…so
underdressed, so chaotic, at blanket frustration: this inner city, this
countryside, those nervous jesters: at rehab feelings, so courted by disease,
at something seeming irregular: to give to life, this essence in sinners, while
comfortable with insincerity: such architecture, such astronomy, where souls
placate and desire subjugation: a real sick being, so into those odd seconds, while
close enough to offend Jesus: our mothering overseers, our fatherless homes, so
gutted, so infuriating, where a ten year old is father: an extended dream, a
future in glitter, while serious with hang-ups: those ringing phones, this
filled answering machine, while little Jimmy just left his fifth hospital: a
slow process, an infant’s progress, while avoiding this, and that keeps coming:
too involved to die, to enthralled to live, while mother just cured illusion: at
deeper concerns, rummaging a cedarchest, where dolls and crystals are stored a
lower level: at beating hearts, so chased by phantoms, to realize this ghostly
mirror: attempting to know self, so strained to see self, while self is running
and filled with impatience: our black moon, our lunar mood-swings, so close, so
enlove, and quite professional: to sell a scream, to reknit a dream, while so
underrated: our furious hearts, those rabid inconsistencies, while one puts
together an ache: pure intuition, to finally submit, while another is smiling
gleefully: to poke his brain, to continue courses, while arguing facts as if
something fictional: such reckless music, such subtle crystals, at deep hurt,
realization and sky-spaced concerns….
I
remember us—our crooked ass ontology, our smelted rehearsals: a man is good,
while nonintrusive, where eulogies and elegies are in latent hells: to picture
this life, so concerned with words, while reality is pushing its canes: such
gutting nausea, such rolling headaches, while nonchalant and impassive habits
were forming: such lightfast interior, while never one dream, so thralled by
affection: while never a change, and expecting rhinestones, where mutual
responses were forbidden: wrapped in chains, gutted in spirit, dripping into
emotional rehab: those screams laughing, this face wailing, those tears as baby
dragons: becoming a monster, where love seems secondary, while so much hurt
reverses initial feelings: but yours was normal, this routine conjecture, where
living plurality seemed easy: as so destroyed, so hurt, where humanity inverted
its meanings: so many gates, at such an open casket, while desiring unyielding
loyalty: this fair pain, this fairer game, for those lacking interior
correction: as one would murmur, another would exult, but Love felt like shame:
this inner chamber, this black channel, our cords spray painted in jade blue:
so many daisies, so much frustration, while built for this strange
relationship: at comfort inside, while dying for pure affection, where struggle
appears normal: such shapeless existence, such irregular unity, so untied, so
disgusted and delivered into mirrors.
…such
filament patience, so addicted to passion, while fevered about ecstasy: this
uneasy world, our partial reality, where something regular is condemned: to
need sensation, to desire overwhelming, while most are too distracted: to
relish the Dandy, to worship the Geisha, such poetry and prose and shrubbery
mountains: this writer’s chase, this fantast pace, our eyes sensing a mirrored
stranger: as asked to love, while dying for creation, where Love is a next
morning stranger: suffused with meanings, infused by screaming(s), at pictures
taken in bright lights: this blank brightness, those interior artifices, while
neurons are pleading for interruption: so psychoactive, afraid of euphoria,
while most are chasing this elusive monster: (so gone those months, at Love
those dreams, while wasting, nay, involving existence): at black sakata(s), at
interior lightning, while reaching, looking, and feeling separated….
