I
rearrange time; I redeem facts; at voyage afore our tribunal: our days at
longing, our cries forbidden, plus, such heinous retribution: at brains
peeping, at miracles winking, while swans sit in anticipation: such anxiety, to
sense something at deaths, to encourage with silence: our curses, our women,
while many were raised religiously: to break free, to become rebellious, or so
lost for grounds are dropping: this long falling, those green vines, at terror
and satisfaction: such medicine, such brown eyes, such adorned personality: our
honey with lime, our pomegranates with ferocious, our lives so indebted: this
angry soul, this lively soul, our Hebrew encyclopedia: if but for courses, if
but for survival, if but by courage: to song this existence, to adore a mirage,
to cut with silence: this loud ass room, those loud ass mirrors, where swans
appear speaking in Arabic: or German travesties, or Egyptian membrance, while
everyone is seeking Europe:—so emphatic, looking to sense whys, or so elated seated in stillness: those wonders at birth, to
become this chasing pathway, or vestibules revolving but doors: our manic
miles, our midwife miracles, at manmade menticide: those strides through
traffic, this wave as southern, our passion as undergrowth.
…we
need electricity, we seam into resistance, if but to ache remembrance: this
shaky soul, those trenchant caves, our deep rehearsals: to chat by guts, to
illicit a response, while afraid to lose: our banished hearts, our cleaving
intelligence, our days searching out candles: this flickering reed, those
trickling mindcaves, this penchant for miracles: as alive your core, those few
lines, to invest in loving us: this sore in brains, for mother is reeling,
while at needs for adoration: to put mother first, to sense this deep
rejection, to attempt to redeem that rift: this silent anguish, this silent
countenance, nay, this raging, disharmonized countenance: to dig relentlessly,
at something that took years, while a minor-adult wars against forty years:
this embedded reality, this indebted reality, while one loses access to growing
accordingly: but yours is gentle, and yours is relaxed, where adults are
guarding your inheritance: (this scratchy flesh, this behaving daughter, to
invest everything in one that has lived her life: to be without, to do it
humbly, while harboring a few feelings): with time racing, with guts waning, to
become a perfect, obedient, non-resistant observer: our lives floating, our
minds pushy, our souls revolting….
…those
teal petals, with life and courage, at tears and joy—to disappear, with passion
chasing, as soldiers addressed for battle: this core with money, to have
newness, while one is in dire straits: as remodeled, fleeing insanity, at
miracles and feeling with pride: those tall tales, this taller soul-gate, while
listening to something ten years from now: as nothing to teach, a daughter
looking at mother, as both possess those similar angers….
I
rewind sensitivities—as one encouraged by high roads, but irritation seems to
overwhelm: this blind ass committee, to believe pure nonsense, as something
returning yearly: this crazed man, this abusive man, this other as odd and
abnormal: but damn I say, and damn I cry, while every person was wrong in some
way: our perfect mirrors, our cheating souls, But they never knew: if but this life, to receive falderal—with
such relishing reception: but this is love, as never confrontational, as fully
obedient: those consequences, this life without, those kids needing submission:
this excellent parenting, this challenge to exist, while one person is happy:
this retribution, this crying sky-fever, those remarkable lies.
