I
fiddle a magazine; I set it gently; I step aside myself: such musical rain,
such deep beginnings, at multiple faucets: this facet in souls, this longing in
souls, at furious debilitation: at whales and octopuses, wrestling Freedom,
accursed and gentle: those welkin scars, this popular estate, at religion
peering too closely: those ebbing eyes, such rich conviction, such absolute
Truth: we cringe at it, we see issues, we become outcasts: those delectable
figs, this need for credibility, as it becomes outrageous frustration: but
lights to souls, as living in estates, as conversing with pillows: our deep
treacheries, by such nonchalance, while eager for something promising.
…open
wounds cry, scandals come to sing, our days so gentle with agonies: this purple
sun, this raging star, our celestial bodies: at rugs intimately, at floor-beds
rebuked, or something screaming forwardness: while looking backwards, while
gripping winds, at something quite romantic: our embedded faces, while
discerning life, a bit too cautious, a bit too reckless: at Cajun spices, or
tender contentions, studying interior wiles: our stomachs rumbling, our sins
waning, our lives waving: at incredible seasons, to hush a silent contempt,
while at third base headed to our return: such reasonable lights, to place with
time, at something a dream and moving mountains…our steaks with garlic, our
broccoli with cheese, our minds with phantoms: at so many mirrors, despite,
redemption, at caves reinvented….
I
lit a cigar, took a few drags, and put it out: I stared at mirrors, took a few
surprises, and walked away: I looked at you, this essence from you, as
something you can’t give: this bowl of petals, our popery, at outstanding
sensibilities: as walking forward, tugged backwards, this internal visionary:
such palatial kindness, such remote peaches, such distance cursed by
inevitabilities: those revolving doors, this ceiling fan, those universal
chandeliers: at such mercy, to need such conveyance, at internal skies—this
turquoise heaven, this lake of terror, those told purgatorial adventures: to
rehearse our courses, to dig into crates, to pitch madness and controversy: our
colder chills, our warmer cries, at myths, soot, and blackdamp: such courage to
resist, such insistence upon normality, where most settle for caprice: this
thin layer, this surprising treasure, at one a certain way: where others
perished, longing for intimacy, refusing those terms and conditions: at deep
inhalation, to exhale a volcano, where reality seems interdependent.
…it
drills sensibilities, this ice with lemon, our lime with noodles: at trenchant
motion, or settled into stillness, while incumbency proves its parts: such
cabinet romance, such frozen beef, unthawed and served raw: this place in sin,
this admonished soul, or too much gusto at cries: our running rivers, our
immovable sediments, or that faraway mermaid: to relish in dens, to advise of
turmoil, if but to feel relaxed internally: this moving mountain, this playful
island, while stripped of just about existence: those red moons, this bloody
sight, at courage if but enough: as giving everything, while required for more,
where we stumble upon essence to give…those cats giggling, and clawing
furniture, but too adorable to chastise: our mental soup, our distaste for
agonies, or so lost it feels good to adventure: to see imperfectly, while
clinging to such perception, at others giving this legacy: our deep resistance,
while something is speaking, at trials for treasures: to seem perfect, or some
type of human, our years searching for Superwoman: our laundry spread out, our
needs for privacy, as not for redemption: this tale as idealized, while many
have want for sameness, despite, this typical, polite death: as needing
adventure, as requiring our curses, at roses and chains and dark blue magic….
