Lights
are coughing, hacking by violence, such sweat by phlegm: those terror eyes,
this terrible crush, those blushing sensories—to perish a smile, to alight a
curse, to feel for healings: our beige flowers, our shallow resistance, our
hallowed sanities: those remote emotions, this remote sexuality, as never so
bold to confess: in tragedy, Love; in pure travesty, Love; as adored with
lightning—those crazed feelings, while gutted for running, while seated amidst
helium: this semi-poem, those fragile lines, as walking through gravesites:
those old bones, this feathered particle, to suggest something outrageous: if
but by darkness, amid our terrors, to become so enchanted: that fairer kiss,
that fairer blouse, those knee high engraving chains: to study silence,
searching out angels, to angle so gently: such by grayness, to enter
womb-beauty, to agonize where vultures have failed: this sudden feeling, as if
seated closely, or remembering emotion!
…such firebrand, such undergrowth,
so intoxicated: our sober mornings, as awaiting noontime, as if it counts in
some way: this florist laughing, this nursery giggling, at thoughts a child
your skin: our terrible lusts, our terrible courage, our tragic futures: at
dahlias fantasizing, at daisies reminiscent, at dandelions your pain—our
charming neglect, this peaceful sorrow, this raging inkpad: our stamps
snickering, our ambition mocking, to have royalty six months gunning: to grip
with agony; to impassion medicine; to thrust through depression: as once
desiccated, or crying by moisture, to sense a foreign reaction to our bodies:
this watchful ceiling, this political outcast, rewound so close to mother’s
navel: this base of lullabies, our centered disaster, to curse but die reaching
for Christ….
…we live as fools, while reeling
satiated, so close to those strangers: to imagine our guts, to disappear at
remorse, to monster out, to step through celestial fire: those eyebrows
sketching, those nose-prints nosy, our curious aches while whispering: this
slanted mind, this tucked feeling, those tactical gardens: those wars, Love—at
slave-work, Love—to resurrect sipping existence: our caramel evenings, our gin
with persecution, our parents tossing for churning this flame: to meet by
ruins, to explode on contact, our grannies meeting for Rum: those candy eyes,
those oiled elbows, or such silky, sliding flesh: our boxes fraught, our remembrance
gushing, at gusts this living room of demons: that small light, to desecrate
everything, while fighting to enjoy such Tennessee attraction: this southern
soul, this northern spirit, afloat a catastrophe….
…keep us silent or vocally deaf at
terrific insulation: keep to adorned scriptures, serenade invisibility, and
live to die alienated from poetry: so detached, so upclose, at horror to lose
this emotion: out-of-body, or raging, therein, while knitting softly: such
oxygen with tears, such tyranny by sensation, or those designer hips: our
echoes resounding, our silence seeping within, at sudden a loud cry: to reach
while panicked, to relate while suffering, to agree to rehab: this gut-feud,
those gut-chains, or seated so softly silence is raging: this gentle, brutal
force, this disaster desert, those piles of debris: to aflame darkness, to read
light, to readdress something so angry: our rehearsed atmosphere, our eager
wines, our upper thighs: addressed while inflated, our mornings with
specialties, those palms so gentle with regret: at poetry-prose, at something
sacred with deaths, or peeking at ape-calmness: this deep rebellion, so sweet
to wrists, so discovered in clamps: to rebirth terror, to express in gusts, to
swoosh a second into an avalanche: those creeping chills, this tender canvas,
our itchy lungs: at such admiration, at such perception, at ghosts aligned near
phantoms: this broken horizon, to die so gently, to afire an Empire….
