Sunday, March 29, 2020

Inrushing Swan (Revised)


some are at terrors, disputing existence, laughing while mourning: this shoebill brain, this kleptic excitement, our dreams flayed by fears: as casual monsters, as not but gnarms, at wars spewing ink: that activity heart, those cloves but smaze, or destinies showered by insistence: if but our shadows, as shorn our visions, while watching for repenting our tyrannies: by faithful scars, so inborn our lease, our features as slanted demons: that wolf near landscapes, our Chinese rice, our shrimps sautéed: a woman to secrets, but furtive lands, scribing as senses pass by—if wilderness struck, our essence by thieves, to cut with silence the mineral swan: those power-apes, those elephant mind-drapes, our furious cheetahs…

as men dying, while forced to apologize, our white men a tear emphatic: that shifty churn, this fern to cores, at leisure compelled to reason: by deeper passion, such steep resistance, as it feels perfect to feign our righteousness: the absent father, such others as complete, or siblings relishing in soul-born parents. 

I sense a soul, by strategic madness, our palms moist with uneasiness: to trust lightning, as fire about guts, while feeling capacities:

such vexing hunger, such pitted goodbyes, such as promises fulfilled by deceivers:

that winter’s handkerchief, the Pauline destiny, at a three-month curse:

where Love was gentle, confounded by mudslides, whereas, it felt good to witness relief:

by elegant vase, those wood-panel geese, our suspicions come yearning: as souls collaborate, as Hathaway revives, as daughters lay claim to genetics: such a racy heartbeat, such fueled mystics, our agonies splayed across infinity: such ghetto syndrome, or graves rushing to shore, at passion for Love without hesitation:

such notorious station art, while winking at panthers, our lionesses striking for arteries:

as women marching, while timidity is set aflame, the ache of minded politicians:

our kingdom might suffer, our gutter-born travesties, those lakes reaching to supports our rafts: those crazed griffins, those spiritual crows, such as darkness reflecting inversion:

by pinecone parrot, those mice squirming passed squirrels, this aunt debating positions: as men live, a bit frantic about life, at boulders pushed upon high: where souls perished, our daughter’s passage, while enchanting Olympus. 

I know our plight, knifed by innocence, or torn by allegiance—this fretted armoire, this cloth by scripture, our hopes for something normal—as abnormal beings, feeling inadequate, purchasing a nightmare from strange forces: our odors sifting; our garbage afloat; our aches trespassing our allegiances: if but to exist, fueled by inflection, where arts become Victorian high-rises: those castle tenants, or Nebuchadnezzar insanity, or this hand appearing without origin: our trips to Xanadu, our transformed albatross, our Moby Heart resurrection: as men of war, or women of knitting, while crocheting a village of sworn resilience: the mother at tears, our sons to prisons, the father as giving where lack is perceived: as wanting perfection, to give in blue-blood, this survey concerning our steepest yearnings: to laugh by grit, while chewing insanity, fiddling for space scrolls: the high desert, those valley deer, our eyes mourning for failing to exist.  

I know your challenge, while cleaving to your dreams, this passage as hatching spiders: those destroyed begonias, this trampled heart-breath, those insidious undercurrents—as feeling frustration, while smiling, nonetheless, if but this cut to simmer into diamonds: our wild nightmares, the extraterrestrial, our esoteric seconds: where something appears, this inner essence, our psychosomatic friends: as fueled for penchants, our pensive moments, where resistance transformed the inner swan: our ghetto charms, our ghetto styles, our kingships constantly surviving—as death to breeds, or life to wafers, sipping our communion.  

Time was Brief

    With deeper allure—to ward off ghosts—melancholia is an empire. Such dialogue confuses—: one wrestling despair. It was remote living, in...