I
readjust, peering at panic, our mirrors telling stories: our brass is blazing,
our bass is detrimental, our engines are inverted: this human machine, this
miracle spirit, those telepathic messages: this gut-phone, this cellular
empire, at waves scrambling through oceans: this whale laughing, this shark as
friendly, those dolphins all but uncertain: this ape magnet, this gorilla fire,
at maniac inclinations: those frightening sentences, this frightened family,
because Naïve appears too this or that: at wilderness giggling, at islands
whistling, at Love adored: this epidemic, this epic reality, this city fraught
with herpes: those secrets, those diamonds, at something too appealing to pass
over: our warfare, our internal battles, our music seeming delightful: at books
about misogyny, at wonders such abuse, while some passion dysfunction: this
coaster ride, those tepid lies, at manicured roses: this plum garden, those
pomegranates, those delectable lips: at thoughts and pains, at cores and
remedies, while Love lingers as ghosts: this apparition, laughing and running,
while looking to sense this chase: our dementias, our Bentley cries, our
dark-nighted eyes: those pictures, therewith, this liquor, while presently
sober: those feelings digging, this ruler spacial, our rudiments up for
discussion: our partial lives, our partial feelings, (if we sex, than Love is
cool): indeed, this miracle, manic, machete, this losing, ludic, lunatic, at
serious, silent, sexuality: those loud forces, this gut ruined, those demons
screaming: to dip through passion, to ravish through graphics, at blueprints
sensing discord: our wakeful dreams, this fantastic fantasy, where it meant so
little: (to tell a secret, this essential reality, when Love disappears, our
children follow): thither, this island, those scorpions, to grab, twist, and
nibble.
I
spoke about hatred, when truth arises, but truth is on vacation: to die so often,
to creep into integrity, while this high life is quite lonely: to find a
balance, to remember our ghettoes, while Love has become a psychiatrist: this
well groomed fire, this maniac machine, this winning while losing: those
private empires, this ruined wall, this bag for trashcans: our trips to Goodwill,
our last diary, to chunk it to flames: this chapter beginning, this novella
quite weak, as gifted for stumbling: this red light, this yellow midway, at
green stabbing into traffic: at Love whining, while Love is growing, where one
for two and God couldn’t do it: this club life, those fireworks, or women too
beautiful to control: indeed, a small button, while dignity is compromised,
where father knew for pencils: this eraser life, those old sentences, this
paper with abrasions: to die a little, to live a little, notwithstanding, over
a thousand loses: to re-gut, to restructure, to reenter: that last egress,
those ingress empires, a kiss upon a tarantula’s face: those eyes watching,
this venom for spirits, or a jungle of intelligent, vocal, animals: in tears
for glory, in pains for remarkable, to sense Love vigil and debating: at mean
women, at old feelings, to show a hint of shame: those keen lenses, those
buffed glasses, our inert voices: where mother was queen, those days those
battles, to awaken to scrambled eggs and bacon: such deep dysfunction, such
radical suppression, to grow older with introjects: this white enterprise,
those forced discussions, while redeeming little Jimmy: those fires, Love, that
ink, Love, or infatuations seeming ridiculous.
I
bounce roughly—speaking in tongues, as not to offend: I spirit existence,
speaking clearly, as not to offend: this miracle man, this manic repression,
this man sensing its return: as more to secrets, to vent daily, to find this
enterprise: at features communicating, at Love listening, at behavior moving:
so subtle, so effective, so alarming: those eyes watching, those poses
standing, those grits overcooked: those years, those seeds, our daughters: this
home, this lie, this life: at teary islands, at teary answers, to find those
impractical resolutions!
