…our relaxed
frustration, our deeper perusals, where fathers attempt to relax: our dreams,
Daughter, our hives, Love, or this delicate image/perception: so gutty at life,
so sincere at seconds, while concerned about longevity: those ecstatic
feelings, this redemption cage, while pleading trust, honor, plus, identity:
such smaller matters, revving through graphics, so washed, such delicate/venial
sins, so approaching our mirrors: those treasured islands, this flustered
heart, such music, so harsh, so abandoned, at such screams: to realize speech,
those patterns, a bit afraid that peace is mythical: our crying mountain, our
moaning scrolls, so in touch with melancholy: those abrasive realities, those
few attractions, studying fashion, considering makeup, so perfectly indecisive:
our dreams, Daughter, our exotic spheres, our esoteric vibrations: this pebble
but a gift, this world but fainting, while illusion has settled in our garden:
our arrows thrust, our souls reneging, our comforts waning: or running,
unconcerned, at life with deep enjoyments: so young fancied, so allergic to
seriousness, at totems and memes, while conversing this interior imp: those
burning cries, our minds with hind-views, so relaxed, so settled, while feeling
agitated: wherefrom, this particular entity, while steaks are broiling, and
juice has never tasted so gently: therewith, this messy rug, or this dusty
floor-bed, where furniture seems a bit askew: our rearrangements, our frantic
frustration, plus, this unreachable web: to grip a broom, to remove those
cobblestones, while needing to wash those ditches: this clean house, this
filthy air, those removable pillars: so greeted with ceilings, pushing our
pull-ups, needing something to distract those exospheres: such a supernova,
such a thunderstorm, alive, challenged, plus, introduced to existence so early:
our main intentions, our fretting anger, while we never needed for others to
realize our shames: those closet winds, this closet portal, rereading childhood
tales: such black-magic, or white-magic, our complications with color: this
easy angst, this favored frustration, while patches appear speaking anxieties:
such cinema delights, such mystical concerns, so pure this perspective in life:
so tired of this, so in favor of that, while needing some type of relaxation:
at reflexive analyses, so reflected through self, so courageous to exist….
I lessen to win, I
win to lessen, but both cause heart-pains: such enthusiasm, such attraction to
some, where others are unrecognized: but yours is dancing, even ballet, so
occupied by ceramics: an intellectual symphony, a raging, longer grin, or so
adjusted actions are meditated: our self-conscious souls, our deeper
negligence, our future identities: those sore mistakes, reviewing our legacies,
prone more to anger: this killing frustration, this slow death, while hearts
are taking a beating: but yours is singing, and yours waltz by skies, while
pausing to feed a shrine: those images, this Krishna Realization, this Higher
Buddha: so sick of this, so concerned with that, or sort of going through
existence a bit passively: such concerns for father, so to witnessing life,
where step-father is wrestling: our hearts, our friends, where some have
specialized at deviance: our anti-realities, our churning cultures, plus, Love
is a quadroon: such soft, homely, and controversial music: while needing
doctoring, or deeper channeling, so numen
those moments in brains: if but to re-concentrate, if but diligence, if but
our sibling castles: such love shared, between something indestructible, to
confess, to chide, to chimney particular categories: our cogent deontology, our
duty to existence, at melodies and heart-skies, or something feeling indelible.
…it becomes
challenging, sensing our perfect selves, while peering into (highly) functional
families: this radiance those dreams this discarded non-fixture: as explosive
intensity, refitted for assessments, but so removed from viable rubrics: to
sense some sort, this erased perception, while fleeing for flying home: this
comfortable lot, be it good or dysfunctional, we find some sort of easiness:
our familiar pages, our New York Times, or those fairer nights camping in our
rooms: this house tent, this melodic voice, this liquid participant: our grapes
with watermelon, our chocolate milk with marshmallows, or deep fudge cookies:
this remembrance through time, this future so indelicate, where two souls may
not fit: so wild those spheres, so captivated by something irregular, while
futuristic preparation seemed foreign: so lost to night-winds, so captivated by
fleetingness, where true decisions require a modicum of heart-pressure: for
some are dancing, but just for fun, where others are searching for husbands and
wives: this tempo blaring, this long life racing, where existence catches up to
suggest cleaving to daylight....
