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and language and fury. Or life and pleasure and pursuits. As creatures or
behavioral projects. / Reading something persistent. Or looking at fury’s monocle.
Such hectic catharses— Clutching and clenching and carpet. / Tavern rain.
Shielded but collapsing. Such shame and candescence. / Meeting ourselves. Remodeling
our projects. But tugged by something destructive. / Indebted to miracles. Remaining
unspoken. But aflame at integrals. / City music languishing. Portrait halls disintegrating.
Or tragically, our self-image but confetti.
I see ambition, it
pictures as arcs, it lives as torments.
Sunlit
cigars, pints of fury, while Love watches. I rewind memories—I gesture at birthstones—such
terrible tragic terrors. So in this space, or so distant this space, rummaging
this ocean of sands. Our droplet guts, frenzy or divinity, madness or ‘transmitters.
Such confusion, peering into blackness, a bit losing focus. This blur of
demons, this island of capacities, our mountains speaking insanity. So dark
they say, listening to hailstorms, remaking existence. Our binoculars, our kaleidoscopes,
where properties seem to vanish. Our intellects, our intuitions, if but to work
in unison. As dreams knit softly, or hells dissipate, while curious concerning meanings.
This tilting love, our abandoned nevermore, our deep epistemic whatness.
As men restructured, or women trying licenses, while needing prolific
acclaim. Our beating drums, our screaming clarinets, so vacuumed so neat or
pictured above chaos. This interior sea, this hill over yonder, or this
downward crawling; at deep abyss, or re-junctures, while juries live in our
mirrors.
I felt
wood and petted a canine and lit a clove. This daughter bodhi, this
static cycle, while samsara is metaphysical. At practical concerns,
leading our deserts, a palm of dryness; as obedient existence, or rebels alone,
or to find a group: our similar thoughts, our superior countenances, our
repulsion for some estuary; too crazed for public life, too dreary for private
compass, or longing for an image in our guts; at some crucial impasse,
absorbing some crucial doctrine, while demonizing an entire generation. I ponder
more—this karmic reality, wondering about this curse upon future and
present generations. But it states clearly—Upon those that hate me—nevertheless,
this life feels crooked. Something is good, and something is bad, while
rereading this yen and yang theory. So much a stranger, asking
for participation, where, over-there, life might be incredible. I speak of
drinking; I smoke cloves; and I stir conscienceness. These remarkable reasons—while
something lingers—this abrasive scar!
Is
it for love—or sincere protection—or is it hiding a vicious peg?
