…so
adrift, so sacred, so peninsula—our rich death, our poor survival, a bag of
potatoes and bacon: a bundle of onions, so instructive, while laughing with
addicts: so indifferent, therefore, noticed, thereby, held in derision: it
slips memory, up and until it appears, so wild, so loud, so pensive with
mistakes: to escape you, to awaken in you, so feral, so wolverine, so Atlanta:
those roots, at casual negligence, so hot, such fire, while sipping Jesus: this
utmost war, those sundry lies, at something quite intangible: those landscapes,
this feud, at wretched, horrified mysticism: standing in awe, reciting ecstasy,
roaming, or sensing watching squirrels: such homage, to something inferno, such
smaze and back-side alleys: our miracles, our dreams, our caskets….
I would giggle,
and Love would smile, our sensorium displayed as normal: those night lights,
our Dove’s Crying, our minds, so
lost, so rehearsed, and such trembling: at something deceased, or something
desperate, or something despondent: those eight days, those ten violins, at
havoc with something fighting back: our russet ocean, our deep dives, at
anguish, so antagonistic, so propelled, listening to codified language:
We adored dying,
we cherished living, so rug-based, so dysfunctional: those flares, so critical,
plus, extreme block parties: if but garnet blood, dripping into cups, to sip
mystic passion: screaming at Mary, to capture attention, if but to plead a
dangerous existence: lucent enough, angry with clarity, resorting again our
mothers’ valley: those innocent diamonds, those muddy rubies, at this abased
ass cliff: unraveled and keel-ship’d, such zeal to climax, such pain to stick
out a fifty year loyalty: to have for friendship, such ecliptic zest, so
orphic, so dynasty, at this last fist full of bandages.
…such grout, such
cultic fire, or sipping so long one feels sober: so slain after battles, so
deep at wonder, peering into this sky-window: those trips to campus, those
campfire screams, so sick, so silenced, while wandering about shrines: our
first impala, petting our first lion, at tiger dreams twisted into a coma: so
intercut, so suffused, re-stitching this velvet tattoo: as infusing language,
so close to resurrection, but thrown so afar: those midnights, those rising
suns, this movie repeating its amusements: those freshet feelings, this freshet
mistake, those freshet agonies: such deep beauty, living or dying, at something
low at totem-rise: our wounded sincerity, our relocated liquor, or years
begging for sobriety….
…pentagrams
itch, hexagrams relax, plus, Love is sinning by her nimbus: so many eyes, such
Asian Power, our cartoons resurfacing: at real mischief, so rewound, so found,
cursed, and feeling good: such deception, so comfortable with father, so deep
it becomes pain: at flits and fury, at crypt-plights, so impish, so strangled,
while it felt good to be with peace: to imagine that life, as never respired,
so charged, feeling such ecstasy, to fall, collapse, and victimize survivors:
that black horizon, our leaking sunbeams, at something too terrible for channel
five: to live forever, to re-die and sing, at guts and fever reciting something
ancient: our numen encounters, our needs to release, if but to fly again: our
epoch drums, our epic love, while rejuvenated, if but one last gallop: those
grackles watching, this birth a joke, while mothers redeem something partly
reflected: those easy outs, to minimize affliction, so inhaled, so deceased, or
so at war…those purple garbs, this purple hindsight, to suggest something that
infuriates….
