I
laugh at it, so deranged, so proper—this trillionth scar, this back haven,
those radicalized rites: our ghosts wars, our phantom homes, at agony speaking
cabinets: to sense chaos, to ignore something, as plain view boggles: so long
at it, so gifted with it, as missing its absence: those green seas, those brown
ships, at turquoise/purple eyes: such dreams, to become stars, while personhood
mingles deaths: our island massacre, our inlet souls, at this cavalier inrush:
at Love laughing, while Love is crooked, while speaking ethics: this inner
gremlin, fed after midnight, as becoming leviathan:
…if
but this existence, to become integrity, while surrounded by gorillas: this
phlegm monster, this apophatic mercy,
roaming for lying, and gaining entrance: at territorial irony, while Love is
familiar, where needs desire such fussiness: our muddy eyes, our muddy mirrors,
to walk away with an image: this blurry atmosphere, this bloody Jesus, while
convinced concerning entitlements: those sallow roses, this Golden Retriever,
to train by ashes:
…our
burgundy/blues, our confused states, reading Argus Eyed women….
…we must engage, running from
prayers, to request pure silence: this resonance fire, this unsafe fire, if but
to read those clippings: those few maniacs, those obedient nightmares, to beat
a case slammed to microphones: to meet as strangers, to become friends, at
orders and lieutenants—this myth by correction, to do things differently, where
psychs are intrusive: to want those gifts, to remanufacture those seconds, at
structural effusion: such droopy cries, such rigorous cultism, where Love was
so naked seated in clothing…so ontic and existential, such ontology, to study
pure existence—at roaring beings, a
lion but Judah, to sense something distinctive: a tatted neck, a shivering
muscle, as climbed and distinguished: so nameless, pondering names, at irony
through sophistication: those minty arms, this minty pocket, our days at dirt
but filthy: to live by rules, feeling apathetic, to meet as rearranged jogging
forward….
…passion
begets persistence, as enthusiasm begets perfection, this private haven—while
secluded in public, at myriad carnivals, or such our wars: this jinxy person,
while feeling radiant, to assess existence by mere palms: adrift and moving, at
a mirrored-sphinx, to un-riddle conundrums: or pantomime delirium, our caves
reciting, our walls speaking Arabia: at deep admiration, wishing those
cultures, if but such radiant structure: our deep aphasia, if but to speak, three months ahead of disaster: at
chess-talk, at Boardwalk, looking for confused richly: those private yachts,
those private personalities, or years to realized ageism…so ascetic fire, such
aesthetic realism, to have sudden silence: those magnet forces, if but by
chance, to ache in something considered better….
…in
ruins and craving; destructive this sense of touch; our souls gravitating: to
mirror my bias, to excite my nemesis, to know for travesty as entering gates:
to destroy at rhythm, fueled by mentors, or reversed in science discrediting
morals: this flippant excuse, to make use of attraction, where adoration
becomes this horrid saga: our last story, our first departure, where pain
builds something un-attachable: this salient lose, those salient cries, such
silent destruction: at each soul, both our weathers, so charged we vanish…!
