We
chase existence, such fortunate monopoly, this black haven: celestial
hard-knocks, or regional slum grime, at something irresistible: our laughing
earbites, our hilarious travesties, or one at some simplistic movie—but held
alive, too confused, and screaming out sentimentalities: smaze and blackdamp,
mud and filth, our respects built in sludge: those gunning psychologists, those
million dollar psychiatrists, at billion dollar cohesion: those dark realities,
this dark profanity, where anxiety met mystic terror: those shameful trembles,
at rageful enactments, our notes flooding our margins: those film-travesties,
this intra-mythology, this firestone phoenix—as built through silence, this
lack of senses, to realize yelling becomes easy: or nearly broken, as scraping
gravel, while raging by hysteria: our mothers falling deafly, our mothers as
faint women, our mothers conflicting with motherhood: this bent angle, while
needing anxieties, where junior was a bit naïve: our minds rolling, our last
quaff, at tyranny screaming, I promise—as
built for weather, or klutz and glory, plummeted by machine instincts: our gosh with mother, this strong, abandoned
creature, this remarkable confidant: our love with miracles, our recharged
batteries, our spirit-gore: this mat laughing, if but our concerns, to die
seated at our nests: this inlet cry, this inking wish, this tragic gulf: at
deep frets, at steeper flux, our mothers torn at five days: as young men
running, to meet sophistication, so in tuned, so disenchanted with mother: this
fragile winner, this losing miracle, our nights to studies where ghosts break
loose: that topaz hummingbird, those closet images, if but this glimpse to waging
wars. …our daughter’s antiphon, this
hymn for wilderness, this magic over red beans with rice: at sainted fires,
aloof to losing, but dying, nonetheless: too cryptic wanton, this liquid
insanity, as granny knows for pain: those normal lives, those incredible
sources, while so entrenched bubbling into pure sorrow: at statuesque women,
unaware of trauma, our lives hanging like festoons: at too many hurdles,
upchucking guts, our palms gripping dirt: to fling it wildly, to strip
sackcloth, our flesh bruised and even ruined: as wires spread, this lesson by
adolescence, while shared with this magnet butterfly: our drills, Love, those
rasps, Love, or engines thrust into pure silence: a memento for father, this
agonizing seed, where mother attempted invisibility: to ache with father, to
love with father, to request one last dance with father: that first glance, that
forsook existence, while mother uttered but a few words….
…studded
in melancholia, seeping into goodness, afraid that tales are growing weary:
while feeling words, accorded this cross, as one thrown into dungeons: this
hell by animals, this gorilla by shrills, or running for slung and flung afar:
those winning psychs, this losing war, to dig for carving instincts: (as it
keeps gunning, as it keeps coming, where reality seems abused by perspectives):
those freshet blurs, those reaping glasses, if but this trauma at nine o’clock:
this whetstone existence, this whetstone mystic, at wildfires gunning through
debris: at mother with insistence, at women with lasciviousness, but cultivated
enough to maintain resilience: our raging nail-beds, our soil with blood, our
bones with hearts: to pierce a lung, to feather a mountain, to cease where
anger lunges forward: this prophetic nib, years into deaths, a bit magnified by
this space: at enmity with pain, at admiration with pain, at cells raging
through pain: this furious music, this class of strangers, this forbidden link
through prose: as left to perish, but bouncing relentlessly, if but fueled for
a thousand eye winks: to cut with existence, perfecting building blocks,
sensing a daughter’s upheaval: this need to fit normality, this want to sing
glory, while distant from self running into valleys: those charms with milk,
those cakes with chocolate, where life is fine despite parents….
