to explore riches, to meet with grayness, to
envelope something critical; Beijing eyes, a fortress crumbling, such pride and
such anger; fields burning, cities laughing, so accused of adoring injustice;
our body textures, our mismatched assumptions, as rare to bone cleaving but
unsocial; at base ingredients, to re-understand scruples, so sliced and
behaving in anguish; such vexation, such gopher holes, this life splashed-out
paints; an artist writing, reknitting our habits, our faces sprawled about
Phoenix; such revving tragedy, such heinous bliss, while everyone tries to
escape; never wean us, Father, as needed in deaths, Father, such deficit and
ghosts and memories; utter loses, friendly harbingers, so kept in a secret
unraveling; to know by purpose, to fancy a novel, to un-furnish such reckless,
vicious deception; this flesh so warm, this battle so furtive, while reception,
full reception, is so frugal; sublime seconds, furious lovemaking, to collapse
while screaming; this dear intrigue, this meaning in love, while it meant so
little; vaginal symmetry, a tiger in wombs, while a man might try harder; this
battle for you, this trenchant curse in you, while a gentle lovingness became a
small child in you; so hopeless, so angry, while healing is required; cotton
sensitivity, melodrama with purpose, and such wreck-yard demonstrations; while
art became fugitive, and rain was pouring, while a man was houses and screams;
riding through cities, captive in flowers, where nothing is by significance but
you.
our casual graces, so dignified, where dialogues
are monitored; such familiar archaic language where that man is suffering and
our daughter is an unsuspecting bystander; she tries so hard and never misses a
mark where these men are plain unscrupulous;
a terrifying reality, to have never missed a mark,
as this perfect wife, this superior nun; such grace and pain in this land of
demons and ethnic insanities; as the only innocence left, such a communicator,
and never would infect another soul; our caricature, this broken credenza, our
something echoing in those previous souls; as a content lose, or a content
realization, while always this part as victim; never a confliction, never
cantankerous, and never so ill-gotten our grass is cringing; so loving and kind
and gentle where one uses something so perfectly abused;
but tomorrow has a mirror, and earth is speaking
secrets, while one or two are oblivious; this secret we hold, after taking our
showers, our good jeans, our perfumes; but senseless to speak, for he speaks
lies, for she never has and never would; I know this, for training was
impeccable, and we always led by those high standards; there every day, testing
morals and values, and instilling purity; those lying screams, those inconsistencies,
where one raised a numbing veil.
such beauty in souls this island of behaviors so
special to so many; needing this life of pains and daisies where lavender has
never tasted so sweet; sunburst responses, sunbeam kisses, while wondering
these elements; to know such trust, such rich abandonment, into effervescent
arms; budding in your garden, as never an inconsistency, while Love could never
lie to her best-friend; our children learning but replication, as
mini-projectiles, galloping and choir practice and hours just absorbing; (I can’t
help this science, where it doesn’t matter how we live, dope houses, capricious
behaviors, or out-and-out dysfunction, plus, drug abuse…we will not change,
whatever happens let it be, and to hell with anything that arc); so, I’ll destroy
self in order to free self where reality has become blatant; those rajah techniques,
reconvincing core spaces, re-tricking this mind, where we are not concerned about
reality.
