Into
his casket, living as deranged, seen as piranha—lucky to die, forfeited to
darkness, or lucky to live; abashed and hectic, revealed and concealed, so much
to love and never touch; this cadence wound, this woman’s scar, while accursed
for heinous existence. So polished, so lethal, so insensitive; born with
jewels, abused and dead, but conversing with Jesus. This Adam hearse, this
Abram curse, where I never participated; so unfriendly, so destitute, at
moonshine this mystic forgiveness; so long this road, so crazed this vulture,
to steam go elated and scare scarecrows. I’m not there, this empty ass room,
this maniac chasing brains; as flippant bowels, or uneasy liquor, while perfection
is passing judgement; as never a need, filled with greed, and God requires her earth;
this plagued gut, this speckled growl, while nerves are abashed and deadly. Our
lazy relations, to give as we damn well please, while expecting pure loyalty.
But enough of that monocle, and more this inimical, our lives are up for
counsel; if but to exist, this vat and cigar, our days counting
cobblestones. Unpack trauma, look
closer, and ask, Is Love incapable of dying; this rebel at Petco, this
parakeet getting riches, our souls flippant with agonies; so frantic our
desire, to have and need, to relax and lose—our gut-empires, our minds with
levity, our bodies needing beautiful lovers; this talk he held, this property
he forsook, while Love rather her daughter’s deaths; so unfair, a garbage of
lights, a sewer so revealing; to die with God, as a nihilist creature, so at
Kierkegaard for language; our dead palms, this loud ass nail, to snatch rebuke
and bleed; sipping damn near noon, alert and livid, so conscience it’s become damn
near sickening. I bit sunrise,
damaged as goods, but Love adored us; this flimsy courage, this in time with
deaths, while adored for polished; so rustic, so rusty, but damn near a ghoul;
ghetto love, ghetto anguish, while Love just gave birth. That old trailer, that
addict’s park, if but to feed for a month; so banished over-there, so alive
over-here, a little to a baby’s gums; old wives, new women, where anything is
appealing; this old thing, this feeling gin, while a dead-man was survival to
win; headed closer, as abused with crimes, while a man can never tell; our
seven tears, our five wounds, our three Theists. It was hell, Mystic, it was years, Mystic,
but God was training Mystics—aborted in this, resurrected in trash bins, and
jumped out, even leaped out, and cut ambilocal cord; this nub left, this belly
button, this white hand; our cosmetics, our comedy, our cosmic furnace; so
rejected by hells, but chased by hells, where a man isn’t fair enough to kill;
at blue agony, our purple royalties, so gifted no one is listening; if but a
red tide, if but a green horizon, to love so ruggedly; this jagged miracle,
this graphed daughter, while a man so to his deaths; at agonies and cured, at
women and dying, but passion twists in blue turquoise; this glasshouse, this
PCH, at sunset and debating; a fifth with Hindus, a scripture with Catholics,
or perfect behavior our addicts; so gutted and rugged, so aloof and demented,
while Love ignored racism for years; this battle so real, as losing everything,
in order to bring us back!
It
was a wish, it became a thief, while Love hasn’t missed a step. It was curious days,
a life sentence, while Love is rollercoasters. As young mimics, this terrorized
adversary, this blood black plague, as never a different title. A broken guitar, a flute for spirits, a
phantom swooshing nightly. A daughter at hurt, a mother her being, a
stepfather so at calmness. Or grandpa, feeling awkward, and maybe with
conscienceness. At granny rebuked, at uncle a deep truth, while a daughter her
stories. But mother knows, and mother lives, while something unorthodox has
taken place. This flesh thing, this step-thing, at guts and laughing if but not
for crumbling. So loud to me, so clear to me, while Love would first tell
smaze. This smoke thing, this God thing, while Jesus serves us! A deep miracle.
A blatant irony. While it feels acceptable!
