Sobriety

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….