…pavement
roses, and ruth creeping, so heavy, so silent, looking like suspicion; those
days at feelings, those dreams with violence, where a man unravels his soul; alumni
sorrows, illuminati Medicare, or syndicated miseries; such dissonance, those
cognitive thoughts, while a man synthesizes; antithetical thetics, a melic
voice, by hoist and rain; Rome as meme, to thrum so hectically, to arrive by
theories; our pain, Passion, our grief, Laughter, at rage cage and slaves;
according with wilderness, flimsy or cryptic, so delectable a pure fire;
reimagined, at core principles, fraught by both trespass and transgression;
that dissonant voice, this dissonant feeling, or ramped cacophonies—at air-caves,
or acapela, fair those triangular circles; to possess until—this rising rave,
where rules became apparent; so coarse those agonies, such a push into madness,
plus, Lauryn, as ever sadness—this mystic lake, this mystic meadow, this cryptic
shadow; so religious in you, such a portico for you, those white bells asunder
for you; this store run, this filthy wretchedness, at final-call—those laughing
eyes, this fool for perfect, this moment we created; so incumbent, upon mother
and father, to snatch mid-winds; accustomed to costumes, revving against apathies,
such language between two so close; assonance in spirits, searching for vowels,
vowed as one value; our courage to battle, while kneading dough, at doubts, but
don’t listen—this growing into sulfur, this surf, at ruff occasions; too grown
to submit, too old to war Christ, while too sacred to ignore silence;
such a journey
such a journal such a heart-cymbal; at terrible treble, enveloped for you, so tamed
right now, fearing that old hyena, where we feel aggression rising unto
venting;
this
uncaged feeling, this wheel spinning, at dice and vice, at vim and stem—abused to
fly, this trap in seriousness, our eyes
so variegated;
those
longer stories, our children excited, and it feels like winning....
I know your name,
this is all I know, while snow trickles into warmth; this running fever, this
blizzard ocean, our seas so high and rounder corners; to imagine light
wrangling, deductive arguments, postulates and posits; empirical dice, laughing
over silence, at some literary assignment; appearances worldwide, epic tales,
or a blued-eyed quadroon; this blessing in me, this societal curse, so arranged
to mourn unto glowing; our hypervigilance, our hypersensitivity, our planted peculiarities;
reading closely, disheartened by culture, so dramatized; our trauma from life,
our webs so critical, to give but death in order to outwit death; at convicted
aches, probing delicacies, while tugging and pulling this centered sky; always
there, always diligent, so cute, and so controlling.
…a
young legend speeding a zenic design so caught by omic eyes;
swami
pain at limbic tables accursed or sung as surviving our love;
mesto diamonds, this lea in
veins, this mothership; so attacked to adore, to taste, to feel more than objective;
this arable landscape, those trucks and tractors, or such courage to challenge
our compass; jota dances, or cultic Shiloh, afoul racing thoughts; to
walk with memories, to develop private language, to irritate those meaningful
allies; our courage to divest but life, to rid those singing, while threshed
and threaded and knitted by something irrevocable; The Lord’s Brine, The Lord’s
Time, our captive and controversial scientific warfare; blessed by graves,
uprooted by genetics, our meta-realism.
