…we never
exhausted pain, we never explained mirrors, we never sung so deeply: this old
self, this old portrait, our sun divided into parts…!
…it
was phantoms, so alive in deaths, and, thus, us, so deceased in our laughter: mind-terrors, aching for
distorted, inverting, or taking lineage, in this thresh of souls: those castles
agonizing, this man such root anguish, if but this touch and such intimacy: to
lie about us, haunted by dandruff,
affected for injected fleeing into psychiatry: those oxy-splinters, this oxygen
winter, at an interior ozone: so wiped away, so clingy for breath, accused for
intolerance: our restored patience, our deaths at midday, to love for passion
slipping into atmosphere: those dark avenues, this cypress witness, this fleet
of maniacs—swooping for damages, another generation, as never for black skin:
those chow lines, for mommy is turned out, and father gave a rat’s ass: to feed
a community, to dread and speak black walks, or deaf to compassion for it
hurts: our brains, Jesus, our guts, Ghost, as fleeing from Fed: this fence with
rules, those spikes gutting, those Sheriffs drawing iron: if but to surrender,
facing a nickel, where death was sweeter roses: to glance at Love, so indebted
but silent, while uncle just made rent….
We
cry, Yahweh, senseless, abused, fending for immortality: our musical brains,
our Rhythm & Blues, so lost, so attractive, so deeply scarred—as crazed
lunatics, carrying our last Love, while repenting daily for falling into
affections: this failed human, our rich rituals, analyzing meaning and madness
and make-believeJ—so indebted to passion, to climax,
die, resurrect, and back for a fifth life: chasing brown eyes, hunting for blue
shivers, adored for ruined haunted by green skies: our brains, Love, this feral
touch, Love, and over a canyon leaping downwards—as abused children, addicted
to helium, caved for crazed and steeling silence: (this instant feline, this
fragile, powerful lieutenant, so kosher, so disobediently obedient, so cursed,
at war-times, at livers laughing, so ingested, so beige, so captured, and I
knew, I knew, never to feel this woman—Dear—my God!). I alarm us, gazing into mirrors, gripping for disrespecting this ceiling:
our jewels, Passion, our rules, Passion, fueled for alerted, Passion: as Dear
Christians, so upstate with negotiations, so crazily lazy, so perfectly manic,
at psychs a bit too entrenched: where Love is gold-plated, in plaid
intelligence, while husbands worry concerning this fragile lieutenant: our
Brains mashing, our Guts subtracted, our Eyes running into new information: our
Tired ears, our Giggling tongues, if but to breathe looking at something dying!
…while
a raspy violin, a crisp, agonizing piano, where death with us is gentle: our running sky-fire, our churning lava-water, while
Love seems indebted to Love: this perfect distance, as never disappointing,
where adoration becomes an infinite mirage: at cult and culture, so abandoned
to society, at anthem and trumpet, aware but silenced, and stumbling to his altar: at Jesus, so boldly, at God
so coldly, but genuine affections mold a nation: to ask questions, to contend
forgiveness, while violence takes our Kingdom: our sacral knights, our halo
queens, where one longs for eternity: this man outfoxed, this loser ousted,
while one positions for negotiations: as far so young, or far too old, a soul
repenting for something thirty years running: at grass and linen, at sheet
metal and diamonds, or eyes so content with actualities—to perish a second, to
meet her voice, to amaze an atheist: those purse eyes, those actor poses, this
typewriting inclination: so tough, Love, so rough, Love, so pictured as
something inconsequential: yeah, right, and yeah, goodness, or something so
tragic, so terrible, so terrific, as bent with helium….
