I
sobered up, but still I sip, feeling a clumsy breeze. I ponder eyes, or clever husbands, seized
with silence: this filmy residue, this mushroom salad, this old lover: our days
as animals, our moments so dignified, our screams knotting neighbors: our
violent undertones, our redeemed inner portrait, or inert, I love yous. We sizzle
gently, this fleece of rebellion, or this watchful tower: as religious saints,
so controlled internally, while sinning with shame: those transgressions, this
bath of warm water, our marrow for sustenance: as mural queens, made with
perfection, or too at arms to reach while swimming: those beige mirages, this
interior fantasy, as sensing fantasy is knocked out of adults: this cruel
agenda, this inveigling plan, while two have met hours in-between: our cushion
privacy, our glorious horizon, while sensing a potential wife: this space in
men, to assess something perfect, where ethics reside in membranes; indeed, so
sick with patience, so sick by love, our days liquefied. I rethink situations, this common thread,
while wishing for something impermanent: our hopes relating, our dear to
essence fires, if but this feeling through centuries: those passionate angles,
that business attire, or plain too exhausted to play happy wife: this man
watching, this soul throbbing, our aches early this dynasty: those hat queens,
those hat kings, where love becomes a series of outfits: if but to meet you, if
but to emotion rites, if but three rituals: our sexual chemistry, our beating
angels, as God gives a pass or two.
Mommy died. Our brains fled; but
life to souls that feel existence. I
remember sassy, I remember a psych’s stance, I thought to this years afore
metrics: this tiny lie, this sudden realization, while staring at something
distressed; but anxiety to science, this mature woman, those mature approaches:
or friendly a second, while removed with distance, as never a chance for ghetto
souls: this threshed confession, as needing upper-echelon, or redeemed by
something feeling imperfect: our nights with burgers, our fries with sauce, our
pains with solemn acceptance: to flee this life, if but those cries, while so
enthralled Jesus has appeared. We
rethought passion, alive with friction, sensing something a bit pure: if but
exclusivity, this monogamy tightrope, where only I satiate every desire: this
tallness, those feelings, this round with tyranny: at ghosts mentally, agaze’d
and sautéed, while gripped beyond recognition: those exterior charms, this
stiff smile, where one crosses a room to rescue wife: indeed, to insights,
indeed, to devastation, walking while churning afraid of desolation. I feel hearts, something so cultic, something
mutilating reality: this interior life, as pure introversion, while existence
demands attention: this deep bequest, this living miracle, this daughter’s
inheritance: to know for subterranean, to enter subs, to thresh for adored and
rising to rainbows: this gruelish angst, this interior black castle, or blackmail
seeming unfair: to hate his guts, for acknowledging a spade, while men ought to
suffer silently: in pain to mention, this fair damsel, or imagined reality:
this crucial map, those feelings with angst, while Love is attached to myriad
men: at passion in hell, at something redemptive, while we cover a myriad of
sins: at saving souls, or threatened with happiness, if but this mandatory
indoctrination.
I
speak as losing, this machine pushing, this mandatory robot: but feelings
increase, at souls so afar, or thrust’d into silence: those old habits, this
old soul, while needing something motivating: at perfect personas, at perfect
pictures, staring at clichés: those miracles in print, this image in souls, to
awaken to something and a cigarette: our cigar moments, our rusty vodka, our
strawberry gin: if but to release, as but to live, to approach wives with sheer
determination: this blackened sun, this benighted moon, or souls feeling
privileged to harm nature: indeed, such reckless adoration, for something so
gray, where family’s endorse muddy outlets.
