…softer
winds, and dying gently, accused of treachery: those beige screams, that dusky
voice, those internal draperies: our mental tapestries, our gray clouds, if but
to win while losing a dynasty: this small man, this large spirit, this daily
with fire: to court a miracle, to wait out debates, or wrangle about concerns:
those adolescent crushes, this thing about love, at skies listening to old
memories: at psychs confused, to explain our anguish, we die looking furious:
this dead man, this living soul, this bodily massacre: our purple shirts, our
winking blink-math, or a nonchalant hello: at graves mixed, at geometry seeking,
at wilderness reviving: this isolated soul, this father at prose, this night to
long passions: at granny praying, at aunt a bit desolate, at cousin a tear this
understanding: or old professors, at memory-banks, our glands pilfering
philosophies: or those tired nights, this nightsong, this nightingale: those
songbirds, this psych, as plaguing inner violins: to swing through traffic, to
pause on Imperial, or to visit my second home: those treasured thugs, this
gangster island, while smoke clouds our investments: this fragile sinner, this
sick but somber, or days walking through avenues: our Pasadena sights, our
Valley merry-go-rounds, while it felt good to adore something imaginary: if but
your eyes, to sense your guts, where love seems third base: as first we
dialogue, and second, we vet, and third, we come to terms…. I adore a myth, I love a swan, I chance a
miracle: this fuel in Jesus, this wrath in Christ, or this Jewish warzone:
those Cajun brows, this Cajun flame, those Cajun roots: to know inheritance, to
become human, to carry our parts: such chemistry words, such blue blazing
balloons, or pitted passions petrified: this black/white cable, this satisfied
and disturbed, this path mommy didn’t ponder: our fretted friends, our fair
fancies, or frigid farewells: to die this legacy, to impose upon cleverness, to
recruit our nightmares: as running forever, to return forever, at Negros
debating our intentions: this inner grandpa, this Rico Island, at Betsy relaxed
enough to exist: those rubric sentences, this inner ruler, this charming
professor: as giving little, filled with personality, or something quite
personal: but hell to science, and hell to lies, while we entertain our private
preferences: insomuch, a nightcall, at red galaxies, to dip fully afraid: those
churning corners, this Cornerstone, this rhine-creature: at daughters laughing,
at mother frowning, at stepfather high with appreciation: this granny
enterprise, pausing at Liquor Stores, at conversation with over sixty years:
those taupe appraisals, those otiose statements, or a clever sentence hitting
its mark: to float through traffic, stabbing through lanes, adrift and a bit
negotiated: to ponder a swan, those early years, while hating this deep
deception: to wonder about life, as living with decisions, while so heavy our
friends gossip: (but Love was sweet, even generous, but lonely and deeply cut:
this open wound, those failed friends, this hope to be accepted despite human
frailty: those cries, those acidic tears, this drip into existence: our first
this, our second that, as nothing is always bad: those father figures, that one
avenue, that man too much possession: but this belongs, and this must die, and
Love must confess: this coppice of animals, this wolverine mentality, this
lovely, dead, and regurgitated soul): if but our course, if but this moment, if
but our deep prayers: to go to Promise, to dwell in energies, to suffuse a
particular emotion: this vague language, this photic delight, those aphotic
night-hells: as father was lost, and mother was dedicated, and I couldn’t
accept certain destinies: this mannish passiveness, this king destroyer, at too
many years with non-resistance: this scheduled path, this Taoist Dream, but
reality causes for aggression: this minimalist excursion, those Buddhist Cries,
this Christian Mystic: or souls we can’t embrace, but filled with their
presence, where years multiply intensity: at manic memories, looking at
indifference, confirmed as one imbalanced: those tragic cures, those tragic
invoices, or our first letter to God.
