I image self, so
addicted to life, a plaintiff by concerns: this lawyer laughing, pretending for
money, accusing self of vicious lucre: our grinning havens, this cut existence,
at love spent for ruined: to hate his guts, to trust in violence, rewound for
terror this Judah Capital: such blood-work, such treacherous honesty, while
adored by myriads: so spliced, such gorilla patience, as splashed with holy
doses: those women, tearing his guts, while mother appeared her eyes: to wander
afar, to zoom into chaos, this pool, this demon, this unforgiving maniac: so
appeased, so forgiven, where white overrules color: such scribbling, such knit
pain, to sigh at light-posts: so suspended, lingering in missives, so blatant,
so ostracized: at stitched remorse, while hating such dependence, at sheltered
horizons: those spoils, meant for alliteration, where similar thoughts extract
courage: at twists and turns, at teasing and terse, so tempted and tested,
looking forward to such cadence: so relaxed while seething, such sullen
hemispheres, to reach and reign, as one too mad for science: this doctor, this
perception, while many are adverse to leaders: those bowels running, this
toilet choking, this life an exact region: such consumers, to purchase a case
of happiness, tormented by interior activity.
…we bleed passion, an
agent of mercy, and almost a human: this field battle, this real dilemma, while
discovered a second in time: those eyes gunning, those analyses speaking, where
a man was forced to survive: this magazine hospital, this magazine booklet, at
torture and terror and un-tragic: such magic pulling, our mental policies,
where it felt for moments a loyal warzone: such scenery, while spoiled, but
Love adored where Love was nonchalant: those statements crying, such bucolic
landscapes, such broccoli, steak, and cocaine dinners: our first task, our last
channel, but life seemed what it appeared: our benefits, our close parachutes,
at cameras rehearsing particular nuances: this running madness, this shunning
closeness, while one realizes a certain need: our central points, our false
democracy, while pillars endear loyalties: those bold caves, this trenchant
baptism, while so many secrets were yet to endure: such federal glass, such
industry education, while one becomes this mental news: so brief, so enchanted,
so melancholic: those fields, this slight push, while it felt good to override
a professional….
…those cedars
winking, this chest-war balloon, at travesty concerned with tyrannies: our
roles as rulers, our speech so false, those treacherous eyes, that muddy mouth,
or that sickening aura: so slimy, so dead, while hating purity: so drenched in
hells, so benighted by thoughts, and such a writer of fiction: but life is
miracles, while I’ll never submit, because souls tricked are without purity:
this friction in webs, this meal with adversaries, while one adored a losing
concern: our bungalow water, our shared ponds, while one fell for Love: this fool
gunning, while forcing matters, where mystics stood and caved for lucre: those
cynosures, this sin-castle, or prying so deeply one became his feature: this
daughter lose, this daughter war, while daughters are asking serious questions:
those minds meditating, or certain overseers skeptical, while a free-thinker is
both hated and admired: this deviation, as good for daughters, while many are
plotting a cage: at granny losing, at grandpa losing, at mother as if dead to
existence: while many are thinking, realized in truths, to imagine this woman’s
heart….
[…] I image self, so
delicate, so battled, so deceased while outliving self: this fire, this tiny
spark, as aloof to losing: this wild, sophisticated woman, this wretched,
innocent attempt, where death was so appealing we turned her out: so fugacious,
so trenchant, such a loser needing this winning mystic: to deign so lowly, to
accuse our ghettoes, while mother was pure exonerated: so cussed-out, so
bear-won towards living, while taverns sold out a night ago: at Love rehashing,
at something I need, if but to become this incredible author: moreover, a scar,
at graves but tombs, re-knitting Jesus upon our veranda: this whispering
credenza, this raging cadenza, so gilt for purity but existence destroyed its
saints: this metal armoire, this mental-spirit narration, while so afar I feel
minds closer: at tuxedo prose, at smoky cloves, so trefoil’d for gunning at
Love adored for retreating: smiles haunted; pains magical; or an older woman
meditated upon actions: so caved in, at tremor cries, while it was good to
imagine: our black textbooks, our white arrivals, so cut for wretched and
living goodness.
