I
kiss death, looking spacial, at metaphysics, coffee, plus, a clove: so tired
with it, so abused by it, so esteemed in windows: a wizard bleeding, a shaman
wheezing, an elf weaving: so enwoven, peering at irrationality, as if a feeling
generates authenticity: at free-play, listening to freedom, while frantic by
implications: at mind-court, or fragile telepathy, realizing Love has entered
those quarters: a bit flippant, but tugging back, or hiding from my dungeon:
those daughter-mirrors, this daughter soul, those looking but heart-reamed: a
nonphysical feeling, an oxymoron, a classical paradox: to hear us speaking, to
see us playing, at treasuries, at Smith, at curses: so incumbent, upon a local
soul, those spools of yarn: silky and sodden, reversed in minds, elaborate but
shallow: some type of dream, at intuition, aborted, reliving, and set to die:
this allotment for prose, so many years into it, to congratulate those winning:
such pottery, such fillers, at fiber and flame, at patience and power: a
dungeon mirror, a dungeon window, at gardens with Thich Nhat Hanh—or pillaging
something inverted: steadfast agitation, kitsch or concrete, asleep a shadow:
raving about Love, crazed about Love, but sick of witnessing our destruction: re-spent
at love, a mirror about love, such dungeon love, and topaz, resilient, damn
near reborn love: those needed outlets, if but rejuvenation, so deep in mud our
nails are trees: verdant geese, aqua squirrels, a bit shifted by unreality:
where Agony smiled, so self-conscious, it felt empathy and dissatisfaction—moreover,
a sin, trenchant travail trespassing: lovelight wealth, reviewing graves, at
gravid grout and glorious courage: but Anguish is affectionate, and Anguish is
living, plus, Anguish has our affliction: this curse in souls, for filth was
nigh, accustomed to such contagion: our philosophic, our faithful anguish, or
more, our epistemic nightmare: such radicalized nectar, such intellectual
trinkets, or attic-intensified-buttons: to out-dream a feeling, to outwit
reality, those few winnings with harbingers coming: as pain is filtered, and
twilight is promising, at something driving quixotic suicide: for love is
distant, a moon too far, plus, those furtive realities: to select participants,
to arrange a life, while threaded by dreary concerns: for life is richer, those
window agonies, while thrown for reaching and slammed into dungeons. …at whatness and thatness, at premises and
abstracts, or empirical induction: while lines are blurry, and dungeons are
shattering, while windows settle into stillness: those arms reaching, our
wisdom fleeing, our aches becoming intimate associates: those cabinet thoughts,
this drawer of confetti, those memoirs becoming clothing particles: our deeper
elements, rereading confessions, rebuking our instincts: this terrible reality,
while taking inventory, to realize our activities: at subtle rhythms,
re-stirred by existence, where an internal confession builds a kingdom: driven
like Napoleon, writing like Sexton, more aware of inter-activities: intra-psychical,
telepathic, too sunk in to deplete: as resurrected, a time for nature, while
asleep in something irrevocable: resting soundly, running freely, a tear to
traffic and a bit tragic: such highness,
a bit to charity, while daily at cadence: re-intuited, reinvented, at roads too
steep to awaken: so sentient, traveling outer-spaces, flung to expansion: at
theosophic portals, revved into postmodernity, an art-piece, reborn and seeking
your first brains: hearts fluttering, music readjusted, temperament channeled:
incarnate and swift, attitudinal and calm, facial and ghostly—tugging mirrors by
illumination: a rewritten film, a collective reality, a walking imprint:
intimate with it, at decades with it, undone, recooked, and too raw to devour
it: by cleansings, and unsung wailings, re-stitching our scarecrow….
