…over
a clove, I begin feelings, I drift upon logic: those tragic lockets, this
tragic fuse, our tragic loses: to remember something aloof, to chance a
diamond, to resist our faculties: those fueled noises, this resonant arc,
seated in heart-chakra: at internal tongues, pondering gentle souls, listening
to something softly: our trips to comforts, our disrupted absence, our dear
ambivalence: our dreams flying, our feelings tugging, our fantasies early
morning: to adore so deeply, but winnowed by thoughts, to imagine morning
terrors: this mythical harassment, this electric shock, our sockets revving
mountains: such forest passion, such wilderness chivalry, such glory attached
to something sad: at terrible results, laughing to survive, where humans are
dearly resistant…. …if but that
second, convulsing deaths, with life leftover to carry us: our itchy lives, our
scratchy flesh, at nights seeping into mornings: this clove with wine, to dine
with thoughts, to feel connected to something churning: our rebuilt temples,
our money-exchangers, our blaspheme attempting to purchase ghosts: at something
incredible, to rev a man’s soul, while so retracted our pistols have jammed:
our jimpy emotion, our deep machinery, or tales of elation—at tyrannical
warfare, disturbed by silence, at chemistry-angel-flames: our abandon like
fire, our membrance like anchors, our souls at treacheries: these feudal flies,
this gauge overwhelmed, such balance thwart by frustration: a level so dear, a
pilgrim so green, as one an adult by rages: our coupled sensation, our coupled
hearts, to realize something isn’t exclusive: at released restrictions, while
tamed, nonetheless, if but a smidgen of graces: at bleeding moon, at benighted
sun, while so engulfed it felt like existence: this sorrowful wisdom, this
melancholic fury, where absence, thereof, causes panic…. I study orators, this command of language,
plus, those tales of passion: such inclusive fruits, such powerful history,
such refurbished literature: to need something different, something private, or
something utilized by a seldom few: such aches and fire, such water for
dreaming, such caves for roaming: this revving furnace, this ivy vine, this
sluggish fever: (at present communion, meditating science, a bit relieved and
challenged: but there’s a tale, of closed eyes, and terrific/terrifying Spirit:
and there’s a kiss, bestowed upon many, where something struggles to break its
capture: and we see women; and we sense Divinity; while unboxing our human sinners):
this moving travesty, to need a certain perception, while requiring certain
freedoms: at deep plagues, seated and dislodged, while needing holiness: this
sexual atmosphere, as so torn to silence, our monks fathering children. I think about images—so found but lost,
while gripping something universal: such cosmic position, such radiant
insulation, such cries upon waves—as men running frontiers, or women running
minds, to realize over a billion joysticks: our pits with gin, our evangelists
targeting pains, our souls requiring protection: if but for freedoms, while
limited by said freedoms, while imprisoned by multiple freedoms: as freed and
enslaved, while worship becomes our master, where thoughts designate certain
rulers: our garage churches, our nosy ways, while needing to proselytize: where
life was hectic,( but enslaved freedom is excruciating), and pressure becomes
perfection: this inner denial, this bridge to Passion, as if something given is stolen in Spirit: our exegeses,
our hermeneutics, our closer readings: to study for self, to sense inclusion,
while many will be judged by their measures: indeed, this incredible position,
including something perceived as lost, while some philanthropists are hardcore
scientists: that other story, this lightning feeling, this early morning—as
churning feelings, remembering a particular soul, at something that appears
insidious: that is, to need a recruit, as met with resistance, by pleasures, to
ask about his pains: at every turn, as systematic, to then proffer religious
study: (my God, I’m a Theologian, plus, a Philosopher, plus, a man studying our
private behaviors)—Whoosh!
