Out of
perspectives. Or just becoming observant. A young seed, looking at father, and
baptized into dysfunction. This social weft, those hazel investigators, so
attuned, so maladjusted, where reality becomes something feeling prospective. Our
daughters those eyes those curious atmospheres. Our crushes as giving lights
our German, Australian, and Scandinavian beaut(s). Or perfect a detriment,
interrogating our parts, while something was purely vicious. At black goons, or
hamster irritants, while a parakeet is missing too much humanness. If but to
adore us, if but to love us, I must be able to believe in us. —for Love is
marvelous, this strange canopy, this hut this island so afar from illusion. As sacrificed
to fires, at demolished sensitivities, to arrange a coming into clarity. Those stalwart
legs. Those chandelier cries. Or fragments pointing at symbols. Our delectable women,
our detestable behaviors, if but an honest voice. But humans are half souls and
humans are half love or something too brilliant is frowned upon. This need for
excitement. This vandalism for passion. To need Love those hours before
settling. Such jute and rope and fibers laughing and having party time; as
kleptomaniacs, stealing heart castles, while un-wrestled and deliberate. This hunt
to hurt, for pass infractions, where nothing is colder than sharing: a man’s
screams, his deeper and unstable demons, where Love is not that woman. Our mothers
in us, our fathers listening, our miracles those closed rooms; while haunted by
secerns, or havoc for cynosures, while tucked for distant analyzing life
passing by; our terrible reasons, our reductions unto absurdities, where Love
needed something forgiving illnesses.
…so
much has passed away. I’ve become tolerant. This life forcing its contracts. Once
so idealist. Once so irritating. Where many are not working with intellectual genetics…that
is to say, many can’t see reason, they have little use for it, this is a
deficit of discipline: our hearts are different, our joys are exploitable,
while using or abusing becomes human war; this small issue, this petit
disagreement, where a little honesty might redeem the situation; but he is
this, and she is that, plus, it’s nobody’s business: (so blessed to see it
work, this older couple, while both knew for discomforts); this us-struggle,
this we-party, so into us, so alive in us, and when he passed, she shortly
followed: this Shakespeare thing, such Beaumont English, re-arrested by Love
each second; as bright determinants, as living propositions, while most are joyous
by seconds….
…so
critical of Love, so designed to flourish by hopes, while most are instrumental
at every breath; this life with careers, and children, and grandparents—where sex
at every churn seems ridiculous; but this is California, where a few arise,
while many are agitated by academia: this whit rant, this inner realization,
where most adjust, move forward, while protecting their castle; as never a
curse, but ever a blessing, as more than a helpmeet, more his survival, more
his friend, more his confidant….
I settle
softly, a bit defeated, realizing we meet many to find the few. So at wars with
me, this mirrored me, while conversation takes a particular color. These nugget
guts, such fragmented howling(s), staring into a piece of paper: searching for
freedom, adjusted to captivity, while running from slavery: those achy ants,
this feudal undertaking, so challenged, so perfected, while true riches are
decidual. Looking to adore a stranger, this perfect excuse, while a stranger
has luggage: this friendly mentor, this cryptic engram, where her dreams are
manifested. Those cooked feelings, this genetic hexagram, or this emotional
pentagram: so infused by methodologies, so comfortable by touch, or so
receptive life never let’s go!
