I river
this life. Painting as time whistles. Reborn in seconds. / A tiny fishnet. An
invisible pain. While hardness means rapture. / Our watery rinsing(s)—such spectacle
and damnation or cleaving to something harmful. / Those imperfect cries. This
endless misery. While aching and joyous. / An inner feud. Our dynamic
tug-of-wars. Prepared in fragments. / Such belligerence. Such bewilderments. Or
such broken wire. / Filmed in color. Understood by color. At woes about
happenstance. / So enlove those ventures, so incredibly unconscious, seated in
converse with Nebuchadnezzar—so thunderstruck, so unidentified, walking into
perdition; those dreary lakes, this hillside confusion, our years wondering
about simplicity; our broken belts, our soundless bells, at chi rising
into sorrow; our misty feelings, our passionate emotions, at dear life pitching
petals; as time would float, this grave or ashes, our permanence such delusion;
while asking for indivisibility, while needing crystallization, while uncaged
and raging into liaisons—where days are illusions, or wedges are challenged, a
bit tired of protective indifference.
I speak
to self, a little intolerant, asking concerning myriad mistakes. Such a
linchpin hedge—such oath and devotion—where sages rend in mud and leaves. Such
pampering, as needed this pilgrimage, while too much is imbalance; our equal
distressors, our musical fires, arranged and cloaked and standing in soreness;
our polite dismissals, our desire to extract compassion, while angered devoid
of disclosure; this guessing for rain, this responsibility for uneasiness,
while self-reflection is often bias; a numbing songbird, a weeping grackle, or
a loud and determined nightingale; those channels, those innate receptors, where
discomfort means others are wrong; an unbound furnace, a refined soul, where
too much became rage; a distressed countenance, a silent inquiry, sitting
patently, analyzing Lauryn Hill; listening to pure anguish, fighting to
believe, in desperation for rhythmic evidence; too metaphysical, or too
pragmatic, or a tyrant harping over epistemology; so nihilist, so
deontological, or so immoral life has a numbing sensation.
I see
a stranger—approaching from afar—in this ruminating desert. I offer water; I converse
for seconds; and our stranger passes into darkness. Such fairer beauty, to have
prolific verse, to ignore and it be gone—this secret hell, this penchant
surprise, where mystics are focused upon experience; as precedence, pouring
into a flagon, or wavering a wagon; at too many facades, at too many
desperations, while panic is detrimental; seaquake attraction, earthquake
denial, where reality disagrees; our longing bodies, our driven minds, while
actuality is saying, No; our ignorant ears, drifting by twilight, always
needing something incredible; as uprooting pavements, or redesigning
excitements, so accursed it feels normal to cogitate; folklore romances,
periods in history, our aches so literary; as men at love, or women knitting
love, where something else is taking place; as able to keep home, able to adore
children, plus, able to maintain a calming aura.
This
inward journey—a man as mentor, a man as counsellor—where rule and regulation
shared their domain. Focused upon skies. Revving for determined. While watching
Determinant Theorems. This daily soul-born plateau, our cloud-born berries,
while reflection is often outward. If but to realize, if but to address this
endless person, as crucial towards survival. Our aches and rituals. Our sensitive
particle souls. As needed to discern patterns. Or maybe too excited—longing for
mutuality—while needing a sensitive nudge. Such as life, our pregnant hours, so
restored, or so reborn, forced to compromise. This existence, our taking
nature, while instincts elope with anger; such dogwood, such tiny twigs, while
kneeling in underbrush.
