul in pearly white blazers, our intestines re-needled: at knitted
sacrifice, as abandoned heart-care, our kidneys running to water: at cages
laughing, some type for Love, where remorse becomes remora transgression: this
typical cleaving, those typical reigns, while crocheted into a frenzy: our
souls select sorrows, if but to unlock wells,
while most are desperate to flee.
It become
terrifying patience, whispering to gusts, our messages carried airborne: those
ruby raspberry cries, those turquoise decisions, or better, our murky, black
nights: to dredge up incised, ionized pains, or treacherous mirrors, where love
was alive enough: our walking deaths, those boxy tails, while Love felt secure:
at deep control, frantic to exist, while pouty about less attention: our couch
habits, to lean into madness, to intentionally tug at buttons: or heart thumps,
this season for caution, for Love wrestles these months: our last prompt, our
fallacious zeal, while unwarned eyes believe in salient sights: as men at
surgery, those fluxing affects, to readjust particular agendas.
In
terror such laughter, at orphic survival, to peal our discord: that rising
fire, this inner loss, or at something so close it shakes: our minds looking
yonder, to want something by redemption, at ripples enlove with justification:
those airwave nubs, this interior crux, or late mornings plucking berries: our
mental shrubberies, our gut living-rooms, at water so rich we seek rebirths:
indeed, it comes for poor souls, it grows yogic in rich communities, it becomes
Hindu as a vow of poverty: such electric, christic cries, this philosophic
gash, while rapt’d in trenchant concerns: at black positions, moving for
ruined, our oaths carrying limitations: but peace be gentle, our graves, our latches, our veils and spells longing for courage, or resistant with gratitude.
I’m
sipping Line 39; I’m deep in Pinot
Noir; I’m drifting through currencies: this bad ass magician, this cryptic
mystic, those remarkable esoteric(s): at inferior feelings or interior mercies
or so enthralled our days are shorter: our silent Bodhis, our living Koans, at
tears building dams: to pant as deer, lurking at synaptic turnpikes, a bit
skeptical about sources: those mystery energies, or this bad ass Yogi, or those few occurrences dispelling doubts: as
cultic souls, running through vignettes, if but this purpose with pudding: our
flogged hearts, our foggy insights, our grogged intellects: as fire blazes, our
last séance, our village has departed: such deep concerns, those terrible
cries, at yonic powers: if but to announce, this fleeing frenzy, as fair
circumstance: our swans laughing, or feeling contempt, while roller skating
successions: our sobbing spirits, or mental acrobats, at intuitive gymnasiums:
those few souls, that have reached deeper, where our guts are indebted: But was it always for good, this mountain
high dilemma, those few months acting in riddles?
