…forgive
such intrusion, this radical island, this mischief forest: those dynamite mistakes,
this long passage, while nibbling heartbeats: so cursed at love, this
insensitive maniac, while most lead a plural existence: that faint odor, this
condom wax, our dreams so gentle but adverse: at lakes suffering, but one last
baptism, to arise seated upon a Jordan Rock: or petering out, nervous to tread
waters, those ponds three feet high: indeed, to laugh, this old professor, so
deeply indebted to existence: those rose-beaded eyes, those loquat highs, if
but a man to offer his ring: our dear diaries, those taller avalanches, while
Love reads, watches, and feels endearing: such earnest cries, this late night
agenda, to swoop through traffic: at green memories, this plate of cauliflower,
this bowl of noodles: corrected for passion, evaded for advances, while this
fool wrote a tome: our watchers giggling, this soul evolving, where
embarrassment distinguishes humanities: as able to feel, or courage to grow,
while so cautious it’s difficult to relax: at breathing channels, enlove for
gone, where reality is a bit cruel: this bag of flies, this inner fire ant, or
this creeping wasp—at grains knitting, at beads praying, while candles flicker
hertz: if but our screams, demonstrated alive, where Love agonized this
guillotine: our movie moments, this chase for existence, to have so much
redeemed in jars: our cedarchests, our lantern brides, at terrible repentance:
if but to arise, or but to flit, where clouds deign and zombies come to light:
this gutty turmoil, this realized daughter, as floating in limbo: this zooish
family, this zooish, Naïve, so wild, so untamed, so gifted: unthread his plight,
thread his daughter, for I look to you this woman of worlds: to give eternity,
to guide a child, to envelope something forthcoming: as young infants, our
belly enchanters, while a dynasty has invaded Pluto: this Venus child, this
remarkable light, while so close it aches to sit stillness: our bowels, Love,
our screams, Love, as but an infraction capitalized: those hazel browns, those
hazel jasper roses, this hazel infatuation: as souls gunning, those daunting
tasks, or this dauntless daughter: those bibelots, so sincere, as spending
years hoping life was gentle: this contrary assignment, this contrary art,
while seated feeling a bit suffocated: at wild daisies, this wild science,
afforded one opportunity to help a stranger: this deceased Cosby, or that
deceased image, where men violate remedies: to know for grayness, to pine
softly, while something is disappearing…. I reappear as lightning, this thunderous
savage, at something so literary: this gravid feeling, this heavy iron, or this
florist kneading her last intoxication: as dreamt that last swig, as casual
this last cigar, while lifting weights: our ears burning, our bodies churning, to
fain love before a frightened audience: this sash of diamonds, while
never-be-good, where men die if but one dire exchange: such lavender pearls,
such red rolling carpet, or a woman possessed by silver eyes: this wilderness
fever, this cartoon reality, while Bugs was longing to die: those deeper
inspections, where thought is
adversary, our moments poking driftwood: at miracle minds, this miracle woman,
while it becomes this paralyzed cliché: our risky passion, our risky arts,
where daughters perish too young to sing: our mothers proud, looking at
mini-me, needing nothing for lose but exact whereabouts: this travesty, this
tragedy, this trail of rodents: this Black Plague, this infestation, this bed
of petals, roses, and dead bodies: for, thus, he cried, needing a miracle,
while passive men die a thousand sentiments: to need us that way, to invest in
kingdoms, as long as souls are silent: to die at peace, to profit nothing, to
look as twenty years lead to infection: our deepest claim, our riches reality,
where Love sits and smiles looking silent: such gentility battles, such true
intoxication, while Love has destroyed over a hundred souls: this short
triumph, while reaching for gold, our doors slammed so often hinges are
dislodged: our nervous daughters, this working nervous system, while identity
is an old topic: this quadroon maniac, this vicious advisor, this triumph over
poverty: as battling to exist, or torn to succeed, where Love is potential
classification.
