…so told to science,
such rich envy, while remorse settles and diminishes: to stay our ruins, such
softer whispers, so at something labeled love: our infant wisdom, so secluded,
so protected in silence: those dead feelings, this recaptured feeling, so
tugged by disease: our minds, Chilly, our guts, Silly, at mirrors running and
looking backwards: this end day passion, those end week loses, so at terrors
concerning those winters: those tragic tombs, bones made by letters, this
furious heart-fire: so watery, so baptized, at deacons their third wives:
seated this veranda, sipping cognac, teary over this divine smile: so captured,
so cured, afloat a nightmare and raging: those purposed psychs, this
inscrutable woman, so cursed, so blessed, peering into dying: our sick
mortality, this existential dread, so infused, so lost, so devastated—this
interior narration, this woman so close, while art abuses its winnings: those
impressions, this falling, as called to drown in dungeons: such rabid behavior,
as paused in lava, so maya, so
Mechtild, so maniacal—to feel a person, this long-range encyclopedia, while Love
extracts a definition: at blue-bloody mistakes, this life with Love, as
something we didn’t desire: but hell to emotion, and child to logic, so fueled
but harvesting weeds: those slithers grounded, this wheat for television, this
insulation critical music: notwithstanding, it became such, this hellish
anxiety, while cut for ruined: those beige movies, this see-through person,
while I never cared more than Jesus: so belonging, so caring, at Love with
sheer observance: this blue terror, this red sun, if but to attract, if but to
explode, so whet, so deceased, while living pure anguish: it comes this flavor,
looking at genius, so much to laughing out loudly: this attic of rooms, this
sky-vestibule, this interior hallway: (at
Love with feelings, so charged with flame, peering into a thousand year
old armoire): so desperate, so calm, such a precious oxymoron—those old
feelings, this killing instinct, so charged by a decent memory: so angst’d, so
cured, so at flame—this machine, this tender anxiety, or those long, running,
even discussion legs: to perish with weather, to die with havens, our palms,
our sheets, our unlived necks!
…if
but for honesty, this clever woman, this incredible winner: to imagine life,
right those arms, so egregious our daymare: at Sandra hives, at Alexandria
passions, or Theresa holiness: our banquet halls, our blanket chills, so
abandoned to black rivers: if but to die, as but to live, so shaky dependent
upon mood shifts: our chestnut bread, our bubbly bellies, our flirtatious
eyelashes: to see something cringing, to address like looseness, to receive
like ghosts: this revved fever, this lightening moon, while one specializes at
making us feel un-special: to dismiss dung-night, to envelope sun-rave, so
cliff-like, so exaggerated, so at peace with a few longevities: this deep
respect, for Love was romantic, while Love was dismissive: this beautiful
night-care, this gorgeous train-casualty, at something so elated it drowned its
illusion: those new motifs, this Aaliyah frenzy, so high, so low, so wound, so
wounded: to flee with self, as returning to passion, where nights call to
surrender: those locked sights, this tender paradox, where Love new it was
going to die: as pushing limits, so many crushes, to infect while stone cold at
wars….
I come
with bruises, I die at feelings, while so cursed I shall destroy: this film in
blueberries, this angst in cranberries, those floors, those machines, those
dynasties: as men winning, something losing, while life is never with sameness:
to abscond with hearts, to relish in ruins, while offended that life
whiplashed: such caprice, such islands, so deeply craven: this mixture woman,
this bold cavity, this dear extraction: if but this person, so high with
lowness, so cursed with absolute worship: as found and losing, as winning and
lost, while it felt good to reclaim scruples: those gunning alleys, this
gunning system, while I needed two good psychs: if but to fawn, if but to dine,
if but to recap a day of sheer emotion: those latent cringes, those latent anxieties,
to see those persons as complicated women: this far dream, this far scheme, so
captivated by something so close: those shared seconds, while so alert, to
ensure we do not trigger dynamite: those remote features, our plastic
binoculars, our curse, our force, our silent appraisals!
