At
critical ideas, unlatched by unnerving ideas, pinched in thoughts about ideas:
those classic Blues, or turquoise feelings, a bit abandoned to mood-shifts:
such seaward dreams, our battles with sea-monsters, while at lunch with
insecurity: this ripple in abstracts, this oops about life, our psychological
templates—or indirect anger, or pure nonchalance, or this penchant for reading
abstracts: our human endeavor, tugging at jade skies, a bit unsatisfied with
findings: while chasing screams, or pacing libraries, attempting to decode
something wonderful.
…it’s
a marvelous talent, to read concentration, to strike at imperceptibility: this
subtle weapon, this cryptic heart, our mysteries trekking through darkness: our
trampled ideas, our raffled ideas, at feelings abandoned but suffering
feelings: this cold atmosphere, our Saturday doubts, at vegetables and fruits
or stagnant listening to hunger-pangs: our souls knitting, our minds chiming
intuitions, our dreams aligning with reality: this vague creature, this radical
riddle, or so simplistic it skips our human psyches—this feud in heart-spheres,
this connected thread, or pins needling a masterpiece: to recruit life, or
salute existence, while spinning an intangible nib….
I
walk silently, while looking at inner pictures, while writing a tacit diary:
such kindled deserts, such fluid fires, or outstanding and lavish horoscopes: our
spacial head-storms, our spacial field-forests, while at something that
terrifies: those sharp wits, to dine with elegance, or something so grounded it
becomes eerie: this expansive view, our lives as explosive, our eyes displaying
charity—such indecisiveness, tugged by venture, our mental duffle bags our
realities.
…we
myth through life, aborted by humans, or used perfectly—this sizzling
moon-work, our baffling war-cries, or moments or minutes sipping concentration:
our projected memories, our intricate daylight, our monsters flying into
psyches: those typing memoirs, those fleeing cheetahs, or stressed for roses
stripped by thorns—this inner feeling, those Utilitarian feelings, or tugged by
duty running wildly: from frequency to bulb, from bulb to undulation, at deep
emotion spinning by electricity: those fretted thoughts, that Memphis sun, such
magic mystery….
I
can’t define life, or what quantifies as happiness, or those roots
strengthening happiness: this slice of closed windows, those magnetized doors,
at remolded feelings: our spotted skies, our streaks burgundy-silver, or nights
seated in stages: our trenchant guts, our caves amidst cities, our dreams
screaming behind mirrors: this four way mirror, this country ceiling, at
passions and laughs and feeling interrogated: our thoughts un-captured, our
souls rumbling, our miles seeming impersonal: those running mirrors, our
ghostly prickles, at times, this mis-printed voice: at terrible cries, or
wonderful existence, while lingering in indecision—at something naïve, or
radically selfish, while condemning normality: or charged with existence,
analyzing something enigmatic, while becoming intimate with something
enigmatic: those gray horizons, that gray matter, at such indignation—where
stars are perceptible, those watchful skies, our seeming secrets splayed before
constellations: our godly eyes, our charms cinematic, our stages such fury with
chains: at terrific alleys, our valleys pleading, our flowers lilting towards
redemption: at hillsides preaching, in those naked woods, resisting myriad
inclinations: that running argument, that gunning thunder, at existential
conundrums: so enforced by rules, or avoiding such enforced rules, while
challenged daily to reinforce our mental morals.
