…such
explosive chemistry, our eyes spawning, our souls grumbling: at midnight
thoughts, at midday rehearsals, our evenings settled in prayer: if but to
silence, this unspoken loudness, this treacherous advisor: to quake midair, to
float upstream, our bodies purple and crimson: as souls collectively, spinning
with glee, to arrive so late for practice: as thrust by converse, or seasoned
with passion, so alive, so distorted, and so resurrected: that nervous twitch,
this achy balance, as something councils our intestines….
…we
live as saints, or delighted sinners, or something confusing our compass: our
mental grayness, our quasi-purgatory, or pure ecstasy: our mystic moon, our
blasé moments, at something perceived as unreachable: those simmering sighs,
our keenly excitement, where songbirds serenade: this winter’s cloak, our
mental daggers, while thrown into attraction: such high expectations, such pedestal
dynasty, while provoked by something irregular: such musical madness, this kiss
of clay, afforded three sights at heaven….
I
come to terms, with this mysterious mirror, plucking at admiration: such driven
souls, such vocal arithmetic, such cubic reality: if but by doings, or song sung softly, while
inhaling cryptic aroma: our fair abandon; our fairer sunsets; while external
properties effect internal habitats: such running water, such blazing
sophistication, where we wonder about orientation: this loud tracking device,
those desert studies, where realism slipped through crevices: such delight,
while noticed from regions, where candidates vie for whispers: that soft voice,
those valiant cries, at something too vivacious: our shrewd reliance; our cordial
banter; or controlled, mainly possessed, while afflicted by atmosphere.
I
relish gently…those bold, creative and dear insights: our years with readings,
our minds with character, to reach as one longing for breath: sensual
attraction, our senses paraded, our clocks in reverse: such youthful sins, such
preservation, while climbing our mountain—this interior cave, filled by rocky
sketches, made to live by stimulation: our dancing words, our stick figure
images, our glorified bulls: at life with troubles, at alienation with friends,
as so enrapt’d our world is passing away: at landscape panic, but so engrossed,
while pitching pebbles: those inrushing eyes, those delicate muscles, where
life would regret resistance.
…we
live religion, taken by something holy, if but to rinse and shave and come so
close: at incandescence, or glow-fires, but removed from public squares: to
waltz with silence, to reach pantomime, to feel so elated by private sensation:
our rabid sockets, our magic underbrush, while so ecstatic our tears are
rivers: to wash with pride, this inverted soul, to carve by virtue: those arête
feelings, this admiration of habits, while both are with transgression: this
face in music, our days at dejection, while feeling delighted to deviate: such
reality, in something so brief, while hard-pressed to redeem existence: our
jaded souls, our lyrical silence, our symbols jousting midwaves: our jet white
fence, this reaching for illusion, while sudden upon a stranger: so
embroidered; or so crocheted; at roots speaking about Promise….
