…where to die,
something crucial, something abandoned to city lights: such Manhattan cravings,
so left by claws, so instructed through lies: this Illness, this Feature, this
Iliad—so chameleon-born, so argumentative, so elusive: our poetry angels, our
deep Sickness, face-to-face with
blossoms: so prehistoric, our scattered genetics, so lovely, so restructured,
at such distress: this signal at seas, this clairvoyant ocean, or those
clairvoyant thoughts: abused by epiphanies, idyllic and crying, so threshed by
discernment: as soul-children, our kids running, our wives and husbands sipping
cognac: our grandparents becoming ghosts, our mothers wrestling with nothingness, while indifferent subjects
perplex our brains: to destroy so many, while feeling entitled, where too much
resistance is met with restraining
orders: our chase for humanity, our idealism, our cup part way full: those
dirty feelings, those human feelings, plus, our deeper shame: so enveloped in
silence, so practiced at good behavior, where accolades strengthen resilience: but yours is so casual, at such wreckage,
this brewing ball bashing our building: so alive in you, to imagine dying in
you, while so stunted by reality: this problematic, this interior excuse, this
stoic fire: so abused by honesty, so guillotined by dignity, or too sacrificial
to claim his windfall: at awkward mirrors, this alien stranger, a bit too lost
to rescue: but Love is redemption, and Love is holy chaos, where reality
submits to Love: such fabulous metaphysics, such screaming weblocks, or so
wedded it hurts to think that way….
I re-trope senses,
fiddling firebrand, imagining this ideal person: such yelling and cursing,
followed by rich intensity: our children laughing, pleading mother to scream,
asking that father denies frustration: those inlet portals, this inlet
insanity, our pillows scented by conditioners: at lavish climates, or stunning
chandeliers, so comfortable, so removed from suspicion: such wild existence,
dependent upon decency, our souls divided into three quartets: such sober
dialogue, such passive obedience, or such mentorship: at isolation, if but to
exist, where souls become constructed inheritance: this space giving so much,
this environment devoid of accidents, while Love appears so capable: such a
glimpse, into this savage animal, so many flutes, so many harps: our gathered
needs, where passion is cornered, while affection resides in this castle: so
charmed to sense you, even more to realize you, while knitted into cemented
phantasms: those gifts you exude, where souls are vigil, if but something a
woman carries: those shrubberies so mazelike, our souls so cavelike, while we
pine and recite fragmented existence.
…we sing acapella,
so distant from interaction, while qualification is important: this weeping
longevity, this island in your honor, or something so steady it lives in
proving itself: our flytraps, our Neptune fantasies, so cosmic, so practical,
so polished: those earlier years, passion over stability, and now, security,
plus, satisfaction, if not passion and stability: our winning hands, our losing
sentiments, or so enthralled by a lover as our parent: those flowers with
nature, our souls floating, or our realization concerning this picking of
nectarines: as aborting emotions, or rekindling memories, so enchanted to arise
to your face: at membrance, those easier feelings, while so taken by
literature: so tossed in minds, so thrown into atmospheres, while many couples
are reading the same novels: indeed with suggestiveness, indeed, a planted
seed, where both are watering like crazy….
I sung our
salutations, so embraced by reality, to shed invisible conjectures: this
patient soul, realizing those bonds, while we try so desperately: our inner
sky-demons, our spacial concerns, while true love is always a bit unsteady: such choir
notions, such liturgy pills, or looking at a person and determining this need:
our glowing auras, our Sabbath rites, while wrestling with dragons: such Syrian
swords, our gates conquered, while we desire excitement: such old wine, such
new skins, indeed, we shall leak: this mystical magic, this cultic second,
where Love was devastated: so good to feel, so capable to die, while a person
brings such joy: to invest in life, so tortured by sincerity, or falling from
planes: exposed dearly, rereading cufflinks, or admiring a spiffy blouse…such
hewn temples, such sweeping and restructuring, such neatly kept manuscripts.
