…maples
are yawning, skies are darkened, possums are scattering: such dusky odor, and
orange atmosphere, but a tear for Jesus: syllabic art, and Sibylline curses,
our stars gentle with mercy: as born this day, a luminous sun, so much joy and
sadness: our achy chalkboards, our inquisitive teachers, our years fraught by
alienation: this interior picture, our minds posing, something seeming intangible:
our winter hushes, if but to sing, while dismayed by auburn autumn…so many bled
souls, where several are breathing, our speeches trembling: (I sought you,
living intuitively, so young in my passion: I ached a silver moon, bathed in
atmospheric adoration, at once struck by countenance: to desire sophistication,
after years my dungeon, where bluebirds, geese and ducks would visit: this sin
of my eyes, those manic eyes, screaming something inadequate, those eyes: such
imperfect beauty, such cautious gazes, so forced to seize distance): our days
by jury, those classifications, our memories codified: our mathematics, our
morning mucus, or a small palm tugging our brow: at lose with rain, at mudslide
and pain, while studied as one must persevere: your sweet music, such free
nakedness, to realize too much invested in honey syrup: our sky matinee, our
energies painting, our fathers looking at imprints: those glorious pains, those
aesthetic wrists, those aesthetic, gentle, whispering features: our psychotic
moments, to ponder our riches, while ostracized by ourselves: those closet
chandeliers, our kitchen facets, our airbag rafts: while seeking admission, or
gathering berries, looking into a precious feeling: our daughters wrangling,
such vatic souls, where time is seemingly absent: those raspberry clouds,
soaked in anxieties, flavored in something medical: that lobby of patients, our
educated spirits, while functioning by directive instincts: otherwise, crazy,
otherwise, imbalanced, some sort of neuronic mistake: thereinto, those mystic
whispers, that mystic art, those cultic vibrations: such caring passion, so
engraved in oneness, purchased by ideals: as hard spiders, so many legs, such
web-like ambition….
I
walked away, forced to voyage, for Love was struck by riches: so often this
way, or favoring something classical, while invoking violins: those classical
hands, those classical airs, as one an heir of dignities: (I look different, I
appear foreign, and pieces stay with me): at saxophone blues, refused our cryptic
language, battling against emotion: to fit a certain groove, to become nuts and
bolts, to maintain a woman’s sanity: this reason to clutch life, such incumbent
pressure, studying our mental-house-ideals:
our softer cellos, our days just afar, to imagine just walking northbound:
our hippie strobe-lights, this particular approach, where ideals are slanted:
our blueblood Americas, our European origins, to imagine such lavish
indetermination: our battling minds, craving but conditioned, or conditioned
but advancing: at strength and chaos, at voice and deaths, so at
mental-thought-portraits. It was
abrupt, this ecstatic insistence, this woman to her affairs: as cursed elves,
or rabid leprechauns, our souls shed for trampling: our erasers laughing, as
penmanship reasserts itself, as something erased resurfaces: those giggling
typists, this frightened mother, while informed of major feminine loopholes:
(to possess what was sought; to have particular ownership; while disgusted
proponents still breathe: thereinto, a dark psychology, to reach a goal, while
feeling disenchanted: this essence yearned for, this majesty schemed for, while
attainment appears a particular lose): but yours is singing, it speaks of
greener elements, it floats a thought to extremes: our punch with pie, our song
felt holy, our holy felt indecent: as crystals glisten, our rhinestone hearts,
wrestling against something harsh: but a gentler soul, versed in classical(s),
such would pine in silence: but Love is abrasive, a bit feudal, and struggling
with ideas.
