This
rude mirror. Unsewn. Dying. Or kleptomania.
To
voice resistance. As cleaving clarity. While mirrors are spatial.
Such
dear apologies. Such rising dead. At cadence a heart such flame. Those rapid
hertz. Those red stars. So mad—so transparent—without explanation. There so
close. If but that second. To find life in forgiveness. Our skipped souls. Our
blood genetics. To find angst was wrong. This hated poet. This rebuking
republic. Or a woman pointing to illness. Our illogical friendships. Our
unreasonable arguments. Where purple prayers are palatial. This critique
watching. This comedic vandal. Our homes so filled with silence. As needed
grays. To own our materials. While sorting through social codes. This plant by
rubrics. Our re-representations. At our best mimics. Such ambivalent bars. Too
low to die. Too high to sail. Our master projects. This mirror person. Or this
straggly rug. Such dream-rill daughters. This dale so intricate. This shrubbery
quite talkative.
Such
rhapsody. This literary mechanic. Our dread filled analyses.
It
was long dynamite. There were hell caves. But someone escaped. She longed for
senses. She fought for freedom. And she returned with keys. So unlocked.
Listening to tongues. To find pleasure in killing knowledge. This fretted
reality. This group of buckets. While dunking nonsense. Something missing. As
always something missing. While fighting for correlation. This person in there.
This salute to mirrors. While so disconnected from actuality. Our veins
distorted. Our bowels pleading. Our ceilings quite harsh. To remove insistence.
To rebuild distance. While celestial an inspired daughter. This free fire—this
fixed fledgling, at fields and flurry.
Rhapsodes
gathered. They spoke in Homer. Ion claimed superiority. Socrates laughed. This
military farce. While deep skill is not a poet’s life. So cruel. So unmet.
While divine madness carries structure. Our brave hours. Our ladders to
libraries. Our professors speaking incandescence. The mad genius. Our mad luxury
ghettoes. Our madness pains. As seeping into daughters. To have that universe.
So killed. So reborn. Such a magnetic tragedy.
This
damn mirror. This honest and disrespectful ass mirror.
Searching
for static Truth. Or pointing at bendable truths. As immortal legislators. So
locked in Love. Or so faraway from Love. This position about everything.
Our
facts true blights. Our whimsy so intimate. Our imitation brought to lights. As
full charged souls. At Love for deaths. Or encouraged to play tennis. This
flippant mirror. This cursed forever. While this poem is wrong. For something
yearns. So closed but expressed. But it isn’t by sameness. As thoughts get
emotion. Or daughters get thoughts. Where mother is too gray. This fret in
groins. This sackcloth observation. Our swans so cursed but existence. At
something didactic. Our faces forward. But Love is lost. This booger trickling.
This brain computing. At mother’s caresses, smelling like cognac. Our destinies
sewn into phantasms. By speech irony. Or Socratic Irony. So inclined to rev
without understanding. Where appetites are feared by Plato.
