…our
diary stages, plush with nose twitches, or blotches of ink: sunrise coldness,
or blue lake warmth, at tender mercies: our sleepy eyes, at incessant rubbings,
a tad towards fussy: if but our lives, invested in ourselves, we’d love a bit
more: those acorn theologies, this acorn response, to approach with affection:
such crackling layers, such coconut linage, as time spins around Sophia: such
deep budding, such roots with magic, such mythic/mystic instruction….
…those
torrid ponds, those dying nails, as so lost but trekking near sanctuaries: to
reverse sights, to lie for passion, to erase gnawing erasers: to nibble
injustice, to claim fury, as built to breathe: this long spoon, this shortened
fork, running for shoving only to relapse: our curvaceous art, this tale to
ears, our flesh plush red: at purple wines, at purposed hopes, while so hated
we see violence: at quietude, roaming caves, to happen upon mermaids: such
fairy-dust, such angel-cries, such dusky stardust: this elegance, this sewn
equation, those eloquent dolphins: as mother would, if father should, while
years fell between us: at oily faces, at oily pastas, at pure flavor: as
shunned but breathing; or delicate, romantic trauma; so far removed it’s
difficult to placate….
…you’ve earned
respect, this colony of vandals, while culture demeans your essence: such
vulgar responses, such erased gentility, while Love desires her portion: this
tragic, tender massacre—those almond knuckles, this magenta ship, those
immovable waves: to embrace diligence, or womanly splendor, at nightlight
singing by sirens: those facial muscles, our brains attacking faces, at
something so intense: this mythic math, this trance aria, at poison sipping
justice: to swivet suddenly, to grip carpet, to leave a puddle: something
wrested was something lost, and Love has pure audacities: our inmost deaths,
while to reach for names, as backwards falling into Sheol: this old friend, to
embrace his guts, while sensing an image your face: those days to thinking,
those seconds something followed, while so formless, so cold, so pathetic….
…at gathering
sunlight, to space it in bottles, to mail it so close so afar;—made privy in
prayer, made private by attorneys, made eager for repenting: fulgence
outsoared, passion becoming fire, our years to studying Elijah: those few
seconds, to die repeatedly, as snapping out of bewitchment: this fragrant
spell, this flippant nonsense, while Love was suddenly adorable: this major
fantast, those becoming sanctums, while distinguished as one a bit slanted:
those fair reasons, if but to assassinate, if but to reverse love: at phantom
eyes, or sutured cries, evermore, this pearl offered through sin: at mystical
damages, our chemistry askew, our overseers taking concerns: at black moons, or
cyan/orange sunlight, while so confused but trailing deserts: this fairer
chase, while losing maps, to journey by pure hope….
I
thought to live; I lived assuming deaths; it lives this social atmosphere: to
witness classes writhing, even at struggle, while Love just glistens: to swelter
in presence, to revoke sensibilities, to have for sights a few poses: our
counter-involvement, at station and rapture, to feel a bit too ideological:
those blueberry stars, those indifferent compliments, or this paranoid,
lovesick, and impassive nightmare: at graves within, at castles within, seeping
into this tragic bliss: our dear mystics, our dearer Jesus, spent for galaxies
and longing forever—those energies, to hear that voice, as something ahead of
so much trauma.
