Small
churches. Long lines. And free cheese bricks. Smoldering heat. Sweltering
livers. Inward ghosts. Too afloat to feel. Too deceased to die. Where something
dead is left alone. So, more to problems, and more to suffering, if I get into
gates. Those higher flames. At something crucified. So unsteady—so proud—so
indecisive.
We
polygraph existence—too tensed to breathe—unrealized and dangerous!
Our
measuring cups; as better persons; but still as amateurs. Too close for
freedom. Forces operating pain. While never so exposed.
—Become
comfort. Realize something needy. Come as life has beckoned—. Our palettes
muddy. Our garbage inverted. As something filthy touched a nun. So many
pigments. Such blustering pixels. While triumph becomes freedom. This device in
men. This privilege in women. While antislavery must flourish. Our unloved
violins. So mad as near elated. Or so blessed it became social curse. At deep
soil. Removed from water. And granted a lethal infusion. Those eagles chanting.
This red robin laughing. Or this meerkat whistling. (To believe in you—so
worthy it calcifies—or so asunder our rooms are wheezing).
Our
California daughters. Those diamond interiors. Those surreal analyses. They
read Sophocles. They debate furies. They muse through Stein. Too much
graffiti—too many artists—while Love is passion bottled to seas. This enormous
swan. This enormous lake. To glide and hydroplane. If but for prudent, longing
for clarity, while true discernment sat for years. Our mental projects. Our
mental projections. As incredible debaters. These wrangle lights. These ghetto
plights. Or this terrified Anglican. While torn by condition. Running from
something human. At alleys with newborn pups. To palm cloudy eyes. To resist a
deep chasm. Too cursed to forgive those emotions.
To
reimage us—this prayer in hassles—this polluted graven haven: our smoky graves,
as walking undead, too close to monopolizing mirrors: this fretted frame, this
fretted figure, while ghosts came to partake: those valleys invisible, this
amble so ready, while a swan ate a galaxy: this inner vacuum, those deep
delights, while Love screamed at this soundless dream: our guts sensing trauma,
our souls florists fires, while so indebted to something thinking I could
forget.
In
need of repairs. This tepid furnace. While now aflame midnight.
Love
is a hat, a gown, a series of struggles.
Love
is an artifact, a dungeon, a cage sprouting freedoms.
Love
is delicate, raw, and determined.
Indeed,
Love is without true appreciation.
This
web so encouraged. This darkness speaking Eternity. Those flowers fuming. Those
terrible good hearts. So justified. So vetted. But jury was bias. This hung
guitar. This dangling friendship. While so engraved it’s difficult to un-cry.
Those sentient photos. This swan in excellence. Or so gutted it’s hard to form
fire.
