If
to recodify our existence reamed by guilt too successful to ignore it—those yoga
nights or those helium energies as never a person so extraordinary; our
religious science our benighted endlessness or this nightmare so intimate to
me; those outstanding curvatures those teal eyes at something too artistic to
critique; a man’s disaster or a woman’s pride where one might attempt it if possible;
gnawing grass or zipping zenith such music, saxophone and salience. (I can’t
give this me I don’t claim but I need this me in you if but we die desiring our
wings): “Singing it over/and over for years learning its meaning/only as
accuracy/not an aesthetic/only as the most” (Voices Cast Out to Talk Us In p.
53). I awaken to the mind-house so close to feeling awakened where rose-hut
havens stare in vision. I reread emotion while wondering about vulnerability or
our susceptible rearview; to see and sense in such essence afforded one cinema
and dying; that odd stare as if it were me while you couldn’t imagine anything
different; for it must exist, else I’m a horrible person, so it does exist and I’m
a good person. “Your looks upon me/what would it grow/what would its color be?”
(p. 88). It was mahogany layers and looking at legacy so cured in that second. It
was absent perfume and present consciousness at green-gray rays. It was ponds
and frogs and tadpoles those interior horns or courage to resist humiliation. Those
pajama pants were purple-blue while seeing into curvatures or demanded by
something redemptive. Our pages in primrose our prim-caves in turquoise at days
a feeling shared with the public; this audience for critiquing, those soundless
and motion-witted observers, about something that has become a certain feeling:
this island of cyber energy or this one so devastating at feelings to remove
our interior. Those whale-songs at terrace and naked or screaming from the ninetieth
floor; such heavy spittle such dynamic-cursed eyes by gray horizon saying, I
need you.
I
haven an arc or tree voltage at something too remarkable to claim. I dance blue
shivers and sink into koi glen rivers as laughing and giggling adroit enough to
taste energy; this field of lemons those sugarcane lips at something such a
small or oval derrière; those arête women those voluptuous petite aesthetics,
or born under pressure; so far afield rehearsing our first lines while Love is
fresh into a trillion dollar man; or chasing for what one gave if but this
sensuous slave to ignore cantankerous battles; but yours is too spirits and
flaming in curious charms so charged but alert radiating from a restaurant
table. I glance at an aura if but to swim across dusty algae while punctured by
big billowing seas; so watered or so dry those eyes speaking dictionaries but
so close to underappreciation; to feel received is more than to feel superior
while topaz lakes have become our triumph; this pain in existence to die at
every second while needing something unprepared to realize; so attentive or so
satiating or so rich and loving and caring and one can’t stand his face; this
guilt-driven machine, this need for legacies, at palms and independence.
If
to recodify our existence reamed by pain or relooking at serious trauma; this
vest so untidy our hairs growing wildly at pictures inside chasing invisible
people; either Theresa or Rihanna, Beyoncè or Mary, or angel, beast and mother;
those esoteric vibrations this woman so aglow at something too mean for private
discussion; this need in us this fortress in us, while this mansion mingles
sharing chances with us: a man at his resurrection or a deadman giving his
eulogy or a woman so intricate and so exploited at waves to reveal her dynasty.
