…hectic
interior, a pivotal axis, those dreams, those fires, flushed and needy: so
close to pain, something christic, by origin and flame: nocturne sea-lions,
nocturne bodies, our toes fiddling seaweed: a cursed sunflower, such minutes in
soils, such a day for graves: our precious daffodils, our precious organs, our
floating animosity: it’s ash and rubies, our first seconds with light, our
slow, curious and kleptic deaths: such memory, so close to sunrise, to awaken
in cotton….
I
died to know you, as an exterior phantasm, so hiked through jungles: I ate
piety, I redressed pavement, I became inedia: those fillers, fasting over
waters, our ship so close to shore: filed away, a chapter in novels, even a
reread paragraph: so fueled our grays, such revving iridescence, so ivory, so
penchant, so jasmine: at life in moments, tinted with invisibility, those
apricot/aqua eyes: re-bled, fasting by remembrance, so reluctant to surrender:
our faith in treasures, those mystic stones, those jasper cries: such radiant
florescence, such flavescent gardens, or such manicured sensories: our casual
introduction, a hint of disdain, while walking through migraines: as adult
majesty, our soaring mechanism, so mango, so peach, so plum!
…raspberry
topaz, devilish song, prided in deaths and resurrection: looking for dying, so
near a furnace, while life is smoldering: flowing wings, flowing winds, or
flowing casualties: too removed from feelings, too indebted to feelings, where
many feelings are unsatisfied: a sapphire rose, a sapphire scream, at sapphire
curtains: at something believable, at something fleeting, while we honor things
we will towards nonexistence: those cubic grins, those interior gems, as
radiance permeates our castles: those grander hats, those fluting miracles, at
string, violin and cadence: so warm with love, so cold with interference, while
angry enough to utter, I care: at plangent cries, at seas and storms,
floating upon driftwood: those bottles there, those cloves nearby, or this
radical dissatisfaction: this itchy feeling, this sweltering desert, this
heatwave passion: at dismissive eyes, or crumbling eyes, as we try desperately
to rethread….
I
feel barrowed—waving through time, a bit selected by an alien: this can’t be life,
pushing this boulder, and appeasing something critical: those tales about
existence, this foolish feeling, while days blur into existence: our waking
clocks, our steamy coffee makers, our bagel and cream cheese: our evening
pick-me-up, our midnight water, our three to four mistakes: such routine,
accustomed to protecting it, a bit off-balance when it shifts: those dependable
responses, this wheel for coloring, our pride in pastels: our pears with
memories, our pastas with wines, or our preference for turkey ground: this life
by ribbons, this dissipating headache, while something beautiful is occurring:
those new puppies, those cheerful eyes, or that watchful, musky raccoon: so
encharge of existence, such slipping our reigns, reaching into pitch black coal.
We
juggle jagged jigsaws, at fount, flare, and firebrand, our souls concerned with
searing sanities: that thin composure: If but one more, so filled with
both belief and skepticism: our love for sensories, this inner chamber, this
sanctum of dreams: our passionate frenzies, or stoic mysticism, while feeling
subtracted from existence: our measured deductions, this state of uncertainty,
while fighting against perceived phantoms: our days with thoughts, our thoughts
with intensities, while attempting to separate thoughts from feelings: our
inner polygraphs, our mental typewriters, or more, those emotional narrators:
our growing resilience, those mechanical games, while many need to set one
astray!
