…silent
admiration, interior glinty eyes, a body warring its life: such casual sin,
such flinty auras, such reasonable suggestions: our roaring agonies, sifting
through meadows, running with shamans: those gifted women, this rifting
radiance, those effulgent caves: (to die pleasantly, to sense body chemistry,
so submerged in theology: those trenchant gazes, that interior glint, our
radical dissatisfaction): if but to live, accustomed to stronger women, looking
at something too haughty for gentility: or but I lie, this calm, intelligent,
even rubescent formality: at wilderness and chaos, at sharp nearness, so close
it bounces repeatedly: to become this miracle, to adore this cadence, our
walking sleepiness: as souls encompassed, as visitors to this planet, or more,
as souls transmigrated: those haven arcs, our primate cousins, this particular
feeling: to adjust language, to maintain innocence, while animals roar through
kingdoms: this harem of rituals, this twist through lakes, our tears falling
gently—this black horizon, this lovework, our dreams our lifeworks: as looking
closely, and fretting emotion, our seas as keeping our glossaries: this foolish
beast, to adore while wolves gather, those interior machines: our white oaks,
our reasonable caricatures, at something that refuses vocality: (but Love is
surrendering, and Love is agonies, and Love is suffering softly: those rules we
engender, this amplified disaster, at rules seeming quite pathetic: our
cultural ideals, our cultural cabinets, our kabala cries: those Jewish Rites,
those European Séances, our American Love: to perish laughing, unaware of
distaste, while Love desires to tell her story: if but with vocals, or volcanic
oils, or sulfur seas—our crossed legs, our open arms, our meditative auras: to
see with eyes, to probe a conversation, to exude womanly characteristics: those
camerawomen, those arrow-men, or infatuation becoming scholarship)…. I try to ignore pain, this field of
mentalities, this core of groceries: this plagued silence, this silent woman,
this silent father: to ponder a daughter, this world coming, this mother quite
in-tuned: our nutshells, our sick religiosity, our women trying desperately:
this crucial point, this crucial moon, this world where sex is
underappreciated: but yours so soft, and you carry kryptonite, and you die with
passion: this man’s world, and so misappropriated, and rockets thresh our
interiors: at thoughts looking, at years advanced, or so casual we walk away
disappointed: this foolish theologian, this maniac philosopher, this earlobe
poet: at inner voice, at inner channels, engaged in pure flights: our tears
roaming, our dreams at mercy, our deaths so casual. …if but to redeem Love, as us and nothing
living, or rebuked for kissing softly: those times we met, this casual
location, this indifferent communication: to become so gentle, as awakening
inclinations, to die so radically: as poly-amorous, or needing a few, but
stressed by social-contracts: as eating wood, or gnawing metal, or something so
precious following us home: this silver love, this golden ache, or purely, I
need to invest more….
