I’m
having a problem—this dynasty of experience, this mystic voice: so captured by
silence, our lives mostly silent, those fevers, those treadmills, this
inclusive and social disenchantment: so crazed for daughter, but aloof to
feelings, while inspecting feelings: something reasonable, a natural feeling,
predicated upon traditional rationalization: a woman’s privilege, a father’s inheritance,
where thoughts become actual properties: this war with Honesty, this cadence
with reality, at rocket emotions: to questioning enterprise, to assaulting long
held traditions, while feeling alienated for misprints: (such delicate spirit,
those delicate eyes, those delicate features: while spooning carrots, or mushy
chicken, those remarkable grandparents: at needs to help, at gears to
persevere, at subscription to adore a charitable infant: at pause-time, at life-time,
so evolved as a delicate creature): this feud in red, this blanket in beige, or
those snakelike dominions: our soothing intonations, our dearer distractions,
while granny comes back to adored and pliable: such wild completion, such
fevered elation, as months demonstrated an interior majesty: to endure anxiety,
to flee into returning, to carry while glowing: our preorganized assumptions,
or this unreal entity, at something percolating: (but fathers know science, and
fathers know for something unrelatable, while, in many cases, fathers know for
an incredible mother: so lost, so disoriented, if but to win while related: cut
too low, leaving existence, at reality seeming incompatible: but a dynasty to
Love, but a miracle to Life, while sewn into something problematic: a fretted
disaster, an inner circle, while never a deep correction: at bolder science, at
survival of the fittest, where existence is dispensable: those calm, glorious
eyes, those seeming truism, as exposed to gut a tiger): so many dimensions, so
accustomed to this behavior, while encouraging pure annihilation: if but slight
consequences, if but a loosened moral, as forgiven in truths: but Life was
ruined, for Life was devastated, and Life screamed for Mercy: those furniture
rooms, those star machines, while paper was wailing at fools: so reversed in
time, so there this moment, while daughters love and adore: at painted
portraits, at painted ceilings, or fresco fantasies.
…reality
isn’t by chance, it’s a deliberate majesty, and it speaks in our receptors: so
locomotive here, so used for threshed, while it feels abstract: to hear wisdom,
to become calm, where, once lost, it becomes impossible: for trust is pivotal,
and must for honor, while accursed by human instincts: our bleeding skies, our
dripping exosphere(s), at challenge, agreements, and suspicion: but a woman,
as, too, a man, specializes in relating our souls: acting in accordance,
speaking clearly, and damn near angry when tiles are missing: a clove at this
point, a dream at this juncture, while many women are in agreement: it becomes
easy, this meeting of minds, to discuss, agree, and have a child: but many have
secrets, and many are confused, while Confucius is slowly screaming: a loud
resonance, an internal warning, while clocks move forward only: so hell to
father, and hell to mother, while petitioning for clarity: for Life in
miracles, and miracles are shared, but if belief has died, one fails to see
such glory: this sacred bond, this musical friend, while looking at Love feels
good: this seashore romanticism, those late night yogurt runs, or steaks at
noon and laughing: a feel great high, those castle lenses, while doing fifty
down Crenshaw: this believable creature, this marvelous confidant, or better,
this official sage: something incredible, this using for used, this ability to
love as volunteers: to dine in Rome, while trekking through Los Angeles, on
Sunset screaming as lost in New York: this Chicago flavor, such million dollar
pasta, at salmon feeling under-seasoned: so cursed to adore, so proud to die,
while Love agonizes over revealing, heart-tearing eyes….
