…we
live like ghosts, singing our grit, at courage spacial: some doped up, some
seeking sobriety, and some so far behind closets: at perfect chaos, our perfect
daughters, this man about liquor: that smooth taste, our sniffing nostrils, as
wine drips its cork: to scream at existence, to penalize liberty, to dislodge
presidency: our mountains, at treasured tears, racing into calamity: this film
at leisure, this pace at maniacs, while nurses love his guts: those hospitals,
those crazed souls, while sick and vomiting: our rejected brains, our rejected
mystics, or flaming for battling guts: our shocked bowels, our bleeding
arteries, if but this Asian secretary: to ask for lessons, as clutching his
stomach, where sensei broke a brick: those deep rivers, those deep scientists,
staring for analyzing physiognomy—this ruined adolescent, those abnormal
responses, while too dangerous to give full recognition: our silver aches, to
remind of inadequacies, where one was trenchant by research….
I
think of Angel—this livid diamond, this fire streaking into romance: our dying
souls, at something about a month, while satiated running nonsense: at Aspen
laughing, at New York arguing, to return to Cali feeling demented: this
reckless prophet, this reckless attraction, this filmed fool: our prose with
oatmeal, our poetry with raspberries, our novels with pure Vodka: as something
pushing, this thrilled insanity, to spend a life pondering a phantom: this
ghost with wings, or this bad ass feeling, while one proves a point: to die
with class, to perish with grace, to retrieve while maintaining distance: or
daughters at emotion, digging into a freshet, to realize relaxation: at pure
abandon, but received deeply, at parties, at love, at reveries: our vogue
cries, our popular prose, our treasured guts: as men running, for mother was
different, while met by a psych with mirrors: about a million, at every churn,
to become somewhat those friends: such atypical empathy, such screaming
gut-slang, to imagine a man that had to perish—those nose bleeds, this hot
miracle—as dead to science, or dead to religion, at midair gripping for
substance: those old songs, that trenchant silence, at barefaced trauma.
…we
demand prestige, we clench darkness, and it feels good to survive: those
remnants, this character flaw, or that difficult temperament: as souls cleaving,
or mother dying, to ask her present location: this mystic warning , this mystic
concerned, those mystics blazing into hemispheres: as Gentility whispers, our souls knowing with certainty, where one
appeals to eyes: our deep fatigue, our army mentality, to pray as one knitting
Jesus: those dives at seas, those rives at guts, or those cries about lungs: to
flee Easter, to arrive at caves, to touch a precious tunic: our daughters
gunning, our mothers by osmosis, our grannies wrestling particular histories:
to escape by witness, to net by gravity, while sons are precious streaming
through disease: where mother needs assistance, this hidden catastrophe, this
bleeding father: to release into life, this flaming Ghost, while threshed for
ruined: those laudable deceptions, while psychs giggle, where naïve souls
cleave to something dying: those mystic designs, that atypical symmetry, while
reality clashes peeking at intuition: to ignore something keen, as it kills
slowly, but more than a chest-cold: something invaluable, something glistening,
as something to honesty: this splice between in-laws, as granny senses
inconsistencies, while gramps is enlove with a good story: this atypical
friction, this atypical miracle, this color abrasiveness: to die as livid, to
resurrect as fighting forces, where life still affords a sparkle: thitherto, our
racing haste, at deep anticipation, while mystics chime feeling a bit selfish:
this feature in brains, this allergic countenance, our wainscot emotion: at
pensive fires, at glossy eyes, a bit too involved to oust a spade….
