I snatch a pardon, so
interrogated, dismounted internally: so gutted, Soul, so alive, Soul, more to
live for, Soul: our treasons, at robotic replies, walking civic havoc: so
abused, so civil, at aches for mercy: such mythic greed, such Brutus ambition,
so accursed, so heinously blessed: at Mary’s mind, or Mary’s grave, such
weeping intermission: between sentences, reminiscent of rain, such atypical
weather: at granny lately, rereading permissions, while souls are dying: our
revving arcs, so attached to energies, so spilt in pieces: a strong wind, an
avenue glen, at jagged rulers: if but to exist, so close to earth, our
linguistic ‘transmitters: paced at ghettoes, pining for freedom, abusing
interior dialogue: so far Sienna, re-versed in knowledge, getting closer to
mirrors: such contradiction, so near, so hurt, and yearning for Mother.
I heard by ghosts,
fleeing into makeshifts, so abandoned those months: looking into pavements,
painting delirium, or skating mixed feelings: those spontaneous wigs, those
industrious skies, at ritualistic science: our running existence, our acrobatic
intensities, our salty oceans: at something pure, at purer rivers, so kleptic,
this falling mid-core, at dreams concerning infinity: exotic meats, foreign
delicacies, so stolen from reality: aquatic reactions, yawning responses, such
behavior stipulating casual behaviors: our scorpion nightmares, our cobra
allies, so involved, so nonchalant, at wars and dreams, wailing in Swahili.
…machinery grays, this hectic fog,
and flogging Invisibility: such radical hostility, at immediate disgust, our
under-cores distinguished by disbelief: our neuro-toxins, so afloat anxiety, at
mental flork(s): to renew this life, to review this churn, an aviator of
flares: such asylum frustration, at passionate spirituals, so maneuvered
emotionally: to love a swan, to dance a fire, so desperate to re-exist….
…paint-stick magic, high-tech
ambition, sensing something incredible: such Paris lusts, such Vatican Pride,
so low, so radar, feeding and losing reality: those pinches, our first
confession, our last miracle: ink-bristles, combing replies, plus, insidious
affection: those chaining cuffs, those smaller tables, or this letter to Invisibility:
at taller vexes, unnatural occurrences, and something deeper than
concentration: so repented, so evolved, to sudden upon an empty room: rereading
Sexton, listening to tea kettles, running amuck, those interior
thought-fights….
…if we must die, than I must live,
as something in pure fantasy: such bicycle angst, such bold calibers, while
souls have lost this Great War: reclaiming Sherlock, or admiring Ingrid, while
fawning over marbles: such animated trophies, such condescending admissions,
alive playing our mocking guitars: taking breaks, at varicolored personalities,
so opaline, so cloudy, while unlikely lucent: our dearer fulgence, our
interviewed behaviors, our endless positions: as souls enlove, those redeeming
high ladders, so fueled by resistance….
