the
tragedy of pigmentation as the tragedy of unkempt love or worse the message
sent by hatred; those days roaming those pavements or sung to silence a gentle
abrasive kiss; this whisper in dynamite this care so crooked while too selfish I
loved as one ruined; so defensive concerning this adoration for ignorance and
devastated a culture so mistaken for honesty; arrested by bodily chemistry and
dying for one last miracle while sick for abandoned attempting to discount
race; a mulatto’s nightmare in another person’s dream while distinctions are
made concerning resistance; such for fair those fairer wars and such for brown
a trenchant dance and such for dark a grueling challenge; such internal passion
and such internal war while we too reverse this curse; so inverted and so
external where books and traumas become inward harbingers. I look at lines in
this land of lights where they speak to one’s life; those deeper crevices or this
depiction in face and eyes or crow’s feet speaking about slavery; so
maladjusted and so psycho-dejected where a mirror reminds about insanities; our
courage to tillage those internal minds where each thought is placed under surveillance;
so uncanny this mental machinery as it splices and chances and holds to
positions; where each motion is real so radical those caves while neatly
protecting the most peculiar behaviors; to capture a ferret or hug a meerkat at
something a dream to get away; those gates so rare those fences so high while
pushing and pulling to converse with something forbidden; our days placating or
becoming angry or playing chess like geniuses; those doubletalk feathers where
ruins depend upon participation but tell this to a three-year-old boy.
the
tragedy of existence but how else to win in a city filled with celestial
beings; those uncanny people all searching for utopia or suffering from dystopia—this
post-apocalyptic land or this village of undead moralists where a preacher wore
a mask too heavy to carry; our women as writers our souls as disturbance where
a woman’s reservoir is considered designated duties; this touchy topic but a
daughter is at wars and many sons are unequipped to advise.
we
pity the living and mourn for the dead with little to any evidence concerning
existence.
I
used to gripe about people and feel a bit subjugated while carrying suffering
this well shall appear; at surrogate emotions living surrogate tribulations
while held confined by something lacking its crises; at constant reviews
looking into futures finding it’s possible to make a few predictions; our souls
filled with tacks and our minds dripping facts and our spirits dreaming at us
to gaze closer; but some thoughts are cherished and some are desperate for attention
while others are hard to divest; but the radio is blaring the television is
yammering and the dishwasher is running; our fans are on the tub is in motion
and the ceiling is screaming.
it
too is the tragedy of unknowingness in this world fraught by impressions where
a bright lady pushes at hearts; we never realize our sentence or this process
of composing where true genius gets closer and closer to what she has to say;
indeed, this language, as but so much, where many souls are serious about
writing; the tragedy of ink or the flippancies of scrutiny at something too
tragic to erase; our minds needing to comment upon beauty our aesthetics too
restricted or finding a person attractive that has proven a mean figure.
