Those
roses those thorns as blood trickles forward; to grip losing life, so loud in
quietude or so divorced from everything normal; our black souls as father
socked mother to awaken to laughter.
So
cursed in this family so aloof to accusations while too smart to play piano;
this distance in youth this web in diaries as abused but feeling terrific;
our breakage points our
dearest violins while a person is bent upon images; this revving engine this
dingy transmission such ambiance and caricatures; as developed creatures living
developed lives but evolution has yet to arrive; this fire flaming this field
devoured these dregs so with me; to scream into ceilings, as no one answers,
but God is so close.
I
remove from you I die in you while you keep appearing.
If
but this fuel this frantic force such autonomy in one so absent; to accurse
self to love like winning while patience seems so weak; but a faux pas, but an
angry claim, while I realize most respond to sincerity; this cavelike anxiety
this world by depression while a psych is filled and screaming; to mince garlic
to tenderize a steak or to dine with one that maimed mother; this hellish
celestial, this remorse in a child, while watching and stagnated; such rich
guilt, for a man as a child, with years raging in Watts.
I lost—this semblance—so designed
as love; such arrogant or conceited even contradictory love; where a man is a
mouse and this is madness but Love has destined to emasculate men; so spiritual
or such satire if but to get him to look the other way. This road unfolding
this pavement as devoted while a man clashes with pure evidence; to need
perfection or to fill in the blanks while one parades and dances and laughs.
I
become fluidity or matches or unkempt gasoline. I drift further I fall for
attributes I proclaim nonsensical love. As a man lost and found, or a guitar
missing a string, or a saxophone blaring its depression; as a soul at rampages
or a humble theologian or one watching while wondering what in the hell—Am I listening
to; this magnet in us this fair crystal aside beds or this person too alive to
whisper, Death. Such curious patterns, to evaluate life, while feeling a
bit shy.
It looks like seashores. Those
shells speak a language. While something acute is singing to interiority.
Our distressors are
familiar. Our pains are pivotal. While we attempt to relax. (So many graves…So
little time…Into so many dominions.)
But angst instructs, if
to listen in silence, while often noted as blue.
