I laugh
at thoughts sudden into electricity a bit refueled for a poem. I recollect in
nebula too suffused to sit still while a thump springs into fusion. But time be
gentle and ours be sweet if but to pretend we’ve never met. This aging machine
this ghetto agent while comfortable around a few people; or looking closely
listening to patterns while becoming a bit judgmental; our tentative curse this
investigation where it flew back to where it came from; this thing in honesty
this current of fuses or this mystic socket; to churn over something simple or
to feel particular hurts at something educating and producing literature. I ached
for love or casual a tent for love nor were days polite where mirrors
shattered; our anger as sustenance our pain as wisdom where it was nice while
it spoke freedoms. Those cagey anxieties wherefore this missing life if but to
feel so enwrapped at rapt’d junctures; a womb his own, indeed, a bit gray, but
we’re decided enough to fathom that some are plural; where men are defused or
men are angry or one manhandles while another caresses; but we must go deeper,
this need in some, where an animal needs to feel ravished; this conundrum this
pain while a relationship is an eight day a week responsibility; such constant communication
in a tacit world while deep into silence we sense our ghettoes; this heroine
line or this pill with cocaine or this leaf when nibbled we see hallucinations;
those mushrooms those percocets or deep purple ganja or pebbles and crystal-meth; this need to escape this trouble with algebra or those times it just
seemed incredible; this hell in blue-lace this magenta glass or so bent for
ruined a slew of partners are maneuvering through trauma; our fueled mothers
our ghetto fathers nor was a son alert enough to protest.
There
is true beauty in realization to come to terms with exploiting interior
maladies; those liquor souls those vicodin souls or this tender and so precious
opiate soul; those years gazing into something typical-nuance while fortifying
desperately if but to sing or but to dance where something normal might appear;
such adderall and ativan or cigarettes and wines at something too divorced from
social normalities; or soda pop and codeine at curious eyes so floored in
something permitting a stronger essence; if but to deal if but to die where one
is too numb to adequately socialize; those oxycodone(s) for interior desensitization
or rock-cocaine swallowed where something famous was filled with ulcers; our
ghetto lexicons our ghetto encyclopedias at something terrible those nights mother
had to work; hereunto a particular adult but little Jinny is but nine-years-old
and little Jimmy likes playing house; those muddy fields those stacks of hay or
this large box made for harboring grow-up kids; this plate of chicken these
string beans or a loaf of expired bread: all night parlor homes or loud and
crazed domino-games or such and such was so angry he slapped light from
Jinny’s face. I can’t explain it this valium community where a group of kids
are smoking angel-dust; as one kept jumping through windows and laughing
insanely soon to become one of America’s Most Wanted; this trenchant ache this
life we must carry while some become ruthless; a crazed maniac with little to
conscience while peering and darting into a fragile circumstance. Those mics
inside this landmine inside or those years chasing after an unhealthy admiration.
Indeed, this thing about morals this thing about ought behaviors or
something as rewarding, in which, it’s purely mental; but hands make sense or
fire feels good or a gift would be nice; to meet where we land or to become
this interior, and thus hiding, semi-psychological beasts; insomuch our
creation is environmental where unvalued behaviors are mastered and essence in
colored by shifts and moods or something we harbor deep inside; our music with
flare and swagger, our attitudes a bit arrogant, whereto we offend quite
unknowingly; those poolhalls this nightstick where a cop is releasing every death-zone
he ever owned.
