…at
brainstorm weather, to give immortal elegance, to sift and chaff and dance: our
green souls, purchased by experience, longing for convergence: at asthmatic
feelings, so close it agonizes, so distant it feels like comfort: our miracle
quilts, our northern mirrors, at sound and whale waves: something so
remarkable, something so outstanding, our inner antennas: at ringing phones,
answering by electricity, or reviewing messages: if but immortal beauty, our
rites of passage, to feel evolved in fifty years: at tales by courage, in which
we see, by which we chance: those changing feelings, our deeper upheavals,
attempting at this essence by normality: our mystic helium, our yogi sensation,
our minds engulfed by subtle energies: so telepathic, but dearly inadequate,
whereas, something written tends towards clarity: this guessing miracle, this
miracle guessing, while frequencies nudge just about everyone: such deep
resilience, a palm filled with algae, or better, a prophetess reaching her debut….
I
feel detached, where something has tentacles, where music is playing gently:
such delicate tone, such minute bass, at something appearing faceless: those
days so long, our nights shortened, our evenings reviewing us: at subtle
cadence, resounding in connection, to imagine a stranger seeking silence: those
mental maps, as powerful individuals, where one has meditated for three
generations: coupled by more science, thrusting through our universe, at
seconds so steep it seems uncanny: to assimilate answers, to coddle particular
premises, reaching but short by conclusions: those miracle miles, this castle
in souls, our arts, our rivers, our miracles.
…it
can get dreary, searching for dolphins, and surfing for faces: those riveting
moments, so close by appearance, so steep in visions: or easier this life,
where we assign an image, while it looks like family: our church waves, our
dynamite preachers, as blended into thunder: our allusions, at pure
sophistication, seeking to bestow an immortal elegance: our searching caves,
those children coming soon, while trekking familiar terrain: our seated
grandparents, our photo albums, or this oaken table: so elongated, such augmentation,
while covered by manuals: those snippets of immortality, our souls conversing
with legends, to become particular consciousness: whereby, we dance gently, we
fly higher, our winds chaffing from dryness….
I
desire distance, to pull away, for it appears senseless: but feelings
convey—this heart in souls, while defeated our pulses are wrangling: our minds
revolving, this scythe speaking science, our makeup appearing such fire: as men
disappointed, as women exacerbated, whereat, we clash with silence: our foreign
children, our foreign parents, our fascination with animals: to sense something
keen, even familiar, while believing in rationality: our trenchant abilities,
to rethink our positions, to dance so creatively: at hearth and soul, at
diamond and legacy, spawned by turtles: this blending into reality, our eggs
crackling, our minds searching out more abstracts: this elusive sky, this
abrasive, cold-like pavement, or realism appearing with its bias: to sing with
essence, to fly with passion, while demanded to re-chisel our importance: as
floating through time, pulled by perception, and such rigidity those
perceptions.
