...such caiman
gorgeous, such alligator cousins, too perfected, too deceased, and laughing
while deaf: an ear beret, so bereft, at tender a lake filled with begonias: our
forest identities, our opalescent wounds, so colorful, so dead, so emphatic:
this hospital attraction, this hospice love, so wild, so outstanding, so
pitiful: at cute seconds, sipping lemon teas, so slow with grace: to admire
indecision, so artsy with gestures, sticking tongue to fork: our bowels
bubbling, our screams for mahoganies, or torn debating monogamy: so effaced, so
erased, so damaged—at turns and rising, at Adam and giggling, while forefront’n
science: such bath-house taboos, such crescendo highs, a sin, a mistake, and
rebuilding: those dreary topics, to evoke a spirit, where hearts begin gumbo:
that Princeton Mind, those psychiatric noises, while two are filled with
features: those roaring winds, this curious raccoon, those a.m. hummingbirds: a
plate of water, colored with sugar, a fist full of red ants: so cold with
deliverance, so sexual with helium, so anti-liquor: but life was good, and
death was pretty, where images streamline: such bass, and nothing better,
infuriated with passion….
I take a swig, at
thoughts with granny, feeling a bit treeless: this sylvan calamity, those
fallen years, abased, feeling reserved, a bit cut, a bit devastated. I’d rather perish, seeing its ending, a
man about his wisdom: such snowy rills, such burgundy sky-screams, filled with
deep presence: supposing it happened, supposing it lived, supposing I met its
rubrics: such to this person, this interior calendar, at wonders our final
call: so deep in Manhattan, this tall, blond, facial appearance: so slender, so
sad, while I never knew: this gut-war, this bloated salad, this trial, this
deliverance: so converted, at such convergence, this chaos for dreams: so
beautiful, so drenched out, pleading, and making spirit nervous: at longer
sins, or brazen winds, while fens explode in remote glens: young reptiles,
slithering for comfort, but deprived of morning rising: such strange places,
such strange souls, at strangers as if twenty years of familiarity: so manic,
so concerned, while features attract innocence: to sense a shift, to sense it
was summons, at something worthy of cynosure: this blighted sun, this plaid
moon, while reminiscing upon this grenade-like attraction: if be it a cygnet,
or this classic Proverb, or something looking Muslim: our aches to planets, our
champion arts, while harboring this inverted harbinger: those furious lines,
depicting a furious man, while a little direction is paramount: churning
bridges, looking nonsensical, or so mad words became signals: this distress
flare, this out to seas, where men have met ghosts: those independent eyes,
this daughter’s debut, or so concerned where certain figures are admired: those
keen contours, this dream boxed, while so feeble, so disenchanted, but longing
for authentication.
…only Rajneesh heard,
this flippant bird, while dismissed as absurd: our long hours, dependent upon
feelings, where many emotions lie dormant: a few gibes, a few dismissals, where
something is forming: but hell to illusion, and more to Love, this converse,
this guilt, this need: if but for understanding, if but to run faster, if but
this need to dismiss rationality: this woman’s world, as dismissed for
presidency, while raising our presidents: those acidic carrots, this interior
godship, at remorse seeming trapped in some man’s wallet: so crazed but even,
so calm but animalistic, or so attracted but keeping silent: while we speak
lights, those calibers yawning, where one may yearn for debauchery: sensing
blue moon, raging over sullen sunshine, at deeper terrors….
I blaze a clove,
re-reviewing Letterman, at wonders this strange facility: our faculties ablaze,
our monads in Love, while curious enough to walk forward: this idiot savant,
this poetic nightmare, at seconds to strike a sentence: indeed, a bit harsh, a
bit crooked, while theology is screaming: this writing machine, this line of
thoughts, where one might vanish: this road to home, where streets converge,
while Love adored an underdog: this sylph, this minx, plainly put, this
fantastic eye-mirage: while thinking deeper, this glory with child, to need one
needing infinity: so sexual, so epicurean, so skeptic: if but this war, preparing
for eight interviews, while sentenced to awkwardness: emotional yoga, such
power in brains, this raja at deficiencies.
