…lost
at moments, failing simplicity, sick and psychotic: this calm, mild mannered,
intricate monster: such oxymoron, such paradox, such casual nuance—to die
forever, planned from birth, to analyze a strange mirror: at guts and wars, at
pure insanity, while confined to a profitable prison: our legacies, so
uprooted, our women, so distracted: those wailing concerns, those sleepless
nights, at liquor about three those yawning(s): to perish with pride, to
apologize with gusto, to rebirth a moon-shed daughter: this flagrant flower,
this fair foreigner, at flits and grins a bit fragile: that old crush, those
tales fretting bones, while gristle pleads for granny: that miracle woman,
those miracle scars, late afternoon screaming at demons: my entire life, this
deep dysfunction, while prone to revisit those old ghettoes: at laughs that
second, at tears those millennia, so attracted to medieval art: if but to sail,
or but to cruise, while stressed and baffled existentially: so removed from
soul, so accursed for glory, at grandfather serious with alarms: this terrible
battle, this life with whips, while Love adored a desperate womanizer: at tears
with concerns, this inner antique, where daughters pull closer: this man
failing, this spirit winning, while convoluted and desperate to live: at psychs
confused, feeling itchy, and moving too much: at mother livid, forced to forgive, if but to fly somewhere those horizons: those treasure troves, this
thunderbolt, at signs and symbols distracted for seconds…. I feel an imbalance—courted by logic,
while threshed for un-sewn, while threading needles: to crochet as a child,
those police sirens, our neighbor’s ambulance: thereunto, this casual child,
this inquisitive book, those thrills to feel mother’s heart beating: at
long-distance with family, our nanny drinking, our uncle to insulin: so cooked
for destined, so ruined and normal, while never a thought to a white woman: those
years flying, our worlds cursed, to find that Love was rejected by her culture:
such inadequacy, while feigning balance, where we feel a deep scar: this man to
gunning, this soul to conning, our lies a powerful foundation: this house upon
sand, our minds upon pudding, our dreams without foresight: at terrible
convictions, our orchestra reciting deaths, our bowels cleaving this requiem:
those psalteries, Love, this field of diamonds, Love, where singularity was a
terrible myth: this need for attraction, those voids filled by persons, our
morals disavowed—and tragic to persons: infused and running, a fair looker,
where one was a travesty: those butterfly aches, this constant routine, our
comedy so black and detrimentally elated: those split seconds, our warm hearts,
our losing for sinning eye-cares. …so
innocent those days, as never a suspicious thought, where fools are adored: but
hectic those streets, to realize projection, to presume that everyone cheats:
this fist of furious plights, this well of demonic voices, while adoring a
particular distance: those fair women, those fairer screams, our bodies bloody
after sessions: running into life, feuding with interior islands, biting just
enough to redeem this maniac: so scarred and delivered, so touched and losing,
where Love adored a plethora: but lights were green, and yellow was hesitant,
while red rarely appeared: those stop signs laughing, this vest stripped, those
beanies breathing: as men searching, for that incredible woman, while fantasy
became more to love: those failed attempts, to need normality, or something so
dignified and sexual: if but just me, if but this rebuked notion, where Love
adored my shadow: at dreams and moving, at concerns and staggering, while too
much time to writing: this fantastical loser, this fantastical sex-exchange,
while Love needed personal space: those tell signs, this man to ruins, while
Love disappeared in under twenty-four hours: a new thought, a new man, a new
dream…. I close with pity; I divulge
a myth; while keeping courage: this winning loser, this failed premise,
encouraged to seek a swan: those brown antennas, those languishing ears, at
thorough intensities: to sing acapella, to recite symphony, while studying
sestinas.
