…grinning
with pride, by decided life, aching our return: such pure music, such chanting
frenzy, accustomed to yearly deaths: to feel it moving, to die sinning, to
triumph and settle: or growing oldness, those olden ways, this familiar box: at
Love’s agony, so crushed and repented, so torn about daughter: to watch and
realize, to sense and struggle, too cold to grips about cold wars: our first
pear, our last peach, and rarely a piece of fruit: our daughter’s dreams, as
meaning so little, while we barely retreat from silk: if but with grandpa, if
but about granny, if but this infant running her nation: but yours are flowers,
frozen roses, and watery petals: that tarot life, that chi existence, realizing
repeated nuances: so sick with passion, so enhanced with life, our souls faxing
across Continents: this volt to China, this neighbor’s interference, this false,
sequential return: to castle gravely, at mantra
and candle, to erect a private sanctuary: our achy ears, our trickling
delights, while curved for ruined and needing acceptance: such insecurity, to
permit a person, to do just about anything one pleases: while begging
forgiveness, for this light as victims, where in reality we need Father: our
bottled anger, our provision for sickness, our padlock head-storms: as living
with problems, while nibbling apricots, or sipping gentle teas: at granny about
magic, while granny smiles, and utters, You’re
too young, for it gives us powers: by truths to minds, to sense pure
disruption, our women barely holding abstracts: those daffodils, those exotic
roots, or chasing for panicked and losing sanity: those all night streets, this
all night romance, at cliffs and rocks staring at stars: where mother
sacrificed, those rudiments so at home, while yearning to enjoy her youth: at
something for closure, at mental penmanship, while riding this waving
tarantula: if but to love and adore and cleave and cry—this remarkable
creature, if but with time, while days seem a bit glib: that is to say, our
minds create remedies, those remedies are charming, but reality might insist
upon travesty…. I call to winds; I feel
defunct; but nights summon glory: seated at stillness, sullen and steady, or
stressed and sanctioned: to totter slowly, to visit our kitchen, to spark a
clove: Love complains, and Love dances, and Love draws nigh: this candid
portrait, as so overwhelming, to spend eternity loving this person: as
conglomerate spirit, at a sallow lemon, while neither fully fathoms this
daughter catastrophe: as one labeled, where labels do not change, while others
are striking glory: this granny soul, this Africa lineage, those ghetto tomes:
to hone passion, or stir a cauldron, while our carpet is stained with life:
those remarkable children, this remarkable home, at years dealing with
something degrading: but triumph prevails, as never a day, those years raising
alone—this soul with concerns, those concerns discounted, while Love struggles
for balance: this Jesus Vase, as needing its fill, while daughter sings to
particular non-existence: this castle for mother, this world for father, while
both envy each-other: as ever and anon, this courage to conquer, this craving
to fly: those white bones, those cultic sinews, at an army of live warriors:
this internal brook, this subtle cologne, our nostrils sniffing
inconsistencies: but a shadow here, but blatant there, or some desert-sky
nonchalance: to feel this way, while doing this essence, or appealed to by
integrity: but soon forgotten, as conquered and vanished, where certain
landmarks dig deep into our millennia: if but with courage, to exonerate
others, where we realize our infractions: but what for children, as never a
casualty, as never deep scars: to have endured tragedy, to have sung to lonely
pillows, to muddy up a thousand dollar quilt: indeed, and lived rightly, those
ravine instincts—to cut and slice, to begrudge and laugh, to hate and break
with sanity: this dear daughter, those mental glasses, this internal magnifying
fire—those brain sponges, this internal inconsistency, to need particular consistencies:
but love is incredible, and love rarely dies, for richness elicits its nature:
but ours is unfamiliar, but ours has roots—in this valley of sidewalk alleys!
