…you
influence life, those wild star-glares, this falling epiphany: our bowels
gunning, this little midget, our leprechaun series: as built for Love, while
Love is running, while thoughts are disastrous: this feminine meal, this
feminine cry, our feminine kilns: at sober anguish, at loaded passerby,
listening deep into Sade: this rumbling drum, this mystic freezer, our yogic
ice cave: to pursue something foreign, this magnificent island, our old
furniture arising into brains: this settee sea-blue, this burgundy ottoman, our
mothers where life was dying: this pale Asian laughing, this pale infinity
rebuking, these as one in body: our hazel moon, this flippant swan, our
attitudes roaming turquoise valleys: as men needing resistance, if but
exclusivity, or settling for anything to possess Love: at triumph and trumpet,
at terror and sacrifice, at simplistic science: our garbs green-teal, our
tunics in fleshy blood, our antiques screaming forgery: at glimmer giggling,
while a tear discomfited, for Love obeys an inner omen: our trips to Rome, our
Italian livingrooms, our French armoires: to speed through passion, or slow for
ruined, where something Irish sprinted into focus: at brown souls, or black
horizons, while Hispanic over asada….
…you
became raindrops, those old feelings, this shift in poetry: those shrills, this
billion dollar gown, our fresco over domination: this inner toil, this
voiceless surprise, at gumdrop pilgrimage: our souls to Siena, our clocks
eastward, our chills settled here in our districts: that young symbol, those
symbolic eyes, to hear a child say something wild: if but this emotion, to
address a young siren, where this inner minx is roaming—this galaxy of prospects,
this carnival of clown-work, this island at Venice Beach: such glorious
steepness, at murals in East Los Angeles, or deep remorse over unutterable
calamities: that chantress soul, those morning bedlights, emoted into opera:
this rhythmic station, this hardcore media, at angelic legs: but mother is
close, where father is running, while dreams are crucified: this special seer,
this inner symphony, at funerals crying with shame: our passionate parents, a
bit livid this life, while mother was sober: such vibrant Rembrandts, such
apostolic tugging, as a theologian hoping for overage: our grannies laughing,
as feeling good, to eat a plate of liver: if but for granny, if but for life,
our embers flickering in universities: this gunning edge, this flippant respect,
our culture playing its fiddles: this flute to knowledge, this lute to
sacrifice, this engine revving for mystics: this band upon graces, this fool a
bit segregated, this heart chiming for insanities: our inmost resistance, our
christened names, our souls afloat at grandpa’s haven: to unveil rapture, to
sing as sung, where a professor distinguished her very image: at gut’s rapture,
at gut’s morgue, at something that lives a white life: such deep fatigue, to
play this harp, where Saul has settled upon murder….
I gun
like David; I piano like Mozart; I violin like Beethoven: this small circle, as
brooks reading pages, while a family has claimed God: this hard rush, this
in-clave of currents, this seldom but here: such reborn rebels, fleeing
Maccabees, or at prayer for one crossing into oblivion: our cautious approach,
our private justice, while God is nigh to ignoring: indeed, this credit in
spirits, this fiction in children, while it felt good to participate: those
inner homicides, if but to replace ten grand, while one retreated for sails:
our Poseidon voyage, as nothing can promise, this morning of onlookers:
insidious fulcrums, to feel as winning, while reality is working its gong:
those problems impending, such reckless adjustments, to imagine true hatred: at
inner movies, replaying mistakes, realizing this simplistic family: at death
pleading, at energies redeeming, at daughters throwing currencies: our first
ballad, our last cry, while attempting to picklock destiny: or this inner lake,
feuding to bribe God, while God has fury and goats.
