I
awake mornings, a strong shot, disapproved by millions; looking at skin,
feeling displaced, this heinous design; to hate self, to dislodge self, plus,
something he couldn’t trust; 4 a.m. driving, turning circles, smelling like
smoke; an old friend, an old woman, plus, this triad connection; so many
dreams, a verbal vision, alike to a crooked saint; such survival, such a psych,
those years at elementary; dried eyes, rolling down Venice, looking at a filthy
curb; realized dice, another cigar, speedy a bit; into luxury, into penchants,
a bullet through flesh; a nightmare, a dead friend, an amazing haunting; so remember
mulatto, remember marooned, those years preoccupied; to meet something pure, to
love and adore, to catch a feeling; adrift but adroit, multiple problems, to
share and feel comforts; laying low, those high fences, doing seventy down Wilshire;
an early night, a late morning, swerving and nodding; draped in Gucci, plus, a
nighthawk, looking for something promiscuous; this young sinner, this elder saint,
so capital, so alive, while a sad creature; sleeping on venom, those eyes
screaming, at something a bit perfect; this life in souls, this essence in God,
while a sinner was winning; such pure flesh, such bad habits, this thing we do!
a bit arranged and crazy, but enough to ponder, reliving in daddy’s cries; this
bastard child, this free laced living, so real, so gone, and losing.
Years
would pass, a fresh approach, a trillion dollar woman; this false security,
this frame in psyches, our bodies becoming against us; laughing at trauma, a
ghetto miracle, a college graduate; so cultured, such multiplicity, able to
mingle both circles; releasing passion, infused a writer’s habit, while
mingling in a sainted mind; and serving sin, so close to curtains, such dissonance;
but pain so perfect, our lies life-giving, where trust becomes something
unnecessary; needing souls, believing angels, so sober and catching visions; a
psych’s parade, this neurotic filter, so close to earth it hurts; (I remember that
look, as a man wonders, but Love was perfect her life; to die in us, to live in
us, as two against a nation of souls); our days with wine, our hearts beating,
a drum, a kit, those internal grins; so addicted to sorrows, such pain to
exist, where life was dice; a ten grand gamble, a hot seven, a madman’s return;
(we made lies, we courted, Gorgeous, and beliefs failed to carry the ransom).
These
days enveloped, another swig to life, while many sip in closets—or something by
mimics, or something ambivalent, as watching so hard we missed it; so laid
back, as nothing like adulthood, another way to redeem; such theology, or
poetic epistemology, while a man is so happy to visit; our disasters mourning,
our winnings mourning, our souls mourning; becoming confident, taking life by
dosage, so early to retreat; this life-game, this inner reality, those otiose
imaginings; reframed and booted, kicked to life with something naïve, at a
gamble to make it; this harsh realism, this mountain tablet, while looking to remodel
it; those inner communities, this long line, while each has written a story; to
hear God, to feel Jesus, while Holy Ghost Fever; hands on, or hands off, so
dedicated to above-surviving!
Those
few remaining, re-stitched and patched up, ten knuckles to pain; and mother
died, this heavy shirt, and father followed; but faith this space, this exit
from graves, this forest of souls; watching but ambling, pausing but running,
or examining localities a foci upon winning; this short life, those trillion
agendas, plus, a soul so close; this human existence, piecing melancholia, or
so deep its impossible to quit; and life is cruel, made so easy, while many of
us sabotage self; at caskets daydreaming, at kettles ignoring it, or at
something too mysterious to live it.
