by places
too dark to explore where ‘normal’ becomes outlandish and critics point and
prod and discover behaviors; a slew of fences plus sandy-blond grass and a
broken lawnmower; dolls in streets and stray canines hungry while little Jimmy
just brought home a bull terrier; our homes with fleas but Jinny is ecstatic
for she found a friend that listens. I sense a felling or abnormality or
something too gray to defog. This future this welt this complexion or something
a bit alarming; this accepting space those wings this choregraphed harmonica or
something so aloof it feels good to decode it. I could but surprise us this
mother those screams those demons; as left alone where family knew while a son
played multiple accommodations. This fist of fire this friend dying or this
film on repeat; our restless honors or this world or mestizas where a
quadroon is raking pertinent questions; but to whom this night or to whom
adequate answers while a soul ponders in pure dissatisfaction; this melting-pot
this ghetto made for survival while looking at something too possessed to gain
clarity; our minds needing jazz our souls harboring blues or our icons deserted
for crystals. This daughter in plaids or this mother steep in concentration
while some thoughts are more important than others: if but a new Chevy or a
bomb ass woman or a pocket screaming with thousands—but rarely, if but college!
we met
by mistake or happenstance or something metaphysical; or maybe she was sent nor
did I contend while new things took place; but a silent unspoken man or a radical
survivor where one is bold in writing, a bit sensitive to reading ears, but
humble and imperceptible is public; this private wish so lost in dreams as
redeemed a second in adoring something gentle; this game in blood, where deep
work-ethic becomes flowery and astute, but also tentative and dismissive; we
crave for such people, this rounded personality, this sweet nuance at something
resisting captions; those old ghettoes or this realism in Beverly Hills nor was
one so lost but those moments; so used at segments so abused in fragments to
have arrived at deciding those gray avenues; a true human something fretting
our behaviors for most are accustomed to something scandalous; we confuse such
creatures we believe in such creatures and we place burdens on such creatures
divested of certain facts: Love is human and Love makes mistakes and our
responses determine how deeply this relationship shall journey.
I sought
serious sensuality or green gorgeous generalities in a world wretched and
winsome. I thought about screams and silence or chaos and conclusion assailed
and mailed back to ghettoes. I found a few mixtures and dined where men die but
Angelica was penchant purple pleasures. But it was good to meet them and it was
hell to vanish neatly while something glimmers a new horizon while remaining
unvetted. Those terrific calamities or those bright dark lights at something symmetrically
awkward: this beautiful worn-down salaciousness this candle in deeper windows
or this negligee too heavy to maintain; our trips from slums to appearances if
but to locate similar behaviors while Love is adored for looking cleanness.
I could
love aimlessly in this game of foreshadowing where an audience sees something
the author has mistaken’d; either a brilliant cloud, or a hesitant apricot, nor
was pain too secluded to initiate a convert; but dancing was forbidden and
racial slurs have been committed in a world making jest right before our eyes;
as days appear and nights join for circus where clowns and pantomimes converse
over misery beers: while Love is something normal and art is something most tragic
where communication is forever hampered by core-views.
