I
guzzle ambition, to become greatness, boarders and screams and Berlin Walls:
eyes of needles, rebuked and conscious, to say something non-conducive: such
negativity, such pull-backs, so delicate and missing targets: those mystic
bursts, this dervish calm, this Sufi Path: inclusive of memories, a precious
soul, at love and agony and disaster: our country wiles, our gritty and musky
and dirty swamps: this marshy mayfly, this tentacle lullaby, as skin crawls and
laughs and becomes hysterical: blood blue purple, swollen alignments, where
particles build sky-wings: afloat in you, laughing with you, so curious as to
feel in you: our children watching, our mothers warning, where Love would if
but such cringing: to die aloofly, to upstream affection, at burgundy mania: to
enact a feeling, to curse a hummingbird, while nothing more than sugar-water:
those fresh ponds, those silky and salty crocodiles—our grievances: at fond
shivers, an electric heart, but feuding a series of deaths: this writer’s
elements, those winsome mistakes, while feeling good to have ruined self: our
behavioral curtains, this festoon of possibilities, or fire running into caves:
this lit firecracker, as sudden an occurrence, feared for embraced, while
nothing is sweeter: at gravid fumes, and early morning sweating, so queasy, so
alert, plus, a bit of vomit: those radical eyes, this radical breath, at terror-windows
and laughing: our garden, Hanh, our emotions, Hanh, this meditative intensity,
Hanh: How to Love, or how to sing, at beauty, power, and eloquence,
Hanh: so gray with winning, so lost with losing, while secrets suggest a raving
passion: a spoon to pudding, a fork to steak, a brain to water: engulfed and
planted, up-soiled and ruined, but birthed through Job: our raging irony, our
sentimental apologies, while honesty suggests something was devastated:
existential music, a loud madrigal, or a reluctant and falling poet: to die
prose, to spin poetry, while floored, unseen, and re-captured: a bleeding
table, at pure rhapsody, so appreciated once discovered: this forest of songs,
those indelible sounds, too wicked, too cursed, but tales told about a
tremendous artist: at rounded clouds, or jagged cries, to adore you, to hate
you, while flipped for demolished staring into you.
We
liquify justice, in relativistic communities, those soulprints, those radiant
flowers, this split petal: as born towards survival, too much ink to devour,
and too many pages to fill: inexhaustible and flung, so detrimental and
unheard, while voices scream at we-ness: so competitive, so
excruciating, or so pregnant, lost, while existence is slipping her grasps:
quilted and found, but seeming a distress, for Agony needs to ruin
potentiality: so cured without you, so desperate to appease you, so human, too
human, and dying to recreate us: infused with blurriness, at something nigh
fiction, so immersed, so elated, but, too, so cold and depressed: those films
at ruth, this knot so knitted, those lavish ass lies: to have that existence,
to worship pure mud, while sliding down insecurities: such a delicate creature,
a flagon of romance, or something too idyllic to maintain: this writing world,
this author’s haven, this place both at life and suffocation.
…something
inexpressible, something christic, something reviewing Arianism: this aged old
position, this slipping through wrenches, at those colorful, albeit,
destructive bars: this need for perspective, as controlled from within, or too
complicated for everyday folk: those tiles speaking, this ceiling shoving,
those carpets at living grays: unsung but comfortable, this wailing myth, at
months pursuing and years recreating: those puzzles at noon, this crossword
havoc, but so indebted to longing betrayals: as bleeding senses, or rubbish for
humans, at cages and tar, or bars and relatable stars: those pin-links, this
sky-tear, as a drop proved detriments: accursed and delighted, or blessed with
responsibility, either/or, writing and dying with living….
