…amidst
a crowd, an Invisible Man, staring,
plotting and fighting proclivity: such medium magic, such Danish Laws, such
draconian warfare: our vampire instincts, gnawing for cleaving, trapped in this
body: our rewards, our women, as sung an old tangle: those webs, this future,
this Irish Gin: as sinning Satan, as loving Jesus, as trusted to fail: this
mental easiness, this mental shallowness, this psych to brains: this feminine
hygiene, this sad river, this Buddhist Colony: our daughter’s cries, our son’s
anger, as afforded one last death: our mythology, our ontology, our dreams
convoluted: this bass line, this rhythm, our interior cadence: if but to love
you, if but to adore you, if but to lose you: this film replaying, this thought
rethinking, this gut rewound: at Ray’s Creek, stumbling through ghettoes, so
manic an audience is glaring: those terrific, demonic, angry eyes: that
intention for violence, or seated closely sensing an absence: this hollow,
hallowed spirit—this full pledged robot, or this sad, dejected infantile: as
purely absurd, protecting secrets, or coddling a woman’s ego: our last thrust,
our first departure, at closed eyes praying with prosaic(s): as but a seed, our
father’s matrimony, our jasper, red/green diamonds: to perish daily, to St.
Paul this gurney, or beheaded for preaching something foreign: at inclusive
rites, at deep distress, while carrying boulders: such uphill violence, such
determination, and here Love came to journey this Cross: at lagoons with ducks,
at squirrels and nonsense, at beavers laughing at queen Delight: our tears,
Love, our dreams, Love, our potential to devastate, Love: if but a scream, to
shatter a mirror, to feel as spirit pops….
…this facial
element, this heart element, this man so fragmented: those parts to Precious,
this death to God, as one elevated to penetrate devils: our darker cousins,
this man I met, this stance as pure realization: to dip with Jesus, to blaze with
Jesus, to dread-out and disappear in Jesus: this fool by clocks, this day so
uneasy, this night with churns and turns and soulquake realities: this heavy
feeling, this damn guitar, as one unable to jam: our consecration, this Hebrew
Alphabet, our silent volume: sipping and trying, sleeping while awake, stranded
with alibis: this inner rebuke, this jettison feeling, while emotion laughs:
this soft music, this soft damsel, this inner sylph—as walking brains, this
topaz excitement, to touch as born by virginity: this Mother Mary, to know for
parts, to arise and scream, It’s your
time: thither, this liver, thither, this base, and thither, this
gut-violin: those enchanted phones, this cellar by midnight, a car load of
terrible youngsters: this mailbox agenda, this government war-care, or this
blatant attack upon Mexican America: at easy silence, at pure rage, while attitudes
come through by cultures: this interaction, this song maniac, this foolish
addict: to rant and rave, as mother knew science, to thrust and tug and ruin
resurrection: this monster pushing, this calm disposition, this eyesight
reality: to chance eternity, at this Jewish liner, while paranoid afore a group
of Arabs: our sad reality, our body bombs, or this curious and delighed and
overwhelmed sylph: those blue/green eyes, this beige particle, to pull so far
back Love is at wonders: our concerned postmen, our infuriated postwomen, or
this lantern with barely enough oil for morning light: our loaves sufficient,
our importunity scattered, our dreams, Love, our bowels, Love, or this mystery
popping into pianos…. I know writing, and this isn’t it,
for those concerned about humility: this rushing element, this inrush of
personalities, to blend midday a thought to this reality: those arms, those
dreams, this screaming internally: at something messed-up, this bless-ed-curse,
while Love is wondering about agonies: this
long range attire, our jeans with spunk, or this damned introject: to realize
trauma, a vein to a toe, or this line to infinity: at bruised intellect,
pushing daily, as but a charm-bracelet—those remarkable lines, that beaming
forehead, those threads locking his insanity: that reaching hair, that subtle
perfume, our screams and visions and such that just couldn’t cum: indeed, a bit
risqué, at interior séance, or running for late to this performing rendezvous:
our screams by passion, this canvas so Locke, at empirical data realizing it
lacks humanity.
