I’ve explained
wretched; I’ve touched gentility; I’ve harnessed losing—so crooked, a straight
line, while needing such contradiction: so many geese, a lone goose, a diamond
egg: this living life, this tortured cadence, our shards bleeding—melted glass,
excruciating sulfur, so cold, aflame an interior sanctum: thick coats, coyote
semblance, broken addictions—such freedom, such dead men, while rising through
syndication: if but for precious, if but for magic, such a heroine body: our
guts, Adored Fever, our lives laughing, at miracles a slight infection—but life
was good, so gentle a nightmare, as wondering our likeness: nugget rain, nugget
congestion, at nugget existence: so certain, or so unsure, while ignoring
becomes impossible: this off self, this fretted center, at burdens to release a
thousand hertz: such howling, our spirit-brains, our sky-lieutenants: so
placeless, at Love so sorely, while jealous of such fruition: this fair
confession, at wonders a pretzel existence, to enter by eyes, to grip by pleasures,
to awaken such emptiness: our darker rays, our sunrise robes, our dreary,
forced tongues: if but night-rising, looking distorted, but feeling
terrific. …so photogenic, so
psychological, while dreary, at dirty mystics, at filthy magic: to imbue a
future, our neglected sunshine, while feeling distrusted: at dusty black grays,
an interior merchant, our medieval mystics, such history scribbled but ruined: at
tears excitedly, livid in Paradise, sentenced to fathom Poets: perchance to
live, to stream interior voices, to hear a woman’s cadence: a strange Feminist,
a deep proponent, while erased from chapters: those eyes, Fever, those wretched
concerns, Fever, at a space where fretting is normal, Fever: so young, so
adult, where mother needs her little girl: our grandparents, at once a life, at
corn and rice: our steakhouses, our lobster tails, so sick, and so elated, and
Black Folks are crazy: if be for goodness, or too explosive, while guided by
consensus: if but to brains, so entrenched, such fancy ideals…. …by heart-forte, such valley clutter, so
deeply uncured, or too gone, grinding feathers, and reciting rights: those mean
sentences, our cured occults, our firewood fevers: so precious at pains, so
precious but tortured, so precious and fabulous: forgetting life, as assuming
presumptions, such lustrous ruts: our grains threaded, our minds knitted, our
DNA crocheted: those goblins, those ghosts, those hard-pressed realities: to
fuel a rut, to haunt a hut, our seashore deer: a monk’s meditation, our rickety
bones, filling a vale with musky raccoons: so addicted, needing that lost
feeling, if but received into justice: this desire for opalescence, or
uncontrollable passion, while balanced enough to exist: forgetting
transgressions, those first few strikes, where Love may harbor a thousand
transgressions: so tripped asunder, such flippant webs, while we simmer at
gateways: such masked fragrance, our revving brackets, while most habits are
trapped in parentheses….
…cursing self through
language, and eating words, and rereading Rumi—as a small vessel, fully
mixture’d, a terrorized mulatto: this Palestinian fever, this Jerusalem
Passion, at fixtures un-nailed: Walking
By, or feeling dungeon-like, at a curious connection: sizzling with numen,
rebounding into this Paraclete, so fused an effusion, roaming, so lost, but
found in an endless Desert—such a child, repudiating denials, and sipping Black
Water: those years to disrespect, this humble apology, while so sick, so
demented, so gone: such wrongdoing, but God Heard, and God terrorized: this
interior vetting, this sense for reality, this cage so gentle: those furious
yokes, that other cheek, while men have a hard time dying: so close by tears,
so felt and thankful, so entrenched and rolling….
…this curious appetite,
this Man’s World, this Woman’s Dynasty—at
interior whistles, at ghostly smiles, knelling and gripping grass: this freedom
thing, this freedom delight, this hostage freedom: so deep in mud, assisted
with baths, while baptizing daily: at Sacraments musing, at scriptures
perusing, while so needled by Psalms: to know goodness, is to pursue goodness,
else fire and rage and terror strike our interior binoculars: to see this
music, those right-doing symbols, so captured, so frightened, so found: to ponder
Jesus, pleading their forgiveness, faced by mortal death: an outlandish ideal,
while most hate and refuse to forgive two-pence—our shaky greetings, our
doorsill politics, while most are so close its unbearable: to suffer our
children, this Kingdom by God, this wintry, excruciating, heavy ass birdsong:
hereinto, our crispy analyses, shuddering or smoldering, while flitting this
universe….
