I
light a clove so gone in you if but something imaginary:
cakes
or cookies rights or alienation a woman brilliant enough to play the dozens;
as unusual creators or
laughing at midday while unsure of its meaning; our decorated harps our violins
giggling or this somber piano; a souvenir so close an heirloom so far or those
days her flesh appeared holy; this manly sickness this need for precious or
alarmed that a mind could feel so roughly.
I
shift with Jesus this Form in ecstasy where Love knew for error; to play our
organs to assail our imagination or to suggest a different experience;
wooed
into seduction such a powerful womb this element we try to downsize; but a man
is crazy while claiming ownership until it loses its nuance; such softer music
such human religiosity while we claim this is from Yahweh.
It
uncovers us where a woman is right as getting far away.
I met incompleteness this
social undercurrent or needing the perfect imagery; to dab this to saxophone a
scream or feeling indifferent where a torrent was rushing; this masked man this
unveiled maniac at curtains or doors searching for something missing:
our
high acclaim our higher ideals where centuries have proven us as incomplete;
but
a noble human but a noble wife but noble dysfunction.
Such a downer or such
reality while an ontic adoration gives a woman life; our mentorship our deep
counseling where a person plays doctor; our years in college our accounts for
homes our joint-taxes. I met Ms. Ascetic—this crucial creature—where sentiment
by personality was in contradiction. A man must be this or a man must do
that, while Love was juggling unreality. I see us trying desperately, where
this is terrific, but how far have we traveled away from being human? A soul
becomes confused by treasured high-maintenance where either/or becomes enmeshed
with something totally opposite. (But Love is a photograph a fulgent miracle to
have died in colors swimming through ink; as Love is satire or rose-bedded
insanities so blessed so courageous so intimate; our breakfast with laughter
our lunch with highlights our Elijah come midnight; to touch is uncanny to
dream is such forgiveness where if life than our guts; our governed cages our
dearest deal breakers while a man wants to behave; our furious passion, our
Born Again zeal, while so far removed we have met The Ghost; if but to arrive
in us if but to maintain such glory where we read and digest and become most
fantasized).
