I
push or tug, stressed and draped, either way leaping slowly: this vineyard of
grapes, that attic winepress, plus, the most
amazing irony: as dying with ease, a bit too comfortable, as if winning
life: a man’s pride, positioned for church, our ties impressing ambition: so
many gambits, such gutty existence, pouting or raving: our nights becoming
mornings, such creative slowness, inverted and fed dust: eczema tends
screaming, nails trickle with blood, evening dramatists enact our solemnity: as
muddy humans, or clean purity, while shaggy wags and pants. I’m dark at deserts—or discomfited
laughing, even a deep chuckle: irony is amusing, plus, irritating, plus, a
place for coffee: thereupon, this wealth of diamonds, to capture observation, to
adore patience as going batty: this present feeling, flushed with irritation,
attempting something colorful: ever at gentility, but slipping its reigns,
while everyone is quite satisfied: thither, was an error, for senses are with
error, where it’s impossible to embrace wholeness: those cloud-castles, such
cave-art, where absolute color is empty of color: this unseemly picture, this
itchy flesh, this tasteless experience: to pamper sophistication, where it
separates souls, where passion displayed something it scorned: such
battleships, this table of billiards, this bucket of dice: at admiration, so
cold but standing, where thoughts have become fabricated.
…so
accidental and relentless, or bold and daring, while reality seemed so
personal: this friendly lottery, this space for conviction, while never a
thought to reality: such droopy senses, this hour to raccoons, or days walking
through spells: this man of grapes, analyzing crucial material, welted by
wilted phantasms: those seconds with clear phantoms, to erase potential
disaster, while snug a smidgen with delusion: at unknitted portraits, or steel
ink, while about this hour a swan is resting: our unstructured spirits,
claiming full clarity, quite unimpressed with suggestion, otherwise: our nights
watching possums, cogitating a miracle, if but the mind pushing material: as
eager to believe, to take our last course, so frank, so tired: as sewn into
existence, or thrown into interior, fretting over empirical statements….
Hours
pass, attempting to locate self, sifting through data: at majestic scenery,
untouchable gentility, disputing traits and core meanings: such incapable
moments, such rich observation, courted by mental ghosts: to ignore silence, to
etch ceramics, so impersonal, so cautious: mulling over rain, reading Messianic
Texts, pondering Messianic Jews: alike such chaos, such pensive whistling, such
pensive gazes: at closer miracles, or pure sensitivity, wrestling tentacles.
I
can’t shake it, those green pastures, those unlinked fences: those jousting
matches, lunging by reflection, seeping into memoirs: or armoire costumes, or
violent cartoons, so ironic, so insistent: (but those eyes, observing traits,
with minor gesticulation: at mythic pamphlets, or mystical brochures, staring
at pure mathematics: such churning light, such luminosity, searching allusion
in graphics: our shoebox dice, our shoebill traits, our caiman genetics): to
exhaust this feeling, while requiring distance, as one invents a sad
perception: at rough patches, unnoticed but touched dearly, un-captured but
rapture’d softly: such neon sensibilities, such hectic stimulation, so remote
upon a dream: this vex in essence, this slight indetermination, while
perplexing brains concerning certainty: this sickly adventure, as ever by
passion, our marrow melting into earth: moreover, such fire, such restrained
forces, or radical upon science: granted déjàvu, peering into something risqué,
feeling this segue but times before: at delicate junctures, wanting to insist,
where resistance seems unimportant.
