I re-die
a smidgen, surprised so deeply, while family created a misfit; this complex
essence, sensing its terminal, whispering and partly sleep; this other
terrestrial, this quiescent storm, rising, nay, absorbing its creation; to die
thrice, waiting by casted moon, awakened to an impossibility; our gripping
brains, so enlove with unreality, for pavement is beyond intrusive; to believe
and not see, to live for righteous reigns, to provoke where injustice rains;
such interior torque, such blazing sin, while deep resistance paces aglow; our
sawmill spirits, our loving cries, filled with richness; to reread accounts,
but a dubious smile, where something has seized his heart; if but to exist with
Love, our world so oblivious, as each word written to make appearances; this atmosphere
of flowers, our swift celebration, where most are condemned to this gift; so
complicated, so threshed, as beautiful creatures returning with centuries; this
re-death sun, this watery grasshopper, while palming a butterfly; logs burn
softly, souls are visiting, while we assume our mesmerization; close proximity,
dear for breath, our aches and rhythms and marrow; so indebted to misery, so
afflicted in mystery, at something meta-fantastic; our casual approach, while Kingdoms
suffer violence, to wonder about our loses; our naked hearts, our naked
feelings, while but a few are vetted; this village of repentance, this hundred-year-old
saint, plus, our terrific lives; such remorse, such dying, where infants
preside as Kings over Jerusalem;
but
swimming flames, or bolts of fire, where Love agonized on a man’s behave; to
enter with thunder, to run a treadmill, to be as one possessed; this obsession
in mind-grit, this sandcastle amid our earth, or this ocean cathedral; our seas
hanging, seated in midair, such glorious, magnificent souls; this world where
more have died, this path where less will tread, our legacies witnessed to Spiritual
Last Days; such furious fever, such fabulous fever, so thrown into this
universe; but please imagine, a mere thought, erumpent into a missile; or
better yet, to see each spade, while doubting its authenticity; this bridge to shops,
those wonderful complaisant saints, where coffee is twenty-five cents; if but
more agonies, if but further sorrows, while wisdom pleads to exhaust those winters;
as such we lie, as such we worship honesty, as such we need security; this
broken valve, this restored furnace, where it has never been quenched; this
feral calm creature, this fount by care and flame, so sensed sentient and slain.
it
would carry me, this scent in disguise, this woman with child; it would kill
me, this time in dungeons, this un-erasable spirit, to flee mountains, to die
imperfect, to lose all sensories; and there it is, awakening one breath, while
attempting to solicit understanding; to realize this secret, this dread and
fear, but deep pain is too powerful for this earth; our harps and cellos, while
something beautiful is moving, where Love has missed our millennia; as crooked
roots, slanting into exospheres, or some tall giant chasing; as but a
slingshot, as but a miracle, while we play our song-silence; such literature,
or this Living Word, while we chastise this God we serve—for it must be right,
it hast to be right, because I feel it so deeply; this test for souls, our
seats rebuking tables, our pain running into our synaptic gaps; to film
something incorrigible, to realize something inexplicable, with certain essence
beyond logical tenets; to fathom us, our compartmentalized existence, where
some might utterly degrade this reflection; such self-hatred, such susceptible
cries, while needing participants; at something so crucial, at lives with
wings, to desire more and more for our uncreated seeds; this frame in mirrors,
this untalkative suffering, where our needs become raging furies; as tortured
persons, or mangled personhood, where we qualm drastically over sacred
perspectives.
