I
get found in a second or mesmerized in an instance where this confliction
becomes its cascades; those raining concerns this inceptive animosity or
enmities and wines aborted to chaos. I ponder interior closeness at winds dangling,
tiptoeing and spinning into cosmos; our re-sketched spirituality, our begging
and grinding, our forks, shovels and napkins; if but the glory if but the fame
would I remember humans? —for it dies in little pockets and it arises in
something mental while often people are struggling to find us; such pain in
triumph or radical athleticism so ascetic or so deceased at some party seated
by loneness; our responsibility as poets—our legislation legacies—at something
that first appeared as beautiful:
—this
glamorous diction those rosy sparkles where another might see it differently;
our grand opus our manic brains where by deliberateness one attempts to deflate
Jesus.
I’m
coming to terms with this feud between us this mark this target—this arrow this
splinter: a man commits an infraction, another person commits an infraction,
where both desire total submission:
—such
guilt and embarrassment or such violence and harmfulness while some are not
concerned by their infractions; this need for silent suffering this dependable
doormat while nothing is about to change. I rev softly abandoned to horizons
with a chair pictured in the middle of PCH.
such
an early morning and Love is so devastated and so hurt and so confused—but Love
is there in a man’s kingdom where she had to leave home; so deeply scarred such
mental graffiti and so rewritten, erased and scribbled into characters; a
powdery white nose a new begging type air where some are captured by such
essence; to need this crowd to need that feeling or to be the most susceptible
novice in the room; as believing in eternity and not anticipating the shortness
where this is habit, reality and casting nets; this bucket of guilt this impure
realism or this need for penchant religiosity: this blaming wizards this fused
wiccan while it never matters those things we condone: while a woman loves a
man, this picture on PCH, where something seeps out—this easygoing,
unidentifiable person pleading for entrance after something seemed sacred to
realize most are shunning scruples; but passion is liked and we lose our
sanctities and we sing to our desires: this window of powders this room of
nakedness and our spouse lost and walking up PCH: those deeper laughs, those
wilderness ghostly laughs, while we claim victim.
I’m
sadder than bitter aloof and watching as a mad person that behaves; a
frightening image a scary image but many of us have seen our dark monsters; so
gone we need more or so awake we can’t sleep or so serious we crumble; this
person in there this true person in those walls that person that seduces its
mirror; or those few those dear to God few that live this guilt that die this
triumph while good and crystal clear about behaviors; they seem so rigid they
are not living and they are often quite emphatic; or those persons some once
were—that dear for God greed those tender phantoms while nights were but
deficits of sunlight and therefore we travel we stalk and we gleam and glisten
and rage and rant as semi-zombies.
