…does
it bellow, born in chains, racing for freedom; so much so, it aches, it
screams; abandoned there, spatial and redeemed, but lower than a turtle; that
mischief water-cave, those terrible calls, but a phone, but a demon, but
soundless cries; such raw suffering, a long time whistling, a longer time
galloping; to arise in beauty, thrust by glamour, abused to witness it;
wobbling senses, retrenched and amazing, by touch so terrific; burgundy eyes, a
bag of snow-works, so alerted by action; crooked lines, straight abbreviations,
reevaluated diamonds; as but a child, running through projects, pausing at
camps nearby….
…it
appears as proposition, or something viable, or a series of suppositions; our suggestive
lakes, our skiing miseries, so perfect a dream but rarely attached; to sit in
memories, looking at those culprits, where a mother proffers an excuse; this
dead feeling, those killing gazes, or drenched in a teepee; aloud with
radiance, held forth in measurements, while reeking above average; our days
trying to forgive, our years as moral agents, our evidence requiring healings;
but pain is intimate, plus, a reservoir, so cold to me, or so enlove with me;
an opalescent casualty, a willing victim, while art paints tragedy in big black
pictures; a tidbit for deaths, a telephone to Jesus, or a plastic article
floating near seas; an ocean house, a unicorn tree, some sort of fantasy—this rain
in dramas, this edifice cemetery, or walking softly waiting a divine nudge;
fitful ants, wildflower hormones, or underpinning hostilities; to have become
this station, to have lived such violence, snatching nicotine truths; ashtrays
laughing, a young sinner without sins, or an honest man carrying too much
literature; where this is life, this is winning, those screams afforded a dying
rescue; hail-fire, rumored souls, and days since choir rehearsal….
…does
it scream, this intense singing, to look at naïve souls; has mother come, has
mother cried, has she plead to change—to resurrect, to be the best stranger, to
renew something delicate; this fierce fire, this fiercer lunatic, while
awakened at 4 a.m.; that ensuing argument, those disastrous occupations, or
plain deceit angered it wasn’t believed; as damn the deception, as damn it’s
blatant, but such and such called me on it; that damn fool, that radiant
misery, while I need a certain level of inclusion; and please listen, society
has rejected them, so they need us to redeem self-interest; this painful
existence, told for more trauma, while receiving demands more deception; this
furious flame, our terror with tragedy, while more pain becomes our gripping
death claw; indeed, so low there, such fury there, while peace and quiet means,
I’m losing you….
…wrenching
deep denial, as never you could, and so debilitated; this fraud life, this
discouraged existence, so perfect in plain sight; to ache a heartbeat, to
cringe a thump-call, where leaves are falling deciduously; henna illusions,
statuettes in turpentine, our bodies washed in melancholia; this man-fool, this
idealist without suitability, cooing but reckless; cards speaking poetry,
mother ten years pregnant, a griffin at this alley-wave; rigged beauty, to know
for lies, while needing something it couldn’t exist; from where this life,
agonizing blue shivers, at tremors with Job—so cursed for goodness, so blessed
with dejection, praying for Anne Sexton….
…but
never us, our mail in clouds, our disease killing our souls, someone those
intimate groans; so dead in me, so close to me, while flippant and transference;
this familiar cut-link, this psych a bit those channels, this alien needing
more currents; afloat a night-scare, tremors and guts, fueled but dying; this
crazy adult-life, this old diary, our sin and worries at bold confidences….
