…we’re
racing and driven, our hostage clocks, our hostage reality: at curdling skies,
or curdling feelings, or rummaged aesthetics: our days so long, and yet so
brief, our music drifting into snippets….
…we cherish incentive; we dine with motion; and we tug our pillows: our
minds cycle, as we slow our pace, at thoughts hinting to sequences: at rare
insight, and overworked intuition, spelling our souls in gravel: those deep subtleties,
our revving antennas, our bodies alert to slightness: as cheetahs hunt, as
bears hibernate, our Time is spinning: those relaxed wheels, those wild cries,
our haunted souls…. I relive it
daily; these false imprints; those sensation reminders: at shifts with
radiance, or pure understanding, to return to something postmodern: those
eclectic reasons, this eclectic horizon, where collages seem familiar: this
cave within, those internal physics, at this skeptical existence: our bars at
freedom, our freedom at cliffs, if but to relive while losing increments: at
sheer concern, abandoned to orientation, or sunken in mire: those deep escapes,
those fragrant scents, a bit aware of strangers. …we feel middle ground, where existence
becomes surreal, where many study this midpoint: our earth with cavities, our
pitted resistance, our souls etching messages: our tried understanding; our
shorn frustration; at something seeming quite possible: to listen by life, our
studies in earnest, our needs to fathom such motion: where spirits fly, our
minds a bit sensitive, our hairs prickling our necks…those haunting feelings,
roaming this vast expansion, while wrestling instincts….
…we
become aesthetics, listening to sacred reality, shifting through variegated
climates: our must for many, while condemned by few, where insistence becomes
something gray: at several dilemmas, so spacial it hurts, so relaxed sorting
through briers: our scales falling, our raspy skin, our ashy dreams: as scented
souls, reclaiming our dominion, a smidgen owned by our Government….
I
scrape existence, this sea of sawdust, this wheel at gradual motion: this turn
through Time, this interior chime, or this pantomime mistake: our monsters for
breakfast; our souls for lunch; our realities for dinner: at inward lenses,
meeting telescopic horizons, or seated gently upon a settee: this ocean of
concern, or this oblivious insistence, as but a form of self-deception: our
fairer motion, at radical debates, to look around at emptiness: those
sky-people, at sudden no notion, aligned in psychical minerals: our guts
churning, our music silenced, while essence is following: these accusations,
this depending upon experience, or this demanding wire: at shifts and yearns
catering to mystery, while restricted from physical mystery. …it becomes repetition—or mnemonic
chemistry, or something at reach: it becomes inward dominion, outward gravity,
and laws guiding something esoteric: at deep understanding, vetted by mirrors, and
silenced by darkness.
