…at
interior doors, hanging garlands, listening, wavering something intensive: to
open eyes, to sense you, to realize a good
person, (but tugged intensively): such firebrand, such astrology, while so
gifted: our damp swamp, our terrible cadence, as approached by gila monsters:
those addictive years, as never such grace,
our apathetic compulsion: at watery skies, sipping acidic rain, bathing in
something complicated: our muddy mountain, this horrid reality, while speaking
about Jesus: such treachery, such facial insistence, while prone to sadness:
such bold cries, this ignorant passion, this lucky death: if but by rose, this
legacy in souls, our keen romance—those tired blueprints, our patient sun, at
mornings disguising distrust….
…we
gentle our storm, abased and wilderness, our coppice rushing into levity: those
christic eyes, those cultic grins, this death so sweet: if but our animals, if
but our treasures, if but our renegotiations: those banda instincts, this group
of instruments, this melic-drama: this strong notion, that powerful scent, that
chorus womb: if but to mention, as not to inflate, while precious a turn our
alleys so darkened: our leitmotiv, our interior cadenza, while witnessed by
doormen: our last cries, so embedded in miseries, so melancholic—at deep
discussions, negotiating our tyrannies, drawing our horizon: those picturesque
faces, so plural our abasement, at blue shivers our rivers invisible: to rush
and pamper, to wipe our eyes, to sense something needing existence: to fall to
pieces, right before patient moments, our minds seeming unsung: this space in
souls, this agony bent towards winning, while having so much torn through
tomorrow: those wildfire gestures, those various marks, those defensive
characters: our nailed coffin, our desperate hearts, while I pine for
electricity: this need for passion, our buzzing ears, to want just enough so
outstanding: whittling cedar, whittling intensions, or whittling our first
sincerity….
…we recite
in color, those jasper flights, those black oaken eyes: to collapse from much,
as seen for purpose, our bodies doing magic: gripping grass, this tussock of
insight, studying something ontic: our critical seconds, our intensive moments,
to tug so emphatically: while born to baptism, such promise those eyes, while
harassed by something mantic: this space upon woes, those prosaic
complications, so vulnerable, so unshod: to pant by mandolin, to fret by
guitar, at threats and cellos and violins: this rage in passion, to gather our beings, while winning this loss of
roses: our fair disaster, so radically sweet, our flux, demand and irony—this
land of camels, this nature concerning gnats, our mirrors oblivious but
reciting reflection: as rippling souls, so captured it stings, where essence
dies for Mercy’s Grace.... …upon a teardrop, this arousal in
souls, our combative discipline—as realized disciples, such apostolic pastures,
so emphatic it was difficult to resist: this knotted belly, this knotted
reality, at cores speaking at fountains: our days to magic, our minds to
remedies, or passion so askew it’s difficult to forfeit: such voltage, pure
electrical, while moving into something promising: our signage breath, our
interior disagreement, our winds speaking in French: at tiers of light, at
careless caves, as crushed upon beautiful melancholy: this curse in men, to
sense disarray, to become a hero: but Love is so gentle, and Love is so
dangerous, but Love is so delicate for this touch: such bluegrass, such
mystical sugarcane, such reward our seashore abandonment: to fret injustice,
but bodies resonate, and processes promise a wild adventure: where miracles
live, this sin in souls, to win with a glint of distrust: this courageous
survivor, this curious dolphin, this interior swimmer: at ocean ember, at
mantis prayer, or terror so embedded it felt heaven….
