…by softer
intonation, something seeming casual, or daughters so close by attention: such
delicate winds, such pardoned passion, so inclined, peering into turquoise
cries: those regular sayings, those old clichés, at deeper turbulence:
disappointed futures, exotic past adventures, so sullen, so pensive, fearing
interior desires: so drugged out, or so grogged out, or too sober to tolerate
those odors: our last cigar, our first cigarette, or too inclined by life:
rereading Sade, this King of Sorrow, at
films replaying internally: those legs, Love, those terrors, Love, our last
first embrace, Love: so bottled for seas, so improved with deaths, while most
women become radiant yogis: this spiritual web, this Walking out of Heaven, so clear this fatal mistake: but men change,
as women cry, while those terms seem so devastating: nonetheless, this fleeing
agony, those rolling glaciers, seated beneath an avalanche: if but to adore,
this pleasing second, if but to re-conjure those terrific pains: so close but
teary, so enlove but wailing, so sought but retreating: this index feeling,
those supercell clouds, so agitated, by superseding thunder: those California
eyes, those down south morals, or this wild, electrified northerner: our seeds,
our blossoms, our re-agonized flowers: this portrait bleeding, our paint
feeling acidic, our fresco annihilation: this city in Rome, this cage in
Africa, or this alibis in Europe: so lost for action, so accursed for
foolishness, while so crowded by feeling empty: this running cascade, dripping
into Tennessee, or alone at carnivals in Mississippi: our needs for Love, this
vibrant, all rules deceased, even glamorous exception: at lives redeemed, at
clowns with sorrow, while wildness obeys its sudden callings: so tuned
outwardly, so bathed in Atlantis, or so curious to realize something majestic:
that particular position, while hated internally, where two people are taken by
something integral: this patient nightmare, this feral excitement, if but one
following chaos’ lead: our pagan ideals, our stripped flesh, our infantile
personas: this adored Love, this channeled Love, where fire and brimstone and
burden becomes this beautiful woman: so charged, so dead, so bought, so
resuscitated: this gangland, this terrible seclusion, this rapid and manic
music: those lost rules, our bodies giggling, our anger transformed: those blue
graves, this red soil, or those orange horizons….
…seabirds gawking,
those oceanic desert eyes, or this, nevertheless, complicated attraction: at
needs for moments, but tugging at escapes, while realized as something genuine:
those blue manikins, so earth-parched, so drastic, or laughing over something
terrible: our last, Ouch, our first
pleasure, so bubbly and dancing—so treacherous, so Cleopatra, so furled, at
deaths with gin: those few persons, this purple castle, while pushed away: for
life exploits, where non-negotiable dies, so sentenced to another office: those
chairs, that computer, those tiny, deliberate, agonizing undercurrents: this
fool at blueness, this burgundy night-castle, at mauve and teal so inclined:
this retracted feeling, this barrage of emotions, so anti-those meals: this
supernova, this afflatus, sudden upon a magnet current: this newness, this real
feeling, as if with Love life comes to exist: our metaphysics, our cautious pragmatism,
so rich in this knowledge domain: so scientific, so personal, at Love with
actions: this lovely daisy, this begonia moaning, our tubs clogged with petals:
such opulent existence, such affluent spirituality, while Love came, blew a
tsunami, and laughed hysterically: at dazzled feelings, if but this person, if
but so open we control fate: those lively souls, this walking Ghost, our
technical colors: those Black Museums, those Metropolitan mistakes, or this
Getty femininity: this internal Womanism, those conferences for lads, or
daughters stressed for received in parts: this grandparent enterprise, this
barbeque for our blocks, or so rich it felt good to become a philanthropist:
our violet violence, this song on repeat, or this classical appearance: so torn
by literature, at deeper concerns, while needing this Emily image: so mystic,
to rev a heart, so icy, to kill an angel: this need for flesh, those
traumatizing women, or alluding to darkness: this begging rationale, those
torpedo feelings, at emotion giggling, or sudden to arise—this lot of thieves,
this family tree, this family knee, and nothing was observed: so totem, so
grave-stalked, at sunrise reciting concentration: our last thoughts, our
morning glory, so appeared as a scent: those squirrels as nutty, this pigeon
one chip, so affected by mother: changed and declining, for waves burn moons,
while it was Paris this woman: those softer voices, this fencing depression, or
so pushed we laugh: this gallon of wine, this new cigar, asking for evidence concerning
our strengths: at saffron complexion, at rubescent sensitivities, so raced for
charging down Crenshaw: those school-lights, this school-care, while Love ached
in school-wars…!
