I
gaze at a fan, I reduce a bed-light, I chant silently: such opera cadence, or
emoted reality, where practice becomes actualities: so close to strangers, our
remote islands, while suffused with pictures: angelic sights, feared tomorrows,
where behavior indicates so little: those thinking boxes, so vibrant a curse,
while every emotion is preconceived: a bit touchy, a bit hushed, where we enjoy
such mechanics: fluorescent ribbons, a taught passion, so enveloped where body
language is misfired: embers churning, music at tempo, and inmost intimate
thoughts: so darn enlove, so damned for love, so deranged at angles: unveiled
sentimentalities, unveiled raptures, where Love has fended for self those
decades: so hardened, so naïve, while unlikely susceptible: to journey a
journal, to resketch a mansion, so jetted, such a millionaire massacre.
…such
mental fatigue, attempting pure honesty, to have found nothing so challenging:
it seems so good, but life is surprised, and reality is playing its theatrics:
to adore a myth, to relive a myth, so lost, while so found: at cautious steps,
at shallow ponds, while attempting to feed flamingoes: our hampered feelings,
to sense something dynamic, at Love, but Love is at wilderness: too much
fiction, but elevated as fiction, to give but hopes and dreams: too feral for
cities, too calm for forests, at sylvan(s) explored as something dislodged: our
wooded minds, our flowery castles, while a sage built a hut along a seashore:
fabled thunder, or a diamond fulcrum, while Love watches, discriminates, or
passes a fleet of emotions: re-castled, in a new mansion, where fire is
unusual: to picklock a ballad, to unravel a vignette, at madrigals reliving
pure rejection: if but to fly, if but to scream, if but to feel beyond
logistics….
…too
fierce for television, a remarkable and silent creature—so captivating: a
hallowed presence, a maniac mind, an interior color: too provocative, or too
ordinary, while passion waits and roars and distorts shadows: so dead at it,
such features looking un-animated, so raw, so sketchy, while screeching
resounds a mile afar: such burning undergrowth, a coppice in flames, while Love
nibbles a cigar: so Sybil with it, so alive in acting, as one cursed but
blessed: those arriving funerals, this arriving feeling, where most are alike
to retreat: so antiphonic, too believable to ignore, at thirty years with
perfected behaviors: mother’s friend, daddy’s therapist, such sinister,
saint-like snakes: too statuesque, for crowds are forming, at a strange voice,
or a stranger feeling, so enlove with but a second….
We fret this lake,
our daughters to existence, while forced to manipulate: some are angered, for
it shouldn’t be mentioned, but hell to hiding and fretting shamefulness: an
interior memento, so close to dragons, at fair and proud gila-monsters: outwitted, or
outflanked, but pushing with madness: so far to reach, so close to touch, but a
hunch shall not die: at practice thirty years, at humans forty years, while a
spade screams silence: indeed, with daughters watching, indeed, a second
feeling, while mother contemplates this new boyfriend: at something intangible,
while life is creative, or a swan has cultic ears: so engulfed by privileges,
such a specter at dreams, while those letters omit a postscript: so crazed
about sensing, so at war with manic memories, while one has become imposing: as
suggested temperature, a wilder fire, where weeds become humans: such enmity,
or such violence, where one is relocated in self: through miseries, ablaze a
clove, while looking into leaves: such song and devastation, our daughter’s
eyes, while afraid to ask those lessons: perfected as a blessing, while it
became a curse, as recently such a reservoir: those brown investigators, this
distant profanity, where mirrors are yelling and ranting and
rescheduling a second session.
