I
have not been pious. I have framed a piccolo. If by chance, we reconcile. Such strong
illusions—or hassled by expectations, while debating poltergeists. To jitter
softly—some alien tremor—while so close it hurts to see you. By trembling
miracles, those immortal portraits. Our ears to doorposts. Our semen stained
mattress. While after something we missed. It becomes great challenge. This whelp
with cries or this house with lies. It becomes natural—by fireplace campfire,
or unlived interior portraits. Such short duration, where fires are
extinguished. This endless camera, or chiming lenses, while I carve an endless
escape. So close to unvetted—it seems normal—unless we account for the child. This
musical angst. This passive fixation. Or this haunt for those flowers. Such pollen
by sneezing. Such debated covenants. While granny paid alms. Those terrific
feelings—born to unrealities—while nudged by delusion. But ladders are
screaming, standing-mirrors are wafting, such to listen where dressers are blackmailing.
This inner alien—so aloof from reason—while interior has become
estranged: from self or soul, from mind or body, indeed, from faith or
religion. This pain we live: so determined to depress, so eager, or too eclectic
to utter whereabouts. Those storage-bens carry history: clowns or caricatures,
depression or freedom, windows or shut doors. This exquisite harmony—those exquisite
bellflowers, or exquisite, unfamed, self-reflection; as eyes unhinge, as
Bukowski chuckles—we feel a need to rent curtains. It becomes sunlight. It polishes
pianos. While it stuffs laundry in its ottomans. Where kids deliberate, or
family inculcates, while I said something tasting sour. Those interior phones,
where a monster answered, to hear a soft whisper. This road paved with mirrors;
our Comforter in-distinguished; our daughters presuming a long voyage. While
chairs move in rotation. Where magazines are assorted. Such beauty in those
first few dimensions. To unlock skies. Or adjust phantoms. In a mind so
burrowed.
