by
stardust so trusting so encouraged to fly. jaguar eyes, a pelting wit, such
sure dignity. if to hound his mind. if to reload his humanity. if but to
understand she might flee. our best as frontiers, our histories guarded by swords,
our undeveloped sophistication; to have gypsum or tarragon or cayenne pepper.
so much as leaving science or leaving religion while a man frets nothing is
working! I say huh to self. it’s
quite akin to, aha! it’s a second in a split where something dawns closer. but
life is nuance or beauty or complaisance; love is more observation, unspoken
knowingness, or pure intuition. the
futility is devastation those memory banks while so close it tears to unlock.
such
dark harmonicas as ash builds while the phoenix is sung—those bluer eyes those
greener eyes or seas a soul as deaths become reasons to fly—the cut in music
those backgrounds such soft serene soil—where days it took or years to
appreciate while we believe in soulmates; our comfortable spirits as able-minded
where sensitivities become certainties—our double-shame our indifference the
more rays unfold into knowledge-pools.
weather becomes our toeholds. sweat
beads across her flesh. it was essence those first weeks. unbolted for freedom
or breathless for agony at some private excursion.
by
mantis mansions those rooms as time would un-levy its dam; so many symbols so
secure in sexuality so free to expose flesh. a night by grace a cure by face if
but a lie by scripture; such sanity to flee such regrets to stay while a
culprit has little respect for adjusting crimes.
afforded some language or riving
toughly where nothing makes sense. the boundary is breakage the flippancy is
sanity those waves are rejected!
so
great a problem so deep a curse where a person is skeptical on gods. as a
reality, no more a determination, while too involved those scars that prove
facts. Love will watch so detached while souls grow prouder. (a man sells
drugs. his mother smokes his product. when he bought a car, she was ecstatic
for him. (no one gets it.) it’s such a riddle. but a few are disgusted!)
we live daring society to reject
us. many side with the underdog. we believe they will adore us more. we sense a
need, if but for qualifications, where one might determine our hands’ creation:
tokens or humans? privileged or struggling? rich blacks or poor blacks? we ask
many questions, for soul/from soul, or a deviation because one is raw with
frustration? too much this ball bounces. it sails right on by. we often disparage
it. the feeling of loving you—the sure struggle ignored—where this proves a
deficit in the desiring. or to become rigid, to un-sing every thought of the
sun, or to find complaint with every philosophical position: the dance of the
wolf, our intuitions on fire, so pointedly it’s poignant!
