…at
undertones a bit windy, at kites reminiscent, at feelings a different
countenance: so deep in fluids, so mesmerized by fantasies, if but this, if but
that: to fight for existence, to love as glaciers, to induce something
literary: our fabled hearts, our inner yarn, our crocheted head-storm: at
mornings brushing, at evenings re-knitting satire, our graveyard nights
redeemed: our local catacomb, our teary Milky Way, or those succinct eyes: as
men gunning, if but for running, to have such glory relaxed in trauma: our
radars screaming, our evidence so futile, our dreams upon edges—this cliff in
dynasties, this rich existence, while too seductive to retreat: our casual
skin, our abrasive wits, our brunches over Sirach: thitherto, this complete
wreck, those shorn complaints, or so radical a dinner that fell in space: our
crooked voices, this ceiling lowering, our fists screaming—at tyranny
cold-witted, at intellect so encouraged, or dancing emotion flippant with
concern: so beige our horizon, such grace our systems, to kiss, collapse, and
wither about: this sunken feeling, those round, red, blinking tortures: at
lengths trying, at terminals chancing, at liquid stating uncertainties: our
flying cages, our writhing aches, if but to soar in agonies: this pensive
warmth, this penchant converse, our patient discolor: to roam infinity, blinded
with ambition, while unthreading our mind-ware….
…so
encouraged to fly, so low as mimes, a bit tragic concerning forever: our good
times, our lethal conversation, at windmills looking upon heights: those
sin-breakers, this inner film, those blue roses: our dilated prose, our
inebriated poetry, those women seeming about life: or radiant gentlemen, at
Love’s tendencies, while arrogant enough to win: this fretted feeling, those
fretted sylphs, our fretted arguments: or so gray, so deep, as unaware of
nature: those managed emotions, or unstable emotions, while pleading for raw
certainty: if but to believe, if but to re-establish, if but begging for lies:
our nights with envy, our bowels with sincerity, as laughing to imagine
eternity: It’s quite simple, if but this
majesty, to claim with actions as willing to perish: to grip as dying, to taste
as insulated, to gnaw with essence: this fairer fight, this slacking innocence,
while Arts are tired of perfection: to hear those laughs, to feel dementia, to
realize this maniac for Love: such embarrassment, such deaths, at miracles
tugging Darkness: hereto, as but a glimpse, and, hereto, as but a rare
song, and, hereto, as something so roughly delicate….
I
feel as lifted, but low, this oxymoron—at paradox dramas, at life laughing,
while torn about existence: this flaming cold majesty, this crazy ass universe,
those few seeming too elated: this giggling minx, this tuxedo demon, or those
that adore a little for prices: this blood blue angst, this tragic romance,
those tragedies but absent: our watchful neighbors, our towers in brains, our
sick, enlightened religiosities: while born to suffer, as one flitting through
clouds, at something it felt good to loosen: at favored fires, a fair
flagrancy, or famish for felicity: that slight of gesture, those angling
movements, at something studied for reception: those classes with mother, those
snippets from father, or those romance novels: at years perfecting allergies,
at seconds delivering something digested, while so enthralled it became
natural: our treacherous bards, our electric poetesses, at life as once
composing novellas: our crazed feelings, those cymbals clanging, our clangor
agitating drums: those superior minds, those outstanding physiques, where it
felt like heaven to sing to futures: our bold angst, our waters falling, our
skies raining: our cats yelling, our alleys refurnished, our hillsides flailing
sceneries: as small persons, or large persons, so sick about another human
being: our lives rebuilt, our hearts restructured, our minds re-knitted: as flung
into battle, our armor aside our curse, our heart-plates determined for
justice.
