…most
occupied by darkness, this reservoir of lights, while committed by insistence;
those murky charms, or murky swamps, our memories upon murky twigs; to find our
minds, uncoiling vines, such penchants and zeal; given tragedy, too young to
introspect, and famished for more dysfunction; dead grass, not a whit of
our existential, so quick into habits; our mowing frustration, our loquats and
lemons, so involved in people’s business; awesome antics, fantastic feelings,
at love proving indifference; those miles and milieus, those million dollar
excuses, while bundled by continuity; this autumn by memory,
somehow that remembering person, while one can’t claim his persona; where was I
in spring, who was I in fall, how am I the same person? but pain is a reminder,
in this carriage of faces, where time stitched mortality; those boxes
outside, this familiar box inside, our days to playing house; unheard listeners,
pains and growths, shooting our pellet guns; small rekindling, at so many
bottles, a glimpse of ghetto intestines; too young when it started, to fancy a
remedy, thus, growing with venom secrets; abased and laughing, finding such
felicity, but old enough to make distinctions; our neighbors so vigil, this
thing about sugar in cigarettes, our souls absorbing miles per second; our realized
selves, or those bombastic arguments, while living out ghetto cartoons; our
days and dates with lady recognition otherwise known as profanity;
so delirious with sanity, demanding sanity, insomuch as to ruin anything with
sanity—our night movies, such highway traffic, where we knew not our worth; as
far too close to home, relived in an instance, while typing through
experiential visions; our smaller dreams those diary feelings where it appears
as idealisms: our homes in gardens, our freedom to achieve, while these
elements were true….
…years
become moments, studying sequences, enveloped in patterns; ears burning or
minds itching occasioned by interior ghosts; brains acting upon bodies, hearts
clear across cities, or women pretending we’re stronger; hereinto this dungeon
of cobwebs our reflections playing pantomime music; the sights are different
the people are displaced but spirits as only a batch of syrup; a flower for
pity so hyper in our ways while repeating our growth spurts; to sing forever,
upon golden petals, our lungs filled with roses; acclaiming sunshine, redeeming
moonshine, such reasoning, such rites, given much to relate…if but this Hulk
figure, somewhere in our faces, taking so much of our vitalities; as given to
balance, this filmed ache, with hints of contradiction…our vaguest continuity,
our reasons for our actions, where one asserts, I am no longer that
person….
…carving
into wood, resketching identities, and moved by becoming gentle; another big
film, another existence, and such blaring silence; so convinced by emotion, so
adored for feelings, where sincere honesty is difficult to locate; this
marketing globe, those marketing voices, where a small percentage reflect
social mirrors; our trips through galaxies, our memories required—if but to
claim persistence; as sugarcane children, running through tall grass, and rushing
int ocean salt; the onion seabirds, or those tomato songbirds, or those mockingbirds;
as shifting reality, where body becomes evidence, but we can’t claim our
two-year-old selves; this little person, and here’s my picture, while one says,
That isn’t you; we wrestle and kick, but something is clear, I have
nothing of what I had in that picture; for everything changes, in every seven
years, so continuity becomes something intangible; again, the unseen,
supports the seen—in a galaxy of mindstuff photo-mannikins and screams….
