—such
horrific photos the Congo is deprived our sympathies are depleted; something is
tugging, at each avenue those bold days are cringing—
I would
love despite our horror by essence so core with division; crimson purple or violet
openness so cursed to have our rivers; a man seeping, into life damages, while
a daughter is seeing our Country; city bicycles or skateboard mania while some
are naked and skiing; this blood blue wound those suicidal outcomes where I sit
pondering a lovely smile; a man with issues a problem too wide where sharing it
makes things troubled. It’s so easy or so dismissive where a person is amazed; No
dialogue. No representation. And no empathy.
I
wonder about us, this flame for our own, where a stranger can drill himself!
Too agile
that way or too courteous to self while life this way must be privileged; our
cozy miseries our delicate sorrows while music was once so pleasant.
I’ll
say less and more emotion where it becomes a lottery to love. It seems so easy,
for we unveiled, while, thereafter, the scenery became cold or distant. I
need more, this frame in chaos where passion has become by mythology; looking
at etymology or studying our auras where one is so damn gorgeous; this thing we
never mention, this delicacy in a person’s eyes, while she hopes he will always
see her: the first Xanadu the first resilience the first Zenobia—to exist like
dear distraction or to infuse like pleading lusts in such womb-haven the stars
are taking photographs.
I have
asked for something we emote to feel where Love is not able. I have written
into something I cannot decode while I ask for too much…for most are incapable
of feeling intensely, not as mawkish, and not as ridiculous, but as interrogating
existence: those eyes so committed our souls but values or reaching something
speaking enchantments.
It’s beyond our
capacity it’s lascivious but sedated, it’s Greece but singular, or it’s Africa
a solitary family. It must be unlucky it much be calm and relatable, or it must
be ironic and damn near satanic. To whittle in proximity to whistle where the
griffin bilks or such rainbow eyes laughing at me; but something is critical,
this ability to enact, or this fantasy as something we replay; those depressed
states or those elated states, and what becomes realistic and according to
whom? To be too close or too nearly go batty where self-portraits mean so
little; to adore the well-beloved or to want their discomforts while one feels
every peg in their bodies; as never another thought, as rarely an insecurity,
while frozen for others; this crying part those deep books while many keep company.
