…so at haven hearts,
this perfect mentality, our appraisal predicaments: those error eyes, those
terror cries, at haunted houses: those chandeliers, this purple vase, our
intellectual shards: this black horizon, those interior glimmers, so shattered,
so alive, at contradiction: this need for pain, this chilled resistance, so
remarkable, so unpleasant, even maniacal—these as living, or those as dying,
racing through cohorts: American Oxygen, drop
panic gorgeous, thither, our guts, our screams, while wailing at screens: this
cinema, those classic perfections, those classical women: cigars for breakfast,
cognac for pleasures, so argumentative, so enthralled: re-working hunches,
re-knitting exaggeration, so clement at times, so theatrical at chimes, while
dead and fretting motion: our wrangling pillows, our noisy silence, our radical
classrooms: such fury with fire, such failure by successes, so serious, plus,
defensive: such addict children, so atomic with existence, or such an
interruption: our fairer converses, our liquid insults, while resistance became
triumph: at terrible science, so much as deceased, while living seemed exhaustion:
those high ideals, this froward reality, plus, your picture: so at neediness,
so deeply bothered, remodeling particular chaos: to sense your interior, to
sentence your countenance, or to arrive so close to empathy: such panic those
lights, at notifications, where something genuine kept speaking: such filthy
thoughts, such rich humanity, plus, so condemned by condition: our brave daughters,
their casual mischief, so indebted to God’s emotions: our feral habits, those
delicate palms, at rising prisons: so thwarted by existence, so frustrated with
insistence, while less to pains and more to sorrows: our shivering motion, our
blue blazing blackness, at something forbidden but deadly remarkable: this
rising inadequacy, such mutual controversy, while parents wail for sanity…(those
deranged souls, this mastery woman, those deep dying concerns: those answers,
this music, this profit—at blank with suns, at moons feeling shady, at stars
leaping, even tiptoeing: those minerals, this drop gorgeous brain, this idiotic
attraction: so many idioms, such physiognomy, while Love remained unread—or
racing unraveled, so chaste, so nasty, such roundness: this feud with society,
this stone brick wall, those hierarchies: this interior nun, this romantic
mystic, or yogis blended with psychologies: this reaping science, those aching
synonyms, at wrenching acrimonies: those darting eyes, this subtle disdain,
while wondering concerning this addict: this round-away midnight, this violent
passion, so wretched, so rich, so filthy: our lyrical assassination, our
revving peaks, at Mount Survival: those days as runaways, this interior orphan,
at mother pleading for something normal: such resistance, such silence, while
trauma became a fugitive: such hate ponds, such geese wings, while afraid to
give this mirror): so charmed to die, so ignored for dying, where Love ached a
sudden outburst: fleeing concerns, removed from crowds, and hoping for
recognition: this small ocean, this petit galaxy, so influenced, so removed, or
so trespassed….
…ever and anon, this
silent enchantment, a man left with his thoughts: falling into love, removed
from self, while enlove with an impression: this inner island, those exotic
roses, or dice made of porcelain: our perfect images, this imperfect
perception, our savior enterprises: to savor passion, to long by concerns,
while Love needed a few good lines: so dedicated, so far North, at deep
mythologies: this methodical language, our methodical lovemaking, while each
evening carries its sciences: at epistemological fires, while hell to such
rigor, where forfeiting seems impossible: our cyan ribs, our orange X-rays,
while something mechanic has lost its luster: at luxurious sights, so debated
internally, while closer to loses: this creative magnet, this siren song, our
ships crashing, concerned with resurrection: this hard pavement, this erased
sky, those colors imposed upon: our brains sensing bugs, our corner webs, our
fragile egos: ten years by friendship, twenty years at marriage, while wresting
forbidden rivers: so cursed for honesty, too real for children, so hasty with
battles: (those devious seas, so pushed by winds, while little Amy is carrying
a shark: this deep gray matter, this skyward picture, where many are claiming
ownership: struck by madness, so re-acclaimed, so curious concerning those
portals: at Jesus-Brains, at mystic silence, so churned and deliberate: those
cherry flamingoes, this apricot reality, where fruit rotten(s): so cashmere, so
suade, so lethal—at unreachable branches, or unspoken, overly participant
roots: singing sweet harmonies, confronted by essence, our bodies retaining
heat): but Love is mythical, plus, Love is dangerous, plus, Love has selected
traumas….
