…we
wrote eulogies, wondering by language, so hay-like about frustration; our beliefs
in jeopardy, our sewn fathers, our indemnified mothers—such monopoly on
addiction, such deep alienation, while spending decades attempting by normal
practices; or so edified, so captured, so dignified; to sense something
subversive, something rummaging at gut level, so realized as incomplete…. I change
attire, sparking fury, a bit sluggish, though; our faucet is running, there’s an
have eating slice, but nothing is normal; those dark feelings, we re-channel, listening
to speech patterns; seated and pointing, filled by absolution, but granny was quite
nice; this essence in elders, so rich with experience, enjoying blissful
tragedy; coming to gates, flushed and worried, where a Book is summonsed. The more
I read, the more I realize, this essence in mania; such divine madness, or
supernal inspiration, where poets outwitted Plato; this essence in speech, this
suspicion about written word, while emphases were given to soul-gut responses;
this free reality, those tender motivations, while sophists were hard hitting
machines.
…social-pseudo
agonies, rethinking this picture-graph, or our pharmakon; such bleak
imitation, such heart-core worship, so designed to smile gently…. I thought
about freedom, and never for granted, but each freedom has its domain; such an
experiential claim, such a troubling posit, where many are running out of
postulates; this mimesis ousia, this Greek Astringent, or fire from
Egyptians; our worlds relocated, our pride in women relocated, their faith in
us remanufactured; our reaching theologia, our minds sick for Sophia,
our lenses foggy, dusty, and out of focus; to adore so sweetly, upon thoughts
so surface, while body language seems unfair.
I trade
feelings, this deeper communion, while smiling with inspiration; but it shouldn’t
matter, by a given language, when used to articulate phenomena;
notwithstanding, a particular claim, where all scripture came by divine
intervention; indeed, a corner, but here’s a thought, must divine inspiration operate
by certain confines; if so, each thought must drip in from on high, and such
must be thoughts we have never conceived; or rather, our divine inspiration,
might lead us to our libraries, where we locate material articulating Our Lord’s
Intention.
I never
saw it that way, it wasn’t a primary viability, thus, it did not live in my
genetics; it was subconscious reservoir, it was unconscious frustration, plus,
it was vitiated the moment I turned away; but fire seemed prominent, so alert
in possibilities, where existential boundaries hadn’t reared into full affect;
those delicate hands, that self-conscious everything, while it appeared to me
one afternoon: this familiar energy, as if stricken with dynamite fear, or
realizing something one might have to live with; those nice rubies, those
polite rubies, those death defying rubies!
I close
in strife, hectic over concerns, felt but not full kenosis; but a scar
on behavior, but embarrassment to families, where roots and circumstance only
count for others; but woe is me, and death is life, where most would have
chunked up their infancies; so strained and informed, so cautious and needing
absolutes, if but our concrete humans; this fair sickness, this saluted
monument, if but to apologize, walk away, and never conjure up that feeling again;
this true enterprise, those green-hazel eyes, or sable darks in shadows; to
love but a feeling, to get so close to dead poets, as many trusted in Divine
Providence; to know as unready, to ask for walking away from joys, while living
with something unhappily; this need in humans, to strive deeply, to acquire a
certain prestige; if but to live and dine and romance as intellectual equals.
