Reimagine us, so destined, indeed, with
comprehension: those nomadic roads, this interior camping, so young, so gifted,
at sons and daughters: our grown tides, our evening cloves, so chaste, so
abandoned, so uncomfortable: if but to dream, reminiscent of Felix, such helium
and concern: those engines revving, our transmission shifting, at brown,
legendary eyes: such virtual reality, such steep resistance, so charged and
bashful: sweltering memories, sweaty palms, restructured, a passionate adult,
so haunted: (I drench feelings, so purposed to achieve, so thrown by platonic
affairs: those undercurrents, those wild fantasies, in one person, this hope,
this scream, if but searching for wholeness: so indebted, so alike to children,
this powerful machinery: our graffiti hearts, this internal cage, to feel as it
rattles: such sawdust wishes, so alone that second, at deeper realization: to
imagine particular needs, to imagine this savior, or needing reassurance: those
fences so radical, this wall blocking sainthood, while inward feelings depict
something ambivalent): such photography, at existential calligraphy, so
rehashed, so redundant, while feeling pitiful: longing those days, pining in
silence, such a flippant robot: this chasing ghost, those interior phantoms,
while conversing with intellectual specters: at smoldering cries, awaiting this
love, or tampering and tinkering with gas-heads: our Cadillac Converters, our
emotional exhaust pipes, or better, our rippling infatuations with dreams. …such a runaway, an abstract giant, so
destitute at times: where life is reasonable, while shifting currents, indeed,
a man desires amicable: an extension of us,
a cloudy but perfect wind in us, so
complete, so attuned, while reality glistens upon our fortress: such lovable
creatures, so engaged, so ruined for others: longing for acceptance, re-dancing
this legacy, while tethered to something familiar: so detached while losing, so
distressed while celebrating, where why becomes
a steady inquiry: our feral philosophic(s), our Utilitarian instincts, while a
bit of pain appeals to our tendencies: this row of dominoes, this slight
uneasiness, or this perfect picture missing a rose: our familiar bodies, this familiar
lake, or those familiar squirrels: our cheeses with salami, our pop with chips,
or our screams with inverted violence—these souls scratching, at purgatorial
behaviors, while so calm, so collected, and so enveloped: at teal carpets, our
moistened knees, our frontal lobes to ottomans: such running currents, such
ringing phones, while most are angling for providence: at sky-tombs, or
catacombs, so involved in fantasies: this semi-curse, our quasi-concerns, if
but this Flowing Light: looking into
roots, or counting tree rings, abandoned to interior longing: at imagination,
so at love an image, where reality is striking our thoughts: so infatuated, so
determined, so illusive: as years become torment, or Love is sung afar, while
we realize Love has skated: this pleading gate, those pleading breezes, where
even those shall fly: our bodily affinities, our logic with pie, our bottom
line….
I’m drifting low,
upon a plangent sea, debating poignant feelings: sensing a whale, carrying a
baboon, where darker cries are found appealing: such overwhelmed uteruses, such
damaging wombs, so alert to separation: those divided selves, this caricature
cartoon, those catering absolutes: at brighter turmoil, wrestling parasitic
illusions, while biblically groping at walls: agaze’d by gates, at temporal
dimensions, so chafe, so chapped, fretting delirium: as never a softer reason,
as never a saintly ripple, at such sin and replete chaos: a hatchet to hay, a
pillow to brains, so abandoned to sensing something absolute: our chase through
time, our deeper sensorium, where faces blur into ghosts: those dying
dynasties, those provocative processes, so pinched, so probed, at panic, at
placation: this absolute improbability, this sounding wave, those ocean green
weeds: this palm of kale, if but those barriers, to possess, replete, and then
reject—as winds gloss-over, as tales digest, so casual, so unseen, so in
public: this broken moon, those shiftless screams, or settled into something
promising control: this inner Nintendo, this joystick love, while overwhelmed
by something promising agonies: our sicker selves, this silent sanctuary, or
this sainted sinner: our paradox trefoils, our closer oxymoron, so blatant, at
sensory glimpses, aborted to existence: this fairer sunshine, this gunning
sunray, at something quite sensual: such rich incision, such fragile
incipience, so flippant with life, so treacherously unfair: this poet’s fuel,
this dreaded disaster, while reaching, so determined, so outright enclosed:
fleeing passion, or running to passion, while this guillotine has inverted: at
orchid scents, palming sundew, reminded of this activity in bugs: our flowing eyes,
our indebted prose, so rooted in something abusive.
