…lost
and breathing, or alive and dying, at something incredible: our cabinet hearts,
this bodhi hysteria, while captured
by feelings: those curses, this accursed force, our dreams so embedded in dung:
as feral beings, running for spacey, at war with liquor: to adore so deeply, to
lose so drastically, while fretted this ability to fly: our sharpest instincts,
our crazed emotion, so close to breath…!
…do
not charm death, this intricate banda, those melodramatic atmospheres—to live
as winning, to battle reality, while accustomed to gruelish petals….
…if
but one cadenza, one chorus, or one duet, this sweet music—this groveling
maniac, this relentless dove, as pure and witty and dying…!
…born
to fire, our first leitmotiv, our ears pensive for song-births: that woman’s
doorman, at sameness for beauty, this empire of totems: where Love is
passionate, moody, and nightly deceased: at casual cries, purely picturesque,
taking vengeance upon love: our dying larks, this city of flies, or this
uncomfortable nib: to jiggle truths, while shaky its palm, such wildfire
havens: at deep courage, this flippant balloon, our unsung literature: if but
so gentle, or but so aggressive, while torn between extremes….
I
liked Love, this fabulous creature, this sad woman: we loved for centuries, at
tears with evils, to ask for salvation: our tears before love, our jeers after
love, our high-fives: this laughing insanity, those few words, as appearing in
every essay: our dying to mention, this present channeling, this woman’s
emotion: that Jasper ghost, that Casper childhood, that jasmine swan: this Bugs
legacy, this inner Daffy, or those ignescent lullabies: that silky flesh, those
satin muscles, this liquid personality: at one time, this pure adoration, that
spunky attitude: as feisty and insecure, or crazed and sane, while pushing
social demographics: to love with glee, to repent with passion, as confirmed a
delicate princess: this current sway, this thing in therapy, this un-sane-but
sane-lunatic: at membranes, those few seconds, to decide upon a child: such
musical love, to lose a friend, to die daily: such cedar animosity, such
political strife, as it felt good to vote: at black oak, at Beto drama, while
enlove with something that seemed to be usJ:
this long raving, after four years, to imagine those permanent eight years: at
tears, Love, to see us dying, to feel as impermanent: to know such hatred,
where a daughter is feeling chaos, or drilling for oil.
It
became us, this old feeling, to castrate perfection: as do-good heathens, or
feel-good survivors, at love a bit easily: indeed, this running risk, to
maintain honesty, where five years to wait is horrible: this sundown battle,
those awkward questions, to repeat lines losing substance: our softest cotton,
those beige/blue jeans, or unshod philosophies: this stomach knot, this liver
breath, those intellectual alleys—as tombs chancing, our Egyptian ancestors, to
pant, bathe, and re-resurrect: our ignorance abating, this feeling arising, where
deep thoughts erect a rash: our years to pressures, our pressures to unsavory
outbursts, where Love was painted as distressed: our dreams, Love, this dying
empire, Dove, such grout, such mortar: this similar metaphor, this like in us,
this village of forbade’d similes: to remember such heat, such gnawing, such
clawing unto converse—where mother new danger, and said few words, while smoke
surrounded our enterprise: this struggling maestro, our correlated heartbeats,
this future earthquake.
