…surrounded
by mirrors—so extinct and breathing, such elevated despair: those daughter
eyes, this bluegrass scream, so addicted to this craft…. To die tragedy; to
relive a missile; raging over jewelry ink. Sweating. Laughing. And breaking
hydrants. Palming a puppy. Unmasked and naked. Inclined by miracles. At aches
and diamonds and rhino-bones. Those trepid eyes, this trepid discovery, while
asking, looking, where squirming is illegal. Removed. Giggling. Or slumped into
something precious. Those wide worldly kittens. Those inquisitive angry
ferrets. As above this light, but beneath this horizon.
I miss something. And I’ve lost
something. And humans are different. …our casual appeal, as dying its
inheritance, so terrified to win…. This odd reality. This responsibility. Those
crude remarks. As a man digs, another shovels, while a man digs to hurt. Our
seashore trails. Our defiant rhythms. Rebuilt, shoveled to gators, surviving by
entrails. Those terrible feelings—so vocal, where enchants seem appealing. Those
ghost ears, those phantom cries, evolved, too, steep, so devasted—at pure
venom, so apologetic, but willing to perish—if but to exist, if but to keep
pleasures, while something is becoming half-dead—this interior grumble, those
indifferent eyes, where it shouldn’t, but deaths are becoming normal.
At tragic guts, lost in fantasy,
streaming our familiar pond. Our lakes with marrow. Our skies with intestines.
Or this garden running down Pacific Coast Highway. While eyes are gawking, and
tears are umbrellas, so forced into carrying this fence. If but to escape. If
but to dream. If but voices given unto sopranos. Our local sharks. Our ceiling
machetes. Or those imaginary swords unlocking Eden. Our picked pies. Those
cherry plum gum wrappers—at something too terrible to suggest. Underlying
friction. Undertowing frustration. To again request, with vehemence, this
anti-agony. If but to resurrect. If but to scream unto majesty. If but to shift
dramatically. As tried tired souls—rummaging old cedarchests—too melancholic to
grieve.
Solidarity. Paradox. And gravity. To
trot with horses. To leap with deer. Or to run in circles like chipmunks. Those
strange foci; this stringent activity; while it means the world to animals. To
pet a lizard, to stream a chameleon, or to arrange those floating fangs. Such
strange processes. Or radical insights. While so convicted over something
insidious. Our wayward intentions, this wayward projection, while mad
concerning full headlights. This stubborn camel. Our whispering approach. But
nothing hates like something hiding poison. This talkative gate—those
whispering rumors—where certain people know us from A to Z.
Our loci maps, indebted to
scientists, while love is too frail to debate. It’s a mere title. Beneath it
are an array of attributions. This is what we call love’s substance. Why do
you adore me? (Because you’re genetic, you glisten, plus, we share this world’s
reception: you chance existence, you dance resistance, moreover, you think
clearly: indeed, you vibe in us, you tribe and fuss, and you’re alive as unsaid
stars: such a brilliant mind, such a dynamic wit, plus, where it counts, you
exploit rain).
Barely
a glimmer. Our diagnosed ache. Where some are granted indemnity. As never
taught about love—as never held accountable—where insistence appears as truths.
Those axioms. Our softer locations. To look upon something too precious to
believe otherwise.
