Rummaged Utilities

Initially, we’re cautious, and then gentle, or even dismissive: such cosmic eyes, such radiant wisdom, at combat with sensitivities: those clamping needs, our heart-cliff desires, at rages with our needs: if but to wingspan, and still about humans, those degrees for justice!     I sung about love, I recruited intuition, I laughed and jested and sought closure: those miraculous syllables, or that miraculous imagery, while sewn to something mythical: our casual days, our combative days, at wars and scars and balance: by graces, by works, by both—if but to insist, if but to dance, if but thrumming gentility: such are cries, searching for immortality, if but that first glance—as containing music, as adrift upon chemistry, while many tussle against familiarity: our cold sunshine, our gelid sun, or peanuts roasting upon an open fire: those inner agendas, those intricate maps, and then, we shower, Love.     I button feelings, I knit emotion, I crochet intensity: such solemn gravity, such insulating eyes, such rainbow glossaries: our chance to sing, about mental genetics, about shoebill gazes: that inner person, as prevalent in Jazz, our blossom our Blues: to shun violence, but remaining visceral, at lakes pitching pebbles: our powerful minds, as becoming a cliché, while many are revisiting something tacit: those planetary dreams, our muffled wishes, our tortured souls: at gentle insistence, at gentle alibis, while tugging for Love appears disinterested: if but our guts, as slung into battle, where victory overwhelms our sanity: those tiny limbs, those bright eyes, or that first word: indeed, to sentiments, as a gentle observer, attempting to incorporate science.     …memory fades me, but spirit enters me, reminiscent of fond images: our trembling ribs, our cages unlatched, our thermometers haywire: at symphony silence, while palming a rose, and feeding koi fish: those internal thoughts, as never given oxygen, while running amuck that internal castle: those mental mansions, that terrifying vestibule, while ghosts rummage our cedarchests: such crumbling cookies, such cold cocoa, such to too much sodium—as souls drift, needing something reasonable, while our house if whelmed by instruments: those sure feelings, as needing one existence, while time invades our islands: such swooshing sandpaper, such blueprinted miseries, or such ammunition if studied gently: therewith, our internal dice, similar with spaces, at grace or fiction….     …we chime with essence, we watch and feel emotion, we stutter when startled: at gray horizons, at colorful tunes, or rummaging cartoon pillows: as more than life, or more than fading, while touching a failing façade: our souls to swaying, our armor chipped away, or seconds to capturing an enigmatic glimpse: our sullen bodies, our sullen secrets, our deep insecurities: to share this rain, to invest in garlic, this person maintaining our worries: at vampire instincts, or German prose, either/or, going through rattling shakes: such as dignified, such as struggling integrity, or such as so together demons are storming: therewith, our soul-felt eyes, our remarkable pinpoint feelings, as threshed for unsung and singing….     It was hellish heights, and radical bars, or something with likeness: our moving orchestra, as planted upon Venice Beach, our sun, those daisies, our exhaustion: to maneuver softly, to breathe gently, at something steady to exist: our poetess songbird, our alleys cleansed, at antiquated, rustic emotion: those wafers with coffee, those teas with grapes, and our souls as clairvoyant: those rapturous seasons, so filled but loony, so insync but missing: at passionate carnivals, and mocked by clowns, while something intricate has taken place: those temperate muses, those other muses, as a man is tugged dearly: thitherto, this realized behavior, this bag of utensils, or this scar of happenstance: to move her mind, to jimmy something sacred, while responsible not to offend privacy: those inner portraits, as plastered upon brains, where Love is quite incredible.