I paint with
feelings becoming lethargic or
revved by webs.
I
saw a photo. I wandered nearby. The image returned.
Love
is esoteric. Love is terrific phantoms. I wonder if he sees her: by driven
eulogies, rehearsing last rites, a beacon to the community.
It hurts to
introspect while spirit is
endearing where a
daughter might drop a feeling; such effulgent indecision or inverted understanding
where we must blame ourselves; but pops is watching and madam is surfing while
granny is pitching a
few quarters.
Those
ambiguous emotions this
quadroon machine
while reading into physics; by mental mountains or to see a crutch where
something alienates while slowing pace.
The
art is ambrosia the essence is unique but most siblings should feel proud.
We disabuse as we
must for an infant
just died we must grip
life to feel her heart beating; this dearth of concern this virus sent to us or
radical assessments those wires and roses. To
have a little panic or to adore this life where the need is tremendous: such a
ruthless condition such air
or volume where we appreciate
something honest.
By
shreds of angst by deep
yellow violets or by
pure contradiction; to have desired more where behavior is scrambled to find us
running up the highways: but a sparkle but something we understand where a soul
gives his entire flame.
—we entered
the graveyard
a spirit
was tippy-toeing, a ghost was inquisitive; the gate closed, a casket floated,
beneath it were names;
a
witch counted twigs, the essence, the ousia, was hunting;
I read
the headstone…
guts were
instinctive the movie was on record those eyes were forgiving; daughters played
double-Dutch, young adolescents played jumping-jacks, where elders were drinking
firewater—
we seem undone
where the boiler is icicles yet our interior is so awake; by currents some
seconds by religiosity for children where some were just baptized.
