…at Sunday eyes, such
glossy spirits, such sweet melody: as God drifts, while sipping orange
phantoms, or realized in breaths: so fantastic, so immediately distant, as both
understand outgrowths: those islands closing, shortened with time, while
sediments speak about centuries: made lucid, Love, so alarmed, Love, this
interior Atlas, Love: alas, so alone, so free, if but to repeat history:
cabbage with links, gumbo with rice, or souls reaching: familiar currents,
familiar waves, while art carries its whales: our willows becoming oaken, our
Batman becoming Robin, or Heathcliff surrendering his castle: our rare
mistakes, our glowing countenances, so complete, attempting to de-scrabble
cedar-wood: fire, plus, seeds, or sequences speaking Japanese, so deep in
manure: so innovative, racing with Jerry, while lashing at Tom: this land made
cartoon, those elastic, plastic realities, while it felt goodness to lose
senses: running for no reason, such thoughts by kingdoms, at something claiming
a terrific race….
…so contagious, or
allergenic, at such scruples, those that perish in attraction: our deepest
agonies, our rippling responses, where something inside wishes contention: at
rhythmic bodies, at deeper cadence, our tribal instincts flourishing: so
captured, feeling so crooked, while we envision our symphonies: such internal
silence, becoming external violence, while something appears in mirrors: those
cypress eyes, those achy limbs, or thighs searching to catch mercy: something
with passion, or so much fire, while slowly becoming unglued: this new self,
those new insecurities, our faucets pouring into our membranes: those
kettle-born whistles, this metaphoric tea, something alike to more pressure: so
many rubies, so attuned to losing, where measures force many to retreat: to
utter softer whispers, to announce such incredible love, where raging adults
have lost a smidgen of capacities: those aloof tendencies, this watchful,
seemingly carefree analogy, working into our ribbed cages: this seeping
reality, this weather in Belize, or so many seasons analyzing Europe: as
younger souls, committed to older vibes, such timidity, or such captive
freedoms….
…at romantic truths, so spaced in
chimes, listening for those clangors: so backstage, so chasing freedom, while
mother suggested a monster: so good to me, so bad to me, my worst war, my
interior fatality: so perfect with meals, so aloof to criticisms, where whites
discuss, ideally, every emotion: this tender seed, this tender daughter, this
insecure father: it’s not tonight, but soon those roses, while Love smiled,
even ached, and claimed superior wisdom: to worship phantoms, to indulge in
various energies, so blinded by something awesome: this mental psych, this
lover of life, so accustomed to seizing those moments: or carefree panic, or
longevity tulips, while a bit to something destroying essence: our morals, this
thing as good, this thing as horrible, while we slip for sliding longing into
purity: our daughters this life, our mothers carrying families, but so enjoyed
as giving meaning: or career orientations, wrestling in friction, if but voice
to those offices: so destined to survive, so destined to win, provided such
beauty, if but to cast a hook into neighboring souls….
Indeed,
a swan was born, a father was addicted, a
mother
was eager, or even desperate to tug a cigar: such
deep
confliction,
such radiant auras, where something probed her guts: such fury and heartache,
if but to break freedom: where hell was familiar, needing perfection, if but to
erase this image of dying addicts: so cursed with time,
so
restored in memories, to reminisce upon grandparents: such radiant concern, or
radiant eyes, so captive, so sweet!
