…dazed
and amazed, such remorseful grace, at serenade and terror: this black sakata,
this beetle gunning, this raisin melting: those eyes, those crystals, they
affect me: to change so delicately, to become this creature, so rapt’d, so
gentle, so alive and dying: this young art, this synaptic Christ, as flooding
into tongues: so revved, so crazed, at you and lying: with hell to pay, with
tears to shed, while pools disguise a wretched face: explain to me, this sick
obsession, while a man wars his minds: so left at times, so right at losing,
where green eyes fretted existence: this blueness, this red vine, at figs and
walnuts and terrors: blinking Jesus, countenance aglow, while Love kept with
closeness: this interior feud, this manic war, at calls and adoring something
belonging to God: this petroglyph, this legend possession, a man dying to own a
woman: so zenic, so psalmist, at omic fire—if but to resuscitate, if but to
resurrect, at seconds a pure stranger: our rituals, as must they clash, to
ponder so deeply upon a volt: this psych, this lieutenant, while so threshed it
hurts: at huts and caves so explained so mystic so cavalier: to rant and rave,
to die and encounter, while Love a tiny fire three days: to awaken aglow, to
head to Xanadu, while urinating to feel pain: as sick and psycho-balanced, or
thrust’d and winning, to jaunt so near this jogging industry: our swamic minds,
our sonic swooshes, where Love adored a second seeming unreal: our brains,
Adored One, our rivers, Shared One, if but to outlive something delusional,
Said One: this marvelous mystery, those terror eyes, this hazel horizon: at
tales for months, to realize too much thought, where Love is adored but lonely:
those limbic reservoirs, this amygdala dynamite, or so primitive a spot
out-of-range: this crevice mystic, this cultic secret, while Yahweh urged total
involvement: at interior privacies, looking at drop deceased beauty—to need
Thecla, to cherish Debra, at Huldah laughing and asking for guidance…. I magazine a liver, I ache at pains, I
crave as lunatics: so aflame, so indifferent, cursed and blessed—this
countenance, this configuration, while Love asked a zillion questions: to
afford interests, to lie with grace, as feeling a certain spirit: to languish
at moments, to destroy our couch, at wood-panels flippant and disrespectful: at
sin to repent, at tears so deeply, while it alters our atmosphere: to swoosh
his heart, to aflame his guts, to arise a fire that disappeared: this cultic
existence, and hell with lying, while one is so cursed it’s good: so Ba, so Ka,
so authentic: so rage, so gut, so inauthentic: this jazzy moon, this wretched
feeling, while God knows:
to redeem a penalty, to serve his time, to be granted a hundred and eighty
dollars: this gray goose, those long shackles, this bar terror: a crazed cell
mate, a lunatic feeling, at games playing our violins: those tresses growing,
or this bald encyclopedia, so self-taught, to enter this college, to meet this
rain, at guts a silent evaluator, while Love was want to flee: this move in
life, this slice my pie, while apples fell for Adam’s Tree: this soldier war,
this warrior plague, at Adored One laughing at such wisdom. …such fey, fleeing into battles, running
from mother and mother participates: this local passion, this foreign county,
at something demised as crazy: a new dance, a last ride, while Love was breathing
heavily: those triglycerides, those sodium packs, or so charged it felt good to
erase inclination: at bowels, at lakes, at ponds: this green duck, this brown
geese, as feeding and laughing and moving: so enlove, so abandoned, so sick,
psychotic, and normal: this thin paper, this realized nib, to jot, dot, and
pass a letter: to remove, to live, while, nonetheless, this dying feels good:
our sunshine, this gorgeous rhinestone, so built, so perfect, a man maneuvering
and climatic: to enter and die, to resurrect and plead, while silenced to
justice: so jutted, so encapsulated, at New York holding his peace: such
regret, filtered by insanity, to sense something an undercurrent: such
character, such death, while Love still lingers: this thought-music, this orchestra,
to look upon flesh three seconds from intoxication: our innate minds, our
gravel inclination, at dirt and mud and feeling so clean: our godship, our
pockets inside-out, our idiot advances.
