…so spacial, somewhat
clear, somewhat private: this fiasco, this ridiculous nightmare, at something
intestinal: this heart-phone, this mental cable, so radical, so racial, so
dead, Grandpa: this African voodoo, this index with agonies, as explosive a web
and feeling goodness: so sick with chaos, so found in misery, so lost psychs
are concerned: our remote feelings, this missed-identity, this misnomer, so
afraid demons are winning: those school books, that semi-chapter, rereading
pamphlets: those stern faces, this anti-conversation, so present, so
frightened, while Love is making brownies: so many strangers, seemingly at good
tears, while angry a countenance: to tap into dementias, to reevaluate
something ancient, where emotion morphs into character: those found brains, that
lost mentality, where in private one is damning existence: this existential,
this metaphysical, or this raw ass pragmatism: so turned for destroyed, so
ruined for damaged, so in-charge no-one is listening: as what to expect, from
something so young, where actuality defeats good intensions: such embarrassment,
despite coping skills, over a plate of Maruchan Noodles: so Asian at points, so
white with mother, so tugged and pulled by something internal color: running
out of life, tanked into a coma, so many years, such a spiritual heist, so
indebted to schleprock: this feudal mentality, this tribal concern, while many
are forwarding their best intentions: a student at curriculum, an internal
biblical fact, your imaginative anger: so sensitive to mother, so at wars with
father, while agony and pain and seeing it becomes fundamental truths: this
deep depression, this moping around, this falling, gripping carpet, as so moist
a dying proclamation: our sun-Blues, our nightmare-Jazz, and sin has been
singing: this duet, this acapella, or something so rhythmic she awoke exhaling:
those casual sentences, those rebooting mushrooms, while father is relentless
upon an acorn: those elephant shrews, running through territories, too
inventive to capture: our churned feelings, our remote frustrations, where
fears become real: this imaginative force, this actualized curse, to finally
look so intently: our taste in stereo, our audible emotion, our sky-crafted,
while begging, if but to believe any damn thing a person suggests…. I win loses, I sin curses, I removed from
playing cards: as never so pained, as never unchained, while cotton is
bleeding: this economic number, this social mistake, this feature founded in
something running: those grasshoppers, those noisy crickets, this serrated
relationship: those old memories, while conjuring a good one, but times are so
ruthless it’s difficult to see goodness: those questions, to ask about a cool
person, as one launches into emotionalism: this failed response, this failed
person, while growing into a human being:
our sinner-beds, our river-sheds, our heart-cobras: those fatality chills,
our zebra calmness, while so entrenched in something disturbing: as
two-tempered chameleons, or three-dimensional monsters, so indebted to
simultaneous gut-forces: our scorpion mice, our trenchant venom, while treading
spiritual dirt: this man to sinus indentures, while granny peers closer, where
it felt good to create prose: those full tablets, this tetras diary, at Love
like never a storm: those Aaliyah lyrics, those absent eyes, or so close, such
to rivers, to awaken three graves closer to restrictions: to have or possess,
if and only if, this tyrannical obedience: to censure chipmunks, or to restrain
a wood frog, or better, to cultivate a hedge hog: those roaring propositions,
to dictate closeness, to restructure affection, or better, to tell a father
what he may speak about: but nothing’s at error, and nothing’s concerning, and
everything is quite normal: this danger, Grandpa, this hideous reality,
Grandma, where Love was taught to become this mistake, Uncle: at our best to
give, so vicarious, where unsaid advice destroyed a potential human. We come to impasses, abandoned to mere
suggestion, so enthralled, so emphatic, so false to self: petting marmoset
tendencies, or gila monster fears, while indebted to a manipulative force: to
find our shackles, to kiss our chains, while secure with this uncritical
existence: to reevaluate servitude, to become proud slaves, while our masters
are deemed as perfect specimens: this life by trapdoors, this devouring
tarantula, at sunrise dungeons: as needing to explain, this space of
subservience, upbraiding our insurrection: as but a seed, or but a child,
wrestling this adder’s world: at free obedience, where perfect becomes insanity,
as long as bright ideas are counseled: this freedom to obey, while feeling
good, for riches indebt our future Ambassadors: this meat with cheese, this
terse unreality, so pulled, so dazzled by motion, so sad but unbeknown to reasons:
to wonder or wander, this intellectual panama, or political Malaysia: those
round pearls, those internal tigers, this force of ten lions: to sense a drongo
bird, but so at loyalty, where it becomes normal to die softly.
