…so
incredible, at Love’s Eye, so realized, so sentenced: this wound kisser, this
tall giant, this meal, those roses, our song: little misfits, or raging Care
Bears, filled with magic and majesty, so dear to Mother: our forced lies, our
casual dances, at chance and anger and pacifying ingredients: those tired nights,
those flu nights, our souls so indebted, our minds with an overseer: our
beating hearts, our sailing frustration, our terrible two’s: this me-ism, this
selfish notion, where Mother politely disagrees: our potty memories, if so
inclined, to travel into those webs: our cute guitars, our puffy dolls, our
private, albeit, trespassed islands: our imaginary galaxies, our participant
parents, our sleepy intuition: a magical quarter, a flying engine, at something
incredible….
…so
salient, so indifferent, so close, so agonized, so incredible—this pushy woman,
this sorrowing meter, as chastised but adoring this anger: as sensing idealism,
where something happened and Mother was altered: that fair individual, this
portion by separation, where sex was alive but, I had our child: in truth, those characteristics, either by life or death, while a child is dependent
upon circumstances: that Abstract Witness, this shrubbery of mazes, or those
leaping grasshoppers: our mud pies, our cardboard imagination, where Little
Peggy is married to Mr. Passivity: our Mothers watching, our songs chanting,
our rhythm so influenced: this beige innocence, to return with sighs, while
informed concerning subtle behavioral patterns: Mother’s sin, as so normal, our
first reality: our souls cleaving, our storms with seasoning, our parents with
mystic palms: so attuned to passion, so alert with guidance, while sudden upon
spirituality: this warm feeling, this interior communication, or thrust’d into
Church Life….
…early
morning dynasties, a little chili, a little wine, a touch of makeup: a little
preachy, a little adorable, so charged with life, so sophisticated, or a bit
wild: this dream reflection, those few memories, at something sentimental: our
soft coffee, our softer gin, at Life’s Pulpit: such perfume, such garments,
plus, a pair of gloves: this grove atmosphere, this air of honesty, where
Father is quite charmed: our incredible Mothers, those incredible answers, if
but to witness a sad second: so concerned, so challenged, at something
Invisible: this walking moon, this talkative sunshine, or those binocular
stars: at tendencies unnatural, this trenchant fervor, if but to heal Mother:
indeed, by sheer deliverance, this bounce-back woman, while concerned with
Little Jimmy: to silence discontent, to realize watchers, while perfect for
Sally….
I possess
indifference, but Mother was striking, this fueled machine: to raise, as best
as taught, to encourage, as best was bought: those flippant regions, this noise
so silent, this misty sky-flute—so sunk into, such rhythm to rise, while
fighting disease: this bipolar machine, this incredible addict, so charged, so
sullen, a Little Girl in this adult whirlwind: so afraid, but so lost, and
dearly pushed: those error decisions, those error mistakes, while something
with errors took for Life: to re-invent, to relive, to abandon something
rethinking: those clutches, those vices, our memories: as rebuilt
transmissions, frequent upon gears, so erased, so mis-indentified, either,
this, or, either, that: this tetras dichotomy, this indifferent reality, where
a child can’t quite fathom: so apologetic, so misinformed, while something
selfish floods our gates: those torturous cuffs, this torturous response, while
paddling injustice: this old broom, those stubborn carpets, to happen upon a
slither of discipline!
…so found, this was
Mother, so alive, this was Fiction: some are blessed, running through dreams,
so cured, so delighted, and experiencing something considered normal: so
underappreciated, if but to realize Adult Works, if but to possess a child: to
maintain those eyes, to recruit more innocence, while threshed for ruined, or
elated for making waves….
