Rain, Soil & Sprouts

…so lost with life, so enlove with diamonds, so cold so warm—this digestive pain, this achy stomach, this field of caves and fires and losing while chewing: those raw bones, those heavy sinews, this Liberian infatuation: headed to Lebanon, or casual in Africa, at Europe one woman one dream: this sea of chocolate, this city of pudding, our vanilla scented brains: those lakes laughing, this daughter at kites, this mother too intolerant: to hate his guts, by something deceptive, afraid that spades are a bit obvious: that trifle word, those trifle years, at political castration: but more to Love, this magnet reflection, this posture seated interior castles: or lonely a spell, needing passion, to invest a whole night at libraries: our midterms, this study-buddy, to glance over and sense a smile: but life in neutral, and life is concerned, and life has obligations: as saddened men, or elated women, to study this nuance: but more to existence, this interior matinee, this interior squall, this interior grotto: those seconds splayed, this romantic chance, if acted upon with immediacy: such slipping chaos, such to analyses, so stippled by energy: (those trips to Newport, those seasons in Long Beach, our lives conditioned by our connections): at sullen passion, scribbling notes, afforded such disruption: to gib at moments, while Love was suffering, seated with future friction: those embedded tales, those off-color remarks, something grinded into mosaic neurons: as but a seed, wrestling through skies, to face something so tragic: those small ears, those smaller eyes, our head-struck heartbeats: as born to emotion, grounded in breastfeeding(s), to become this adult manipulator: but less to dynamics, and more to actualities, rising through this cultural melee….

…we become immortal, raging in prophecies, as drifting through timeslots: this movie at three, those inner portraits, this cadent music: if but to evince, if but with accuracy, sipping Sangria: those clear blue eyes, meshed into brown interior, or so green it becomes sacrifice: at yellow brown, at hazel red, at black white: this dream cascading, this desire for something, while needing something more: our temperatures, our Fahrenheit, our thermometers—as requesting St. Pain, to deign with agonies, or to reduce this falling frenzy: our lazy memory, or first fire, our souls showing total discomfort: if but to resist, if but so easy, while essence flits though and wafts nearness: those dewey emeralds, such missing persons, this effected Humboldt County: so close to home, this traffic warfare, to adore this feeling of rage—those glowing hearts, our dreams in briefcases, our fury flung into centuries: as sudden our rain, to pet and pant, our windshields flapping into destinies: as cursed but adored, as loved but shunned, or so beloved it aches: those yonder screams, meeting our mirrors, to stammer afore an Empire: this orange daughter, this caiman sister, our genetics fleeing into massive clouds: to drip with conflict, to wet our soil, to sprout into a pocket filled with flowers….

…indeed, Angle—this pure indecision, this valiant stream—as singed dearly, to fall so short, while leaping endless mountains: this Jewish love, this Caribbean dynasty, or thoughts tugged by cultural sacrifices: those exotic concerns, this field in blue weather, this root in soot and blackdamp: those petals speaking, those bees working, those ants harvesting: and many raccoons, and many squirrels, and so many beavers: our lost city, our interior citadels, our hamster spirituality: those acorns, those chipmunks, our majestic futures: if but alone we dance, if but with family we dance, if but a passing into darkness we chance: as born to succeed, our quadroon nation, our oracle genetics: to flee at times, to return to gray sun, as racing for terrible oceans: so in-tuned, so sophisticated, where inconsistencies are bypassed….