It
becomes fretful—a bit too sober, an emotional zeitgeist: those pictures
rotating, this frantic pressure, while losing reigns: such likeness, such
romantic beauty, such scruple and art: something so clean, something pure
behavior, something overwhelming our curse: unsettled souls, clever countenances,
at rapture, turmoil, and grace: drizzling vibrations, mystical daughters, and
circumspect fathers: this lie we live, so deadly and casual, so richly uncouth:
those elegant nuances, camouflaging disaster, while souls are castrated:
eyelash flirtation, demonized pleasures, so close, so broken, and searching for
hells: tantamount misfortune, a child gawking, where neither parent is mature:
our grandparent’s children, a woman sixty, raising her grandchild: our ghetto
portfolio, our ghetto hives, at senses uncultivated: we die our laughs, and
caress our wounds, while applying poetic ointments: sawed asunder, plus,
melancholia, plus, psychological gray spots: so fortunate to perish, if but
fortunate to live, surprised by strict candor.
I
revered Love—such mineral wisdom, so Atlas, so volcanic: at singing wells, but
misinformed, where anxieties flourished: reminiscing upon cotton, reminded of
houses, while disregarded by shift-hearts: those goblin closets, our goblin
living-rooms, our struggle over whale bones: at glass guitars, or invisible
gears, so crooked, captured and crucified: but Love was ransom, and ransom was
art, while desperate pain is indebted to its afflicter: at artifice and pride,
a walking reservoir, while too close to existence: its meat and marrow, its
delicate sensories, remolding silk and worms: too much to tell, so little time
to prevail, while hellish passion lingers midair: at allure and deaths,
reminiscent of a first kiss, while science has done a number on Love: enticed
and ravished, gutted and fried, or pieced together and given wings.
…intellectual
syrup, or gypsum knowledge, at life a bit undercooked: an overt whistle, a cry
for mercy, while behaviors remain mobile: interior mutiny, where something is
death, but clung to art with dearer eyes: such futility, such shared wealth, so
disgusted, or so enthralled, at wars to gain power: a palm of fireflies, an
engraved rock, confused by karma’s earth: such granite pride, aloof and
leaking, while all are addicted to money: a small pendant, a small frame, a
larger prophecy: trancelike ecstasy, embedded experience, and perfect
hindsight: acrylic paintings, emerald sentiments, and sapphire keys: at crying
pressure, so those wars, while attempting to see beyond: as dead to judgments,
while such reverberate, so close to confessing belief: as two nurture lies,
while one is amazed, where witnesses listen and wonder— this cruel apex, those
intricate responses, where, despite, words, one senses a lying sycophant:
indeed, too gray, indeed, it doesn’t matter, or, indeed, it shall not change….
Dear
Sandpapered Eyes: tides are rolling, brilliant value is lethal, and jaguars are
resting softly: life is romantic, those other mountains, specializing in bliss:
those puma cats, purring at silence, and agaze’d by a crescent moon: miracles
are ingenious, sparks and gleams radiate, our zoetic culture is pacified:
hearts are trumpets, violins tread gravel, and art has become liquid: such
fertile intellect, such fertile soil, while love has painted our skies: trying
desperately, in order to decipher, which adored creature shall we illuminate:
such fairer creatures, enlightened genetically, palming dayflies: iguanas are
hassling, hurdles are evaporating, plus, something sad is transformed into
understanding: petals whisper, cymbals clang, such craft, such passion, such
memoir: a swan dances, or glides safely, while parakeets are mating: such
exotic land, our tropical earth, our Birds of Paradise.
…after
zest and zeal, our souls are univocal, our minds and hearts quite plural: our
needs strike roots, our intuition becomes haloed, our creativity sings at love:
an inner museum, a cosmic canvas, and so blank at birth: this struggling
battle, for souls are instinctive, but mainly, and absolutely, an empty sheet:
at mother’s voice, at mother’s tendencies, at light, lungs, and lux: such early
costumes, our piccolo waves, our sights as one large collage: such aesthetic
gesture, pointing at color schemes, and listening to tones: as young adults,
prone to something kinetic, rummaging those cedarchests: our opaque inquiries,
our nebulous findings, so illustrated, so articulated, as we wonder about our
subjects: at deeper contrasts, comparing light-bulbs, while dissecting
differences….
