It
feels by devastation, this gentle hug, torn Divinity, such radiant pressure:
those shocking eyes, this release from horizon, as accursed to feel, love and
walk yonder: those rungs bleeding, those bolts screaming, those stressed
invitations: to desire his notion, to plague her femininity, while something
close to anxieties: satisfied to perish, unsatisfied to exist, where lines blur
into friction: our minds with essence, our feet rubbing, our women thrown for
tossed and devastated: our firm horizon, our lurid thoughts, while afoul as
sequences clash: too late that night, too early this morning, while pondering a
stranger: a bit aggravated, for time is laughing, where we must endure for
years: this psych thing, this therapist thing, or this overseer thing: so
kleptic with self, so torn and emotional, so cut to a thin layer: an old
professor, something singing, while something remains a myth: those fighting
husbands, this endless battle, while a man ponders his deficits: so terrified,
so enlove, where agony speaks in treasures: to die in you, to need you, to ask
clearance from you: our Kennedy lives, our tragic success, our resolved
legacies: so daring, so iridescent, this millpond fraught by deer: (at this
pagan ideal, while irritating ebony, so accused for treason): a long passion, a
dying concern, while becoming too affectionately detached: feeling gestures,
threshed by irresponsible readings, where privacy seems discontent: but hell to
death, reminiscing on father, so captured by fallen grains: our wombic soil,
our mothering roots, where it’s expected this silence: at fuller deaths,
looking at buckets, while brains are scattered into oblivion.
It
felt resonant, such afflatus intuition, removed from us: seemingly simplistic,
or dynamic— endorse me or walk away from me: this pain for strangers, this
shallow ocean, this treading machine: so forced to listen, so grounded in
distaste, where a person will gesture—those confidential documents: this real
human, at realer feelings, while muddy sensing his needs for appraisals: our
deeper insecurities, our perfected existence, while a lone-dog must reschedule
his Mountain’s Eye: so numb this feeling, hemispheres screaming, while
intelligence is forfeiting its claim: so impressed by certain people, where
information is compared, while we must include our inheritance—our
demographics, this paved road, or those harsher realities: our mothers as
addicts, our literary sisters, in spite, of those few that solidify the rule:
such a riddle, as coming into clarity, while our majority are acting contrary:
such scandalous denial, such indifferent men, while slates are rinsed with
little intension on foretelling behaviors: so threshed by forgiveness,
replacing our miracles, where restored persons work hard at personality: such
chimney rain, such frosty ice, so encouraged to perish: this condemned freedom,
this patient response, at careful consideration: but if prejudgments, in every
category, then prejudgment upon us.
We
can’t give it, without receiving it, while this is a bit displeasing: this
silent war, while our judgements count, and others ought to review our
critiques: indeed, we must, indeed, we shall, but we’re not coerced to agree:
our needs for something pleasant, something divorced of actuality, while many
are quite content with life: our spirituality, our steady course, our playful
wives: so true to existence, so infused by mechanics, where “good people” never
escape those lines: a bit furious, such blackmail, while we come from
differences: (I’ve never met pure purity, and I’ve never known a pure purity,
and I can’t escape our Condition): this frenzied mask, those frenzied
masks, but nothing is changing: indeed, a mixture by orientations, this ghetto
reality, or this uptown reality: where mire is hushed, while blacks aim to
expose it, others fight to conceal it: as legislators composing, so accustomed
to privacies, while a maverick fights unreality.
