…tragic
assessments, tragic music, this tragic pace: such vehemence, such phantom
winds, such concentration: at Jesus lying, at Father pleading, as never so
pitiful: this icy fire, this icy rain, so afraid of losing: this Jobian curse,
this woman’s voice, such ancient history: that Gallery of Christ, those works,
this biblic escapade: fighting for existence, needing my lot, while struggling
against humans: such splendor terrific, such deaths spectacular, as affecting
every generation: those
immortal arms, this immortal perception, those immortal women: while mother
died, or father fallowed, this keystone veil: to flinch in turn, to feel a
headache, to sip with vengeance: this merry-go-round, this flippant carnival,
this dungy clown: as bent and ruined, pleading for entrance, this begging ass
poet:
if but to live, nibbling Yahweh, or loving Artemis: our Huldah prophets, our
Sartre lieutenants, running for flipping into Camus: this King legacy, as
thwart deeply, feuding with dragon tendencies: our lovely snakes, to wrap in
corals, to enter touching every exhaustion: at major windfalls, stated so
clearly, a fretted beginning ruins its children: this fight for breath, this
curse with life, while spectators contend with such emphases: to gather fruits,
to gather vegetables, while forced to partake of marsh: those deep contentions,
or deeper infatuations, as if one can restructure something dying: if but to
fly, this interior counselor, where true help is difficult to locate: but hell
to freezing, and light to summers, afforded three breaths: those interlocked
kernels, at faces with serenity, while breaking for currency: internal prayers,
internal windmills, internal changes: at furious faith, our black culture,
sipping nearby a Liquor Store: our hanging tendencies, this man’s observation,
our women feeling under-appreciated: this curse living, this bitten lip, those
chandeliers gazing: our parents running, our parents whoring, our mothers
feeling filthy: too many showers, too much contempt, as men degrade something
lively: our Egyptian roots, our African heritage, our European cousins—as
lifted from self, hating our reflection, meeting eye-to-soul with something
heart-bound: a mallet to paper, a hammer to philosophy, a grand to ounces: this
interior pyramid, this flung future, cuffed, greeting a stranger’s future:
those bars laughing, this ceiling laughing, our mothers reaching through glass…. I need more, as traveling spaces, to
witness true sophistication: this strange alien, this captive captain, while
strong enough to bleed: those rosary highlights, our aqua screams, those
treacherous few, while pleading their superior: this ache in bones, this
fretted phone, those telegraphs in spirit: that invitation, this floor-mat, our
carry along carpets: those sunbeams, this arrogant essence, while many haven’t
earned their allotments: so uneven, while cultures are gazing, as mothers
become agents: to sense imperfection, to realize liars, while propelling
truths: this interior feud, this daily reminder, to remember rooms dotted with
hexes: our last glass, our last cigarette, while something is pushing towards
destruction: such outer repute, if but perfection, while human affliction is
frowned upon: that hint of disdain, strangers outdoing each other, while one
nearly dies to impress a stranger. …so
furious with time, our children committing murders, our women fleeing ambition:
so abused and winning, so lost and losing, so courageous raising our children:
this imperfect maniac, as a perfect confidant, where father just lost his
privileges: if but to exist, as mere mantelpieces, while silence effects a
generation: this need for communion, this tyranny by community, while subject
to correct a million advances: our hope in saviors, this deviation from self,
while minds point to long-away: a baby reaching, a mother kneeling, a father
watching: this plank in souls, this gravity in tears, while admiring something
so gentle: at mental tours, revved in soul, asking of this existence….
