I
dream, Love, at magnificent channels, this elk, this gremlin, this leprechaun:
our souls flying, our brains delighting, our wrists unchained: this gut-war,
those intestines fleeing, our worms speaking prayer-talk: to die with
existence, to perish in resurrection, to sense over a billion cries: this truth
working, this slow pace, to ask mommy vital questions: to ask about life, to
ask about pain, to wonder about meaning: this slipping purpose, this cursed
universe, those few pleasant dispositions: this woman watching, this overseer
dancing, this mirror blatant with anguish: this sad poet, this linguistic
doctor, this serum and recourse: at deep apologies, somewhere in private, but torn
by apologetics: this manic mistake, this manic lake, where Love ignored perfect
pain: to acknowledge paths, to scream in frustration, to abandon thoughts of
racism: but concerned deeply, this take on students, this rhythm seeming
apparent: but hell to science, and hell to facts, when a family needs balance:
this snakebite, this pond of caimans, or roses sprouting upon algae: those
abusive parents, this abusive stepfather, this cursed aunty: our remarkable
abilities, to lie about feelings, as crazed and ruined souls: if but to relax,
this silent passivity, where one ruins while others suffer: to feel for
goodness, this restless wife, this abusive husband: or tails to fronts, and
fronts to backs, our wives unaccountable for ninety percent of their days: at
magic ropes, at tortured intuition, where rubies appear as vinegar: those
drastic feelings, this inner gnat, or this pee sized hole: to emotion lights,
if but for meaning, while Love aches over a toilet seat.
I
need perfect, I need anxiety, I need to rekindle: this tiny warfare, those
drastic anniversaries, those holidays, many thanks a year: to remember
something special, this perfect creature, while many can’t recant that feeling:
our infant claims, rebuking infidelity, if but souls that handle such restrictions:
this small mishap, if but out kingdom, if but our science: where souls operate,
as souls perish, where some claims are purely selfish: this trying man, this
trying curse, while Jada has died several passions: if but honesty, if but
concern, if but our needs: our bibles speaking, our histories yelling, our
America quite possibly mistaken: but this is life, and these are feelings,
where emotion needs ownership: this sore topic, this sore soul, while needing
to feel secure: our vulnerability, our existential, our pragmatic sacrifices:
our children’s eyes, our passing legacies, if but to die feeling we lost
sanity: this inner typewriter, this inner novelists, or tales told to this
mental representative: at curses, Love, at something so essential, Love, where
mother has done according to training, Love: this man running, this force
killing, those appetites ruining something special: our orientations, our
crystals, our rhinestones: at thoughts gunning, at mother indecisive, for
mother seemed a jewel: at gramps wondering, at granny realizing, at sons
deliberate with silence: to know instincts, to know family, to realize church:
this raw reality, this cautious overseer, while many have died in vain.
…let’s
revisit justice, this captive spectacular, our stomachs churning behavior: this
perfect witness, this mirrored profanity, to sense windows screaming: those
shattered shards, this animalistic, instinctive, primitive self: our rabid
amygdala, our rabid synaptic, our neurons shattering our infinity: this marvelous
picture, this fabulous body, as unaware that Love is crazy: those endless
anxieties; this endless monster, as repenting for something so special: our
lying facts, to ask certain questions, where Love denied an STD: indeed, this
silent music, our silent cries, as Love denied a thousand children: if but to
perish, or but overwhelmed, where it felt good to exist that way: this fire in
souls, this shove to adore, while Love has abused tyranny: such soft
forgiveness, to unsettling terms, where honesty obliterated passions….
