We’re
funning but dangerous, running and having this relation; so partial to screams,
as if nature is dying, so confused about our identities; this plural vocation,
this appetite freezing, our chimerical do-for-death reality; our souls at
missives, our epistles in black blood, our miracles denounced easily; such
faith bred creatures, dependent upon something so graphic, our pillars at steep
hostilities; our rebuked science, our threshed lungs, while it would be nice to
hear jubilation; our years gunning, our trials running, at grander astronomy;
so misplaced, so misty matched, at arrival seeming ungraced; this undertow,
this undergrowth, this war at those desks; our tables watching, our ears weary,
so captive in this field; running with crows, or dining with ravens, studying
this empty box; so designed to perish, but fixated on resurrection, as a
theologian missing our first request; (it hurt to feel you, it was hell so
insatiable, it was fever to cool fiery flames; but yonder it lives, this refilmed
breakage, where it seemed so unnatural: I wished for anchorage, dynamite and
panic, instead, something collapsed and gripped where traffic was flashing
lights); those devastations, this island uprooted, as met to greet a
tornado; those recovery years, this penchant in vices, this tableaux so
necessary an image; rereading feelings, recaptured at horizons, to imagine
something so small, so innocent—so helplessly perfect. (love was sweet and love
was sentenced and love caught its penalty; but days were coming, they seemed so
nonchalant, as realized in monotony; where a child was growing at deeper
experiences and a mother was taking intimate notes; those conversations were
gumbo and those feelings were termites and life just ate at our deeper
empathies; such was recruited a knight as became occupation as falling deeply
at core this night; while I pined for something or raved over dislocation
indeed something remains a bit distant; this request to fallen rain those cacti
conversations or those walls so high God has requested Jesus; as running fevers
or colliding values where no one wishes to inscribe their infractions; this
foolish wraith, those grueling dice, at this casino losing binoculars; as haven
creatures attracted to pure innocence while needing enough leverage to puncture
freely; this want for influence, this existence in reflections, so removed we
might overlook our own behaviors).
I’ve
sunk low in those few lines re-divorced from this typing agent; I shift to
something without remedy where this seems an important part of my life; those
requests for purity or something holy while ill-selected and ill-entitled; to
want something for ego, to need with desperate blight, while ruining too much
to justify; this frankly pure disability, this uncouth element, while most are
excited by irresistibility; this daughter dilemma, this God issue, or this path
leading to an unbeknownst location; our riveting souls, this purgatorial
hereness, or so satisfied it becomes its own reality; this announcing becomes
denouncing and this light becomes its inversion and this flower becomes its
dying; as crucial creatures asserting existence while such must become its
opposite; reading to reread, always at particular faces, and conflicted deeply
about mental activity—this normal landscape, this terrestrial relationality,
while too sunk in to believe that everything in there comes naturally; as often
we look afar into a gaze of atmosphere and unlock something a second too eerie;
but days have adjusted and flies are falling low where most thoughts are about
this thing I can’t articulate; namely, Love, this grand appeal, while most Love
should not seem inadequate; our nights sitting eagerly our welts abating or
realizing it’s normal to long for something beyond our skies; such harshness
accompanies wishes, for it indicates a disjunct, where humans are raving over
illusive fantasies; this ravishing occupation, this illness in souls, while
without fantasy we lose essence.
