Screwdrivers

…so trusted, so betrayed, looking so closely: realizing destiny, removed from sensation, a bit psychopathic: our church-house molestations, our in-home adulteries, so sick, so lascivious, and trying to relax as normal: this psych library, these threatened ghettoes, so low, so debauched, fretting signatures: those court documents, this last leg, our interior tyrannies: at flying deaths, or remarkable sorrow, staring at typical recalls: our bloodstream, our blood-work, so early, so gone, so disappointed: to believe in others, to depend upon rationality, while losing, so desperately, or participating in something turned public: our guts whining, our inner earth groaning, our minds, our cores, something moaning: our daughters exposed, feeling irregular, peering into normal semblance: at adored silence, at hives and rashes, where watchers inquire: such responsibility, so cold and dangerous, to force our thoughts: something unpleasant, something crafted, something killing Jesus: our brains flipping, our tongues so flippant, our lives appearing like clown-works: our painted faces, our graphed dreams, so quiet about dying: plus, this reality, plus, this irrationality, while one knits something ridiculous.

I shift pain, so degraded, so forgotten: those screams muffled, this river sweating, our realism found offensive: our parents dying, but finding joy, to grip a son’s palm: that incredible person, those incredible dreams, our incredible anguish: so deep in mire, so thrilled by mud, while so hateful towards self: this suicidal planet, those suicidal demands, while drifting upon dogwood: but place a diamond, so filthy with distraction, or so sick looking for deliverance: this strange creature, so deep in jurisdiction, so adapted to dying: such dismal addresses, such treacherous existential, while Love agonized and felt repulsed: this blue war, those green eyes, while true knowledge fathoms sheer disgusts: our peer advisors, our sleepy teachers, or psychs so gifted, so churned, at such reversals: our needs bleeding, our knuckles dragging, while appearing too innocent to realize: this dead feeling, this living miracle, while trucks stared and came close—those guns, this feeling, this deceased interior: to allow permission, to walk forward, to die a smidgen: those tacit moons, this tacit sun, at agonies laughing: for life is sick, and humans sicker, at another person’s proxies.

…so graphed a tear, thinking in cyan browns, and deep a feeling this daughter: so afraid, so lost, at home with indecision: to seek come years, to find come fears, where souls blaze cigars: early mornings, those few names, prior to saying, God: an unknown star, a small empire, this alienated, ghetto born, semi-strategist: such itchy flesh, such doubtful souls, as outlasting, out-dancing, so crucial, a brain filled with ideals: at plurals here, at singular identities, or entertaining, by day-watch, by night-glens, this psychotic feature: so lost in it, so gone with it, while Jesus heard: indeed, to laughs, or giggling inappropriately, something raunchy so ghetto, something ethnic, and too funny for tears: this madman, this archer, those books: fleeing and dying, returning and dying, at bars and dying: so sick with existence, so tamed with existence, while so bored with destiny: those shifts, this easy death, sipping, cruising, and lost upon Pacific Coast: reminiscing, sipping more, feeling pain, and dying life: this grit in souls, traveling through woods, at city life and feeling remorse: this deep bruise, those laughing women, to realize life is a bit cruel….

I needed to die, if but to embrace wisdom, if but to realize Solomon: I needed to Love, so unrequited, so absolutely ridiculous, so challenged by sanity: these new senses, this deep consciousness, while so low this totem pole: abused and lovely, redeemed and begging, at tyrannies so agonized: these contradictions, those pearly paradoxes, so sifted by satire: so warm and devastated, so at Love and corrupt, or so still with motion: our mental umbrellas, our mental shards, our back-alley cocaine drops: too early for winning, too late for losing, abused and feeling normal: this steep challenge, where norms are challenged, while believing such norms for designated souls: our appropriate signs, our universal predicaments, where psychs work from social locations: those anguished hooks, this anguished signpost, while such intoxicated warriors: this plural demand, those singular head-storms, so itchy, so dry, at Love looking into dungeons: our realists therapies, our deep rooted hunches, while interrogating such insights…our days, Love, so restored and laughing, Love, at trips to Italy, Love: those few crushes, to have sheer demands, while losing for human: this black terror, this white terror, this Asiatic insistence: such folly forgiven, answers reread, and tales restructured: at pure ingredients, or musical sky-cadence, where something falls: those brilliant deaths, so inverted, while so provocative…or later in years, to happen upon something inside-out, if but to appear before a manic dream: so close to company, so business with strangers, while running and hiding and looking serious: at one so sick, while she flashed her screams, a bit angry I couldn’t respond: our havoc thoughts, our layaway emotion, our screams in hock: our dice maneuvering, our land demented, our norms feeding insecurities: at teal memories, or gray ambitions, so enthralled by Richard Green: our small ponds, our bigger lakes, at faces in deliverance: those prison apostles, those women disciples, if but to abuse essence destroying selves!