…at
terrible anxiety, looking, longing, and pitiful, or something endearing: at
perfidious loses, born to insanity, achieved and dying: our cold baths, our
warm baptisms, at agony sensing love: this inner fugitive, this riffraff
agenda, while tugged for ruined: those reckless cries, this reckless breath,
attempting when possible: this lifelong adversary, at arms screaming
insistence, while cut for ribs affixed to sanity: those wretched dungeons,
those wretched hips, those redeemed hips: such gyration, this Indian dance,
sipping vodka by navel: our stormy nights, this flippant phantom, to become a
distant reminder: that heated stove, this chamber by ignorance, so alive dying
in sequences: to spark a clove, over garnet wine, at tyrannies this shower of
ghosts….
I
adored fiction, laughing for receiving, at admiration over tamales: this
neutral society, as lives our intestines, to become such a dejected society: at
tears with rapture, at giggles but nervous, our legs engrossed in running: this
trenchant curse, those robotic responses, or ravished by ecstasy: to dismiss
signs, to cleave to symbols, or to fall so deep enlove that reality becomes an
enemy: this fragile destiny, this remarkable essence, this scent in bluish
turmoil, (those outstanding short replies)—as courteous fawning, or rabid
love-hearts, to drift with passion alive in seconds: this film in color, those
black and white standards, or ambition so rich it suffocates: our incessant
cries, this misplaced fury, to touch, roll, and die with Christ: this fool for
seduction, this man ignoring so much, while fretted or triggered, if but those
first three nights.
I
linger in bass, I chime in saxophones, I dance seeing reflection those eyes: as
mirrors seduced, while penchant a curse, to arrive as stagnant needing fuel:
our extra-sighs, our loses in Thousand Oaks, to need just one kiss: as redeemed
creatures, this dinosaur instinct, or this mother so frantic this beating
drum—to accuse Life, this flippant adversary, or this befriended harassment—at
golden cries, or liquid eyes, so infused by silver horizons: to die with
passion, to climax screaming, or to love so gently our tides water: this inner
kleptic, this phantasmagoria, or physiognomy dispelling trenchant doubts: this balanced
maniac, this bold, deliberate maniac, at earth ten years prior to satisfaction:
our bruises mentally, our science in blood-shine, or tears in acidic liquor: at
guts, Penchants, at deliverance, Precious, while God reneged and healed
something cringing: this foolish matter, this insync abandonment, while
insistent that Love retires: our drilling arcs, this immortal force, to perish
eighty miles into submission: those remarkable senses, this incredible songstress,
while knitting invisibility: to adore you, while sick of you, to dance like
Jesus has returned!
Dear
Granny—this fool lives, at nothing but trouble, after a notorious woman: to get
life, to sin in prisons, to laugh about bars getting fried: this tale of
seduction, this life fueled with insanity, this woman making home cries: our
pastrami and chili, our frantic debate-minds, to resurrect in moments sprinkled
with deaths: to adore, Ms. Madness, to achieve something lethal, at tyrannies
laughing but filled with horror: those beige replies, this middle as livid, to
grip, tug and freak a lonely mental: those senses our delight, our souls
fragile with pain, while thirty minutes after something forgotten: this
playbook, this memoir, our poets bleeding to exist: this dull sensation, or
that rabid sensation, to crave where Love has become holy ash: a dotted
forehead, a sexual intoxication, to adore passion with every ligament: this
dream, Mommy, this phantom, Father, to sentence a built in chain, Grandpa: this
slave we chime, this legendary reflection, to sense something above this pitted
dungeon: (It must be love)!
