I
died in you, so filmed in you, as never such a sexual creature: to reverse
time, while sensing palms, so animalistic: slipping into darkness, lungs sore
and hurt, for screaming like Jesus came: my hopes and dreams and cadence so
buried in thorns: given eternity, laughing in vain, so accustomed to neighbors
watching: so attractive, so delicate, such a gifted romance: where life is
plural, and lies are evident, and one diminishes trust through disease: so
featured a ghost, so designed a phantom, so creative an artist: to adore those
knees, to beg and plead, such greed and nuance: as one indebted, our souls
amplified, our troubles so sexual: this perfect companion, this conversational
apparition, where fidelity is something too far reaching: our guts, Love, our
paranoia, Love, while reasons seemed apropos, Love: but life was
roller-coasters, and life was Disney Land, and an old queen gave birth to a
swan: those Asian characters, this deep influence, while missing human
intention: but back to this planet, this rippling sensation, to fill and shift
while something is different: our weekly essence, our monthly arguments, where
one backs-down, takes a look, and becomes mechanical: this worrisome event,
this trenchant disgust, as a woman needing reality: so many rumors, such
susceptible ears, while a fool dances in another’s millpond: (but Love is
terrific, this fair fantasy, this delusional state: so accustomed to reliving,
so dedicated to dying, so floored by existence: as rebooted in airs, as
becoming father’s heir, where reality seems so blasé: as daughters dance, and
sons chance, while remote an island kissing father’s forehead): those
delectable cherries, this delectable essence, if but to die alarmed by a bit of
honesty: “Indeed, your disease, indeed, your features”, while bodies collide
and Love has intensity: this fever in bedrooms, this deep insecurity, where
Love is at ache’s creek: (but Love be there, so sweet our interrogation, so
pure our inhabitation: to re-invite, to pass the hell out, while smelly and
feeling insatiable: those gut-wars, this feral ambition, our ten year old
essence: to court forever, to chime in weather, if but a sylvan, or but glory
toppled over into deliverance): forthwith, a deep confession, our minds, our
souls, they become too familiar.
I
regather fragments, I count baskets, I ask questions: so calibrated, too
intense, while realizing Love isn’t that person: unequally yoked, reaching for
similar straws, but sipping different containers: our pillows furious, our
tears at those mornings, while a man askes concerning mental status: tossing
and turning, checking Eternity, or praying frantically to alarm Jesus: our
connection, this familiarity, as such a demon longs for: so bathed in glue, so
supper a meal, where John is deliberating: our misspelled perceptions, our
point-to-value conceptions, while so secretive as lost on C-Street: at Douglas
Coe with questions, at King with inheritance, or found for strutting down Capitol
Hill: our incredible women, so alert during troubles, to see the best of a fair
creature: this panicky essence, this flame broiled reality, or this
sky-philosophy: as torn asunder, a child with binoculars, a man running for
deaths and pillaging Yahweh: if but to adore with clearance, if but to die
without permission, if but last summer.
…so
enveloped, so seductive, where a man is curious: so commercial, so underground,
where a man needs entrance: to sense our imagination, as by coming into
existence, to invest such faith in a distinguished creature: to see
potentiality, to sense sophistication, or to long while deceased as one came to
persistence: our longer roads, our IRS taxes, or rebuilt interiors: to give
insistence, to yacht a terrible crises, while intrusion ruins innocence: to
believe in you, to die with you, where encouragement is to resurrect with you:
our loans and happiness, our first deliverance, our terrible wintry skies: so
pure those times, so delicate a creature, so reserved and frantic….
