…it
becomes nausea, our vomit to pavement, our ripened souls depleted: those
curious subtleties, such incessant sneezing, while spitting up phlegm: such
achy bones, those years to grayness, plus, something alarming: this portrait of
self, this image to winds, at sudden interests: those irony features, depicting
silence, where reality is prone to webs: this fire of branches, our cadence
rupturing, by gravity tugged by whiffs of psychoses: those endless daughters,
our breezy conflict, at angles suffocated: but mother was mental, and mother
was scorpion, and mother had stingers: this multiple animal, this ingenious
insanity, while unsure if souls would evolve: those coping agendas, such sonic
effusion, our sacred, secret, intrusive arcs…. …it lives as sickness, validating
something invalid, or comfortable with philosophic anguish: pulled asunder,
staring at impracticalities, spun for spinning into wilderness: our brains
interlocking, our intense unholiness, our private teal fantasies: at adoration,
or pash contagion, remote an interior skate-raft: an angry soul, or too calm
for normality, or too concerned for partialities: our dying youth, attempting
to re-attain, so reckless a wreck and regardless—this sign posturing, those
redemptive kisses, at miracles too silent to address: our revved reality, our
stupendous masks, while Love unveiled so softly: at smoky red seas, those
casual, petrified eyes, while nibbling poisoned science: our churning
intestines, this nauseating profanity, our arid, unchanging specialists:
thither, we dive, so steep our shivers, at life with addictive treasuries: this
Great Thirst, forever unquenched, while escaping self long enough for
sensation…. I meet chameleons, I seem in awe, I
walk away: for life is serious, where playtime is shunned, while too much
seriousness is eschewed: those thin layers, this bag of Doritos, this can of
chili: so odd with particulars, so gifted with insights, while confused, (but
something must be haunting): this valid assessment, those invalid hunches, to
presume such come from pitted insecurities: to remove our mirror, while looking
into mirrors, it becomes sort of difficult: but many specialize—at this dream
of daisies, so adverse to interruptions: those diamond panthers, so
ecstatically rich, while many are claiming ownership: this brief address, so
conceived by brevity, while years flew into memories: our reciting daughters,
our student infants, to become so specialized at living: such fresh water, such
salty insights, where one presumes humans are slanted. …it
becomes nausea, eating vintage thoughts, or paying homage to immortality: to
admire our dreams, or destroyed by infatuation, while some souls seem to imbue
our psyches: such ambivalence, a spark midmorning, a sudden explanation, (where
we vet something invisible): so authentic, or so deliberate, but despised by
something singing:
this cello of affectations, this violin of frustrations, while we presume to goodness: to push neediness, to invoke
particular angriness, to insist father is evil: at deep inculpation, at livid
remarks, to make a child feel stupid for mentioning sentiments: this push
against gentility, this retreat in honor of gentleness, if but some sort of
individuality: our starving spirits, our tender spirit-hood, our days to Agnes
so involved: at unlocked channels, gawking at uncivilized padlocks, where one
enters and deceives an entire family: our lives to winning, our arrogance
highly susceptible, as never an inclination to wrongdoings: those narrow gates,
those narrow horizons, those homogenized societies: as living sameness, so entrenched,
while too naïve…. I wait tenderly, I
evolve through resistance, I back away long enough for others to think: as
rethinking tendentiousness, or re-posturing ubiquities, while so strange at
believing in karma: this difficult position, this laughing truism, while
reality becomes harsh: such ruthless ambition, if but to have ownership, where
humans appear as properties: our achy bellies, those small miracles, this
infinite, solitary, gregarious planet: our daughters to souls, our forced aces,
our anvils slicing oaken emotion: this gavel for sinners, this treasury for
nausea, conversing with patch nosed snakes: as abused with triumphs, as never a
similar battle, while opinionated concerning other cultures.
