…just
my life, feigning location, socially different—at torn disgraces, at mountainous
pain, so alive those inappropriate channels; to run through woods, so naked, so
pure, while awakening in cities; this blight control, this last meal, so cursed
and at love; what for it, dreaming in Jesus, but feeling sorrow, but dead a
leaf and gone; musing Freda, this powerful symbol, while life resorts its
principles; so electric, so hurt, forgiven for wrongness; and what was it,
flipping fences, studying roofs, related in something melanin; such fruit in
art, our homogeneous artists, a few losing; this individual, this proffered
voice, so diced and minced, fiddling with Jesus; at a deep concern, battling
his heart, looking at an old friend; this den of sacrifices, this Daniel
Empire, while aloof to something too much of that; this glass, this patience,
this hour; golden scars and blood, filth mud and regions, while love deigned to
eat suffering; it couldn’t work, it couldn’t prosper, while lit and dominated
by filth; our skeleton bones, our paint with history, while most don’t give a
damn; silenced so early, demanding loyalties, while Love just needed a session;
so opened those years, bliss upon falsities, while it felt so tremendous; those
thighs, those legs, this face dream and agony….
…those
traits, those characters, looking at something deranged; with deep attraction,
to meet that beast, to love die at cookie colors; so boxed-up, so terrified,
such a scream in God—this foolish man, these minutes so thrown, so gutted, to
go in so deeply; our body music, this fussing me, this terrible leisure; so
pathetic, so redeemed, while so arrogant; as if not—those sewer days, this
mind-grave; but Love was perfect, and Love was cursed, while beauty was
paramount; long flowing mane, oval almond eyes, or skin so addictive and
inherent; it spoke a language, while needing innocence, but Love was deeply
that thing; as asking happiness, as needing just one, if but for something sacred;
our battlegrounds, our breakthroughs, while mislead and adored for lies; this
foundation, this MoMA, this floor so intimate; those dust bunnies, this small
gnat, while tears melted into mud; this filthy face, this racial draft, in
attire and dying regardless….
…so devastated,
so allergenic, fuming and electric—those hours to death, this film in patience,
to need something irregular; this homogenized community, looking like
everybody, while a mask fell into dungeons; this black haven, this confident
problem, or one to tease concerning father; this mother’s notebook, this fever
gutted, while Love looked withdrew and felt hell with another; those tender
tulips, this tragic daughter, and no one sees this impending mudslide; as devious
investors, our metal wounds, garnered and sold; this friend his needs, this
woman my joy, to offer this ransom; but tears in clouds, but rain to earth,
swearing control through emotions; this reinforced math, this bed filled with
lies, at 5 a.m. rehashing eternity; those packages, this rage, this melanin;
too much to stop, too much to dismantle, while it really couldn’t matter….
Just
my life, feigning locations, socially indifferent; so damn gorgeous, to fret his
brain, while dislocated; to need beautiful, to desire this madness, to want a
child; as bodies collide, as genitalia battles, a quick explosion, a nine day
old daughter; this force so real, this life so caged, while at prisons shooting
dice; so explosive, so akin to fate, to lose so often it feels normality; our
needs, our colors, while most desire a mezzo—this standard, this child,
those wings and sought hells; encouraged perfections, while hiding Sheol, so manufactured
and fake but hells be good—this voiceprint, this voice-tree, while footprints
spoke mystic; such cookies and drains, such toilets and music, at twelve hours
and fifty-nine seconds.
