Those
rose-bed paths this inverted project while exploring pain through love; those
koanic scars that ebony flesh so spatial and concerned while we become our
fears; rereading our anguish or believing your good intentions are not
enough, you have to be artful (Thich Nhat Hanh); as abandoned ligaments or
cruel nuns so lost so incredible forsook by logic; as passion becomes distrust
as a woman gives but death so encouraged to arise as a champion; our aches and
drums our clarinets and organs at pianos and existence—this dread in harbingers
this fugue in black night where white violins echo softer intentions; those
melodies by angels this hour such delight as creatures fevered and muddy; to
rend injustice to flower our wretched skies if but a woman a stranger too
aesthetic those rejections; while the lilacs wafted, while the feet of the blackbird
have fallen off, while the friend planted a fig tree, while the lark’s song
flees to the trees so my heart is evermore, Scardanelli; this panic boiling
those fleece speaking German or this Jamaican outwitting my indifference; so
cursed a creature, so indelible an ancient, at anguish and ink and Jewish Kabala;
those flurries those films this frustration—those boxes our internal boxers at
boots and fields pledging our warriors; those talkative priests those watchful
deacons or privileged to exist as a private bishop. Such a holy spirit or a
radical poet while existence began in terrors; this trenchant conversation or
this woman in cocaine black at mother and father pleading their return; to
avail so late as but three years to panic at chorus and deaths begging their
forgiveness; such purgatorial cries such relented praises if but to requiem those
living and dying souls; so scheduled for passing, so remote a feeling, at this
external/internal landscape; divorced from self but passionate an emotion so
cured and cursed enveloped in black science; those marketed frenzies this
penchant in disgusts if but to hold tongue long enough to witness; those furies
in purple those palatial invitations or so corrupt with spirit it becomes its
escapes!
O
love, O my dearest evening, at the hour of death, let me see you with merriment
and gladness (Gertrude
the Great of Helfta); this wish for souls our believing due for courage souls;
as a delinquent by sin so again this valley of angels where mother once dwelt;
our corrupted profanity this secular holy science as accursed and livid so calm
by breath; fueled in blueness those encouraged filters so cut and displaced
abandoned to silver rivers; to adore you this creature our guts so ruined in
tears and fortune; aloof for months aloof from self or barely at freedom this chart;
those raining shards those blackened attractions so given to lusting as
seraphim(s); but crazed obedience or tiger tranquilities abased and low
groveling and arising; as never so gifted as never such beauty a soul un-cursed
and forced to delight in his greatest endeavor; those beaut(s) with wings, this
welting with panic, or accursed for goodness winning this race.
We return
to senses so splattered into pieces as creatures attempting a good life; by
graces so enthralled at terrors and brick walls while wearing our discomforts;
such patience enforced at intervals as pure insecurity where a gentle palm
restores serenity; those precious cares those inveterate pledges so spatial so
complete in this search for wholeness; to hold this hand to die this
hand if but to uplift these hands; our minds as floaters our screams into
erasers and our compassion spilling into hells; to live as immortals so
concretized in literature as to return gravitating towards our sensory
materials; if but one mark if but one dream as sung such Taoism; as comparative
embers, aflame this mountain, so determined to meet Moses; if but to exist so
pure a creature scribbling persistence upon petroglyphs.
