…such
tender mayflowers, such rich pollen, at midday cancelled and debated: our
fluttering drums, our silk sullen skin, our territorial sockets: as pulled,
needy, and isolated: or yanked, controlled, and feeling loved: this intimate
empire, this crushing reality, while molded for counseled: our furious dreams,
our furious canvas, so many paints—as fire eyes, alive and dazzled, or running
for frightened: those aesthetic weeds, those aesthetic vines, our tiles dancing
with shadows: to imagine our absence, an unseen table, while pleading
existence: as perception is existence, while conceit is pride, or unsighted
leads to non-existence: our film by whispers, our souls by impunity, our
cymbals by symphony: as mere mortals, or Socratic inquisitors, appealing to
particular methods…. I fumble often,
permitted to struggle, obliged to feel: at incredible curtains, unveiling
pieces, and distinguishing puzzles: this shrubbery maze, this internal
vineyard, those blurry paths: if but by name, to retrieve a fountain, to re-mix
Eternity: this Paradise, this cooling water, at tyranny and pride: those few
misfits, as we frown with dignity, where one was struck by compassion: our
executive office, our executive feelings, while a hint seeks approval: to hear
mother’s voice, to sense father watching, to seek by thought and find a raft:
this fumble with time, this lime/purple horizon, our naïve natures scrambling
to find family: our biggest goal, our lively aches, our treasured concerns. …as mainly an entry, as seeking for
finish-lines, to reestablish jubilee—or gunning art, or abandoned to stage-life,
or soot to soul and dusting plates: such resistance, our rebuilt engines, as
revving through capital islands: this tugging insistence, this planetarium
heat, where many are examining mirrors: to buff faces, to buffer ideals, to
re-support an old challenge: these realities with time, this clock as mental,
our reality by aging: those wiser souls, those young sages, while running into
resistance: if built we live, if rebuilt we’ve died, indeed, a whiff of heaven’s
solace….
I
sense something, this place in chimes, this persistent reach: as moving in
sequences, shadowed by emotion, our interpretation, therefrom: such quick
dismissal, such lightning eye-sockets, at peace with questionable behavior: or
rebooted souls, churning through deserts, so emphatic to see: as engines
sparked, or transmitters digitized, at something too crazed for silence: this
kick-start fire, this art mural, this returning image: as good at times, while
purchased by integrity, to differentiate right from wrong: this tugging
current, those crystallized meanings, or this chase for adrenaline: at sluggish
disaster, or something cavy, to appear to self seated upon a couch: our
midnight mornings, our midday darkness, while redeemed and seriously at battle.
