…we’ve
died before, seeking elaborate prose, and chain-smoking violence: our mothers
running, our aches churning, while tiptoeing lava lakes: summer winds, spring
showers, and winter sunshine: so many trenches, communicating with emotion, or
realizing a deep sickness: to out-gun our minds, to outreach our souls, where
caskets multiply: as angry men, or forced to behave, while something heinous is
percolating: but yours is life, outmaneuvering existence, or syndicated so
deeply it’s too late: we tell storyboards, we recite new language, we banter
and jest and fight: something humorous, or something chaotic, a single second
determining existence: but yours is laughter, where irony poses concerns, to
have read a man deciding in his favor: those ancient skies, this ancient
exchange, while trying desperately to outwit science: our moving minds, so
indebted to pash, indeed, a troubling suggestion: to bend fire, to make water
elastic, or so exposed our bodies fail to respond: such trenchant turmoil, such
trenchant trauma, alive for moments that spell—this drastic electricity, this
kiln human, while so relaxed and silent: those days before hope, this sad
specimen, while winning loses….
It
was nicety hells, so showered in blindness, so sickly connected: those blue
tender cries, this foolish intake, while needing something to redeem: this
dying issue, this living miracle, to imagine our bodies as fluid and passion or
such to dying un-affection—this red horizon, this stormy cadence, while too
proud to admit this subtle dying: as livid in arts, or spectacular a
conversation, but sustaining realities may prove detrimental: this harmful
facing, this cased giant, where Love is quite prophetic: oh for profound pain,
such darkness cascading lights, where art became poor, or poorness became
riches, while church life became vows of silence: our interior destinies, at
interior taverns, so alert to Sufis: but yours is captured, and yours is
printed, while adults specialize in knitting: those black clouds, those phoenix
birds, at stressors over firebrand: such flippant cries, pausing to rewrite us,
while sick enough to forfeit this ante.
I
fell to havens, or roomy vestibules, this talkative hallway: I died in seconds,
as seeing eyes, to realize, this is living: slammed into corners, or writing
too much, as wise eyes see torments: so non-representational, so
self-regulated, or emotionally disturbed: those nights to patience, while
broken internally, to peer at self and collapse: our deep hankerings, our low
self-images, while weather is crying: so lost and relocated; so deep in
web-spins; as alive a sky bent with interior: this surplus of agonies, this
beautiful self-portrait, or this threshing modulated sylph: to imagine
ingratiation, so froward to reality, where a small pirate manifests into an
ambassador: pouring into souls, those electrical slants, while poured into
realities: dying but unflinching, arising but wincing, or cured a second with
such epiphany: our bolder alleys, our gates so high, our fences taking photographs:
at agents occasionally, at fraudulent birth control, where something
strengthens through terror-lights: this inner conference, this interior
millennia, while joking pacing our hookahs.
We
share cigars, sipping something gentle, and giggling at dragonflies: such
scarce confusion, those days so near, where insecurities lurk in shadows: to
remember insistence, to feel a faux pas, as instincts retreat: such
embarrassment, that younger soul, so sensitive and biting nails: pushing
stealth as wealth, refocused with head-aches, drilling for purpose but seeming
unrealized: such deep encouragement, but everso silent, our minds validating
something obscure: those long blocks, this carnival at corners, where bibles
are instrumental.
