Ghetto Mystics

We ate slop. Shucks! We deliberated with gnats. At deeper mysticism—aloof to logic—until reason challenged faith. This despair leap—this antenna honesty—where mirrors question multiple lies. Our chameleon beauty. This skyglass intrusion. Somewhere agonizing. But days The Goodness. But cries framed in sentiments. With pain budding into roses. A bit slanted. At thoughts with marigolds. Or driving an hour into Westchester—to reverse in angst, as adrift upon Sunset, where several visions those Hindu Shrines. While never so much, or ever so intense, where we retreat with fallen glades. This pile of pyre. Those fanatic brides. As Westerners—feeling offended. Our casual, do for dust, if but for riches—those mental fences, this emotional algebra, at sky-hexagrams or feeling phones—those rigid screams, an infant needing mother, as fed a bottle—or teetering disgusts, a dead father, but so alive those prison gates…those rebuked tears, this wave with life, this cut, this ruin, those stars, this podium.

            I dream of dynasties. I vogue in Kerry, or grumble this life. Our souls threshed. Our minds computing particles. Our guts fretted. Indwelling energies. Inward huts. At this longer beach. Such wavering arts. Such rich forgiveness. While it splays something to character. At reasoned fantasies. Applying logic to phantasms. Or needing something most are unable to retrieve. Our miracle epiphanies. While doubting epiphanies. Where doubt has become intimate. Pondering, Conventicle; or raving while alone; at something so fantastic. Our private thumps. Our integral pianos. Where it was nice to pretend seduction. A deep secret. A deeper reality. While language becomes unphysical. Those pictureless seconds. Those pictureless intensities. Where an expert put emotion to graphs. At tragic clarity. A tragic umbrella. Too cursed by sadness. Those interior therapists. Or this inter-intellectual psych. Or one so concerned for me.

            We sense patterns. Rereading Mirabai: I am mad with love:

I am mad with love 
And no one understands my plight. 
Only the wounded 
Understand the agonies of the wounded, 
When the fire rages in the heart. 
Only the jeweler knows the value of the jewel, 
Not the one who lets it go. 
In pain I wander from door to door, 
But could not find a doctor. 
Says Mira: Harken, my Master, 
Mira's pain will subside 
When Shyam comes as the doctor.  

I’ve needed a doctor. As found a doctor. While so stressed about doctor. At too many doors. Knocking but unheard. Or members are hiding on the floor. I Am sick with fury. This furious attraction. While unreasoned to express tandem tangibility. No one knows, but this gray sky, as Love articulates Love. So injurious. Or so lesion-wide. While cut for thwarted. Those otiose seconds. To feel The Goodness. As angels disappear. To rewrite daisies. To regift a prayer. Or to become insistent. This shorter life. Those immortal Love. While contemplating—go oceans!