I stare
at times this distant running this crafted sky upon a blackbird a frequency
something too profound to whisper; our ghettoes with such richness our women
lost in books while undercurrent-fire is filled and fraught as fragrant hostilities;
to feel pure glints so chasm our miracle or so close it aches while adrift
doing fifty-five; this apparatus this apollonian reservoir or speaking
something so expatiated by Christ; our young men debating but a film in essence
so spatial so concerned while petting a hamster; what by spirits or arithmetic
phantoms where shivers appear and a man is glowing and a psych is performance;
as not for badness but more by order indeed to prevent something volatile; this
mental badge those deep movements as shifting and unlocking and tending to the
best of those skies; our ghetto spirituals our candles churning our young entrepreneurs
while a precocious child must be kept close. (I was elementary and leaving the
house where a car pulled up and assumed—I was stupid: Get in son your mother
sent me and why are you hesitating? It should’ve been surreal but by that
age I had seen so much and thus I shrugged it off). It seems this essence while
something great is in its makings where some of us experience more tribulations.
Those half-awakened blocks those concrete refusals or so at this new faculty it’s
hard to maneuver. But bait was sweet and nights were luxury while an absent
soul can become a forgotten soul.
I stare
at times this retrieval shunning so eclipsed so rajah to sudden upon a
power; those ripples in radiant blasphemy or this basin with holy aqua at blood
and cactus and cemetery. At days in us or moments speaking while aloof from us
where an agent is always prowling for sutures; those kleptomaniac wounds or
this feature escaping psychologies while something is finding aging a difficult
agenda. Those few we meet while chiming and though it’s rare we offer a hand
shake; such chains by church such caring and confusion or catering to something
instinctually abandoned. This feeling in our souls this communion in our minds
while needing to do right but hurt is far too terrific; this sickness suffering
this sickness sin while sensories are splayed asunder. Our debt to decisions
while it should be pure this welcome into homes. Our eyes becoming wider as
tales invade our retinas if but to subsist in a land by utopia.
This
is something gray where it becomes universal—this laissez faire approach to
intimacy. Our days threatened by something weak or nights fixing something
shying away while evenings are met with deeper contemplation; our White House
Ghettoes or something at existence too long upon a dream and losing something
such to lose itself; such friction and damn near fiction while we tread such
thinner cliffs; needing psychical delights or psychical confidence where
something unchiseled becomes rounded marble; but days are insignificant and
something is running ramped while a theologian is looking also; to place
eternity in palms to raise up and destroy gates at terrible self-convicted
feelings.
I speak
benignly about something killing our people this attitude towards what we call
old-fashioned behavior; our self-abasements our self-effacements where officials
are struggling to carry out the ideals; such comfort in nurturing our egos
and such disdain for our men and women where most activity comes from a space
afraid of intimacy; this ghetto Century City or this office of amoral lawyers
or this essence in souls to use until pain is explosive. Our economic social
status or lives upon one meaning in common as something diving our interior
devotion; as dark-side participants filled by melancholia while wondering about
the mirror we advertise.
