I
heard a guffaw; I saw a mirror; brains were out and laughing. I felt dying, accursed an angle, where a
phoenix arose and chuckled.
…such
blue grass, such clumped soil, our seas, our earths, our songbirds: to shift
gravity, to listen to vagueness, while consciousness speaks in your direction,
but words address another soul: so printed in ink, so painted in feelings,
while too emotional to eat: at flying eagles, at rising feathers, so featured,
such envy, while we watch others mumble: such dearer strangers, affected unto
lights, while convinced about something egging calamity:
[t]o create
sulfur, in liquidity, while addicted to split existences: roaming cities,
searching out companions, so loyal to catnip: but Love is mahogany, and Love is
majestic, and I really can’t conceive about Love: ache-locks, dyed
sentimentalities, or shared wombs: so excited to become life, so thrilled to
exchange rings, while activities lack concertation: our sweltering weeks, our
impending freezers, our smoldering ice: as, too, so romantic, so cursed, or so
baffled: as mandolins chirping, or hummingbirds hugging, to soar so high up and
fall deliberately: this game by insistence, such finicky behaviors, such torn
insistence: while one is conscious in one direction, where intonation is at
another direction: such mystic science, such mega-concerns, or consciousness your
way, while speaking in another direction: that eerie feeling, as if life was a
riddle, while for many, it’s black for white and nothing in-between: our
candent emotion, our purposed outbursts, where if one is yelling, another has
done something wrong: such a movie, so sincere, and so incorrect….
We
forget trauma, while living trauma, while apologizing for being mistreated:
culprits watch, looking some type of distorted, while agreeing to our miseries:
as flying pains, or outlandish highs, revoked, punished, and sentenced to hell
for taking issue: but Love is sweet, for Love is innocent, if but a thirty
minute encounter: so yonder those mountains, so frequent this might, while in
private comedians are boiling laughing sorrows: so accustomed to lying for
others, or so accustomed to fighting for others, as realized in an instance our
wars for injustice: such terminal trust, such unrelenting acquiescence, as
evidence renews our sense of doubt.
So,
we chance in turquoise, albeit, crazily, we designate science: this mystic
inferno, this welching kinship, those burgundy, drug-bitten eyes: as speaking
to God, affecting you, where a group dug into this present author: to contend
for you, to regroup in you, to realize our Holy Majesty is lodged in you: but
Love is heinous, or Love is broken, or Love is anxious to escape this misery:
so touched by Time, so truthful at tears, to uplift an entire community: such
orison, so ruthless argumentation, at God with the worst in me: so taught to
live, so taught to die, while Paul endured crucifixions: keeping close to self,
arranged a different angle, while daily a new contemplation—a new issue: nay, a
crucifixion, as something plagues and probes, while Love is willing to ignore
this big ass elephant: our tortured minds, our mind-stuff fires, so lost for
days, so found in a dream, while Love watches, takes notes, and feels beyond
our capacities: listening to you, speaking to you, but concentrated on a stranger:
this flippant reality, this frantic windstorm, while emotion sprouts wings and
lands afar a northern current: as placed in others, where something arises,
while affectation becomes communion.
