…it’s
gin and red wine, an old tradition, thinking too deeply—as loss his mind, to
rebuild his castle, and threshed by demons: this psyche war, this grand event,
those grandiose havens: our brains mangled, our psychs dismissive, or so
inclined it hurts: those few remissions, or permission to perish, at agonies
spent for miracles: our daughters spewing, our grannies strewing, our mothers
to deep dissatisfaction: as tried all night, with words and spite, where Love
felt anguish: those fair songs, our mystic elasticity, or dying and feeling
lucky: at black birds, and giggling with omens, where Love suggested therapy: this
sacred ache, to adore a dying dove, to become threaded in melancholia: our
baking feelings, this achy charm, those lefties split into radicals: at rebel
heights, scraping scalps, our furious soldiers at solitary: this mountain
plight, so steep it curdles, at gumbo with teary eyes: these smoky clouds, our
red sea water, while nibbling poisonous plants: that deep mold, this illusion
cold, to ache with Jesus: as unchanging vehicles, or re-established engines,
our greens needing an oil change: at arid highs, sipping this verse, and
blazing cloves: our sons watching, our daughters infused, our great pa split
into graves: at half a mirror, sensing half a man, weak and seeking
specialists: at trenchant converse, or rapid rapture, listening to drongo: this
field Negro, this master’s haven, while slashed for slapped and pleading
sanctities: indeed, a freaking riddle, this gut, Love, this maniac forced to
behave: at something cut, seated in stillness, and speaking politely: to say it
plainly, this undercurrent psychotic, looking and feeling pity: or emphatic
empathy, or stranded disgusts, while at other rivers: our Great Thirst, our
Great Passion, our Greater Infatuation: those bold, reserved eyes, or those
delicate tendons, at thoughts centered in make-believe: such credibility,
ruined in seconds, as thought what was impossible: this careful fool, this
failing fool, while Love ached with me…!
I’ll return fire,
adrift an empire, flimsy with disobedience: this maniac manic, this manic
lieutenant, this composed letter to momma: this penchant wasteland, this
distressed mystic, this intimate secret: to feel passion, to die intimacy, at
mother one last cry—to
dance hood, to die hood, or to rewind a nightmare: for further clarity, this
inner license, at scars sipping deaths: those other realities, those stench,
dark alleys, or grilled for ruined and adoring our crosswalk: at Love laughing,
at thoughts grinning, or pushed so far those grains have lost substance: this
composed fool, those eyes watching, our grandpa deeply thrust through: as one
done, as one lit, as one forgiving if but to fly: to adore madness, to laugh at
terrible, while watching something horrible: our frightened chameleons, our
threatening iguanas, or this ghetto-sakata: to thrust with anger, to forget
with violence, to adore with abandon—as losing mentality, to great insanity, at
Love so degraded it felt goodness: those melting grapes, this famous face, at
Love adored for failing its rupture: to deal with hell, to absorb hell, while
Love so high it felt glamour to perish: our bowels Love, or tectonic priests,
at phobic psychs: such reckless sickness, our nostrils grieving, our souls at
death-life: this inner craving, if but to realize, as Love appears a great
seductress.
…what
for that feeling, as alive and cringing, as aborted to another swig: this woman
so gentle, so inflated, so rich with absence: or that psych, so deep in
presence, so emphatic in energy: at eyes sensing ramification, or at
psychologists sensing background: or rushing for roaming Crenshaw: to cut a
corner, this old meaning, those raging pistols: our souls fretted, our luxuries
crying, our beasts subtle for a feline: what for that feeling, agonizing our
memories, to thresh and beat to Texas: those feelings, this eating wood,
those metaphorical earlobes: as dying slightly, affected by thoughts, but calm
enough to endure, procure emotion, and dive leading into turmoil….
