…those
years, those relapses, those coffins—at grit to war, at war to grit, so
maniacal—our carved insanity, our humble remorse, those rules so arbitrary: so
low with highs, so cursed by lies, while we hold a person accountable for
ideals: this favorite fool, this flavored fancy, such friction aligned with
freedom: our jerky bodies, our odd movements, or years so office so secluded:
our played rehearsals, our reviewed self-portraits, as flushed and damn near
ruined: those silver antiques, this swan heirloom, to have lost several
decades: to come to Love, our souls gutted, at years floored in desert storms:
such music with pains, such disaster with charms, at one a sophisticated
lunatic: our grains blooming, this flower rising, our ladders in pockets: such
fueled destinies, such sorrow with joy, such at twelve steps afraid of
addresses: those blue black scars, those white turquoise scars, at Asia Minor
forbidden to worship…. …those years
at danger, those months at relativity, or random upon beating larks: this
favorite fool, this favorite lose, this favorite winner: so disguised this
hurt, so in eyes this person, where one settles upon a given decision: despite,
serious chaos, despite, this internal web, despite, this all night movie: to
love so deeply, to lose so deeply, where reality becomes an adversary: this
friendly fool, those friendly disguises, while blank into atmosphere: (this
tall tree, this cedar root, this coppice of landslides: those muddy eyes, this
rotted plank, this utter disgust: at blue liturgies, at red havens, lost upon
campus split into dimensions: this converse with whites, this sameness with
blacks, while mulattoes drum a particular beat: those yes eyes, this reserved
disposition, or crazed about ghetto lights: so gone with spring, so alive with
winter, or slaves to interior caves: those few monopolies, our redeemed
patience, or soul-to-soul with something caiman)….
…we
lose with time, seated with freedom, an oblivious prison: so free to perish, so
free at prison, looking back at miracle me: this tent by surprises, to ache
with bones, at evening news: this playwright in self, this Shakespeare at
curtains, this mental apocalypse: rereading writings, rewriting alphabets,
seized by captivating realities: this woodland, this Empire of snakes, gripping
this dingy, war-down bible: at God speaking spirit, at Love ignoring
frequencies, at self a bit too honestly: so many loses, such character, such as
father’s seed: our days with energies, probing, longing, while attracting alike
energies: this feline mistake, this feline conspiracy, this feline mastery—at
curves in brains, laughing at relapses, if but to protect his ego: indeed, with
passion, this life for writers, this gut for war-down bibles: as one looking,
feeling insecure, while Love abused our diaries: this cubic affair, this lonely
feeling, at kisses, dreams, and more profanity: so choked with life, as never
for terror, while holding close a need for honesties: our rosy tomorrows, our
green sorrows, while punished for not fawning….
I
heard a miracle, this carrying ship, this anchor redeeming physiognomies: this
twelve step warrior, this weeping lieutenant, as wept a soul needing its
sincerity: those blank cries, this needling concrete, our souls captured in
mid-action: to sense particular antics, to ignore said oddities, while
condemned as one abnormal: this place in souls, to poke, prod, and
devastate—while seeming so orderly: but time is winning, and loses are
redeemed, and Love must ache those she has tortured: this mental cell, this
hellish cabinet, our lakes so muddy with ducks: while sensing 7up, hoping this
slight touch, if but to fly with angelic wings: our gray highlights, our sandy
footprints, at dreams and chaos and destinies—this black soul, this white
spirit, while our dichotomy is quite offensive: too many wars, some to others,
while winds storm a sullen goodbye.
