to
imagine becoming soundless without music such fire to die with earless drums;
those seconds hearing melodic winds to conjure dead souls while creating
majesty; this ghetto reality so accursed and gifted or granted rites tearing
into insanity; our nightly reminders our alterity and sacrifice at deaths too insistent
to negotiate; or such tragic beauty a soul with tragic fever while nonetheless
mis-chanted and mis-received. I’ve seen this life and I’ve driven disgusts and I’ve
watched as one so dear couldn’t utter a name; those silent avenues this jumbled
brain-work or something liquid slithering across seeds; where Love is so
beautiful whereas behavior is so ugly while one is stagnant deep this ghetto
and comatose. I must escape this thought where one is budding upon this
foundation where Love is extra-ingredients and life is so romantic while
arguments dissolve in passionate reflection. I must rekindle fire and stage
existence if but to mediate this inner atmosphere; while reexamining ghetto
music and rummaging through slums or so terrific a night a Buddhist woman
cried; this furious fount this famous underground so gravid and gutter or so
much flux and fervor; as becoming melodic and melting into esoteria while one
loses control to manage harsher realities. But I discount something keen in
this dynamic of demons while loss and gain is something we must measure—this garden
of plums this pomegranate-apple or slurs so strewn one must excavate every
seed. If but those shorn sheep or but those converted goats while too much
suffering becomes debilitating. Our seconds appraising something we dislike our
days fathoming deeper concerns while something too ambivalent has struck our
cores; such restricted music while God is fervent in ghettoes insomuch that our
suffering aligns with Jesus; this esoteric cup or this esoteric wine while I too
shall eat the bread of Jesus. Our concern and convergence allocated to
spiritual funding or those alumni sorrows; to dig so readily or to scoop so brilliantly
at cages and cities looking into some distinguished nightmare; as visitation is
rumination and rumination becomes a bulwark and little Betsy has struck a
neighborhood mandolin; but so many tenets and so many precepts and such
principalities to live as fuming or spliced where tension is palatial and green
gnats are passing without incident; our remote feelings as so alive in thoughts
of you while it became life to flee from thoughts in a land purchased and paved
by inhibitions. I listen closely while negotiating a feature and proud that
Love is so cerebral; in this hive of emotions or this lot of passions while
uncertain about everyone’s penchants; our vague ghetto literature or a nine-year-old
reading Morrison at something too terrific to contain. Or this piece by
Brimhall in eyes of this little machine while he cross-references with Smith;
our dealings with holiness to enter this mansion somewhere in an estuary near
Wilmington; those big brilliant eyes this fate unslaked and redeemed while
granny just did a ritual; this southern element while thought as dreams where
people operate in unison—as intricate saviors at screams in dungeons to become
such flame.
I gift
something holy as a dreamer of this reality suffused with brier screams—to listen
and dissolve to wrestle and evolve where one said so many things close to
another’s reality; while some become softness in order to re-seam a fragile
plateau or women become fierce to manage such dissonance while young
adolescents are absorbing mother and father. Our ebony flesh or our porcelain
wishes where inversion becomes its intrinsic hatred; those rounder memories
this chimney of soot thereinto this elder so sweet so sullen and carrying Dear
Jesus; as tides at moon rise or gravel at sunfall so tragic in scriptural
deliverance but so converted as a Christian to enter into a space by purer
electricity; this flaming Ghost as depending upon orientation hereupon our
trenchant isolation.
