…at
carnations, laughing a spell, something our peripheral: your silhouette, your
timetable, your closet filled by raw attraction: so tacit with pain, so
actualized with life, to see you in tear’s haven: this taciturn nostalgia,
those old animosities, to die where life begins: our twilight sagas, those gray
harbingers, our blue beige nights: to need deaths, if but to live, as
forfeiting, realizing a deep loss: so awakened, so aglow, looking terrific:
something Baroque, or Beethoven, to convoke an interior Mozart: those scrub
oaks, this cypress sap, this uncloaked vulnerability: our achy bodies, our
winter cholesterol, our unyokened plain illusions—as petals touch eyes, or
scents touch souls, while aroused enough a season strong: fiddling a Van Gogh,
or never so close, tiptoeing into darkness: this whistle, this whisper, as
saying something crucial: such abuse, so disguised, while Poppa fiends in
private: that deceased Scorpio, our mother-be-gone, while so much this best in self:
at tyrannies, or Rousseau confounded, at Sartre so simplistic, (at Freud
screaming at something seemingly true): our neuroses, our Cassandra romances,
or this diehard Romeo: to mix rainbows, to live under pseudonyms, to feel so
inclusive: this woman playing his affairs, this man playing her piano, or
Michelangelo painting this blueprinted interior—as alive for seconds, to reach
a psych, while tugged for distorted: so long-ago, those forty years, at
graffiti but such a legend: this full service, this notorious sacrifice, our
sages at sugarcane—if but too terrible, or incognito, our names scribbled in
official booklets.... …we require
night-gin, we rattle back to ditches, we thunderclap rabbits: as furious creatures,
enwrapped in hourglasses, those far advanced women: this lunatic, this maniac,
this calm, bridal-gown perfection—at deep rivers, at deeper bones, while skies
are preaching concerns: our Bugsy nightmares, our Bugs Bunny foreknowledge, as
conundrums seep into evidence: this woman’s limbs, her gutty throat, her raspy
voice: in something non-casual, in basic redemption, where infractions seem
petty: this mass of religiosities, this scientific sprinkle, at tears to wonder
those that discover—at blue shivers, at purple chaos, or so airborne it’s
difficult to practice: that palm of tacks, gripped with pure delight, while
agony churns upon carpets: those prison bars, this pensive photograph, our hues
as forerunners…. You’re a miracle, as
giving life, as a non-participant: You’re an orchestra, crocheted from
scripture, a fundamental heart-lance: at courage and dementia, treading our
outskirts, looking into our masquerades: those soulquakes, this sky-quake, this
sublime interference: at music, Dear, longing for fierceness, Dear, if but this
interior death-print, Dear—at islands giggling, or petting a coconut, if but
some type of company: our mirror lamps, our graffiti canvases, our trains our
guts: to blossom softly, to expel Paradise, to fall landing so abrasively:
those dismissive agonies, this trenchant force, while I remember such abuse:
otherwise, out to pasture, so enlove it ruins, while patience senses something
disrespectful: this long rushing crush, this indiscreet tyrant, but Love needs
a taste for closure…. I’ll churn
personally, this rabid attraction, this plaintiff heart: our jury eyes, this
disguised hatred, our Judge at pure dissatisfaction: our dumbness, afore an
audience, where Judges distinguish sincerity: so many mountains, at loving this
soul, at paradox and dislodgement: those voice-diamonds, at so much to
retrieve, while Love could maintain it for weeks: this month’s affair, those
tragic secrets, as men sense something crucial: our love-spelled appetites, our
treacherous needs, where courage wanes in-between measures: those honeysweet
dimples, our fury and rage, while aches our exterior: evermore and living, so
threshed by variety, at that crucial point: so forbidden, so delectable, while
others are ensouled: those curly bangs, as adjusted to life, or cut low and
studious: to die with emotion, to have but needs, from exact same persons: this
flurry of stairwells, this ferocious restraint, while so damaged, and so born,
it’s passion to let go!
