so knit
it screams so hurt it frightens so much our miracle. so far apart such tender
nearness our pain our paradox. threshed sickly or abased by horrors such
haunted absolution; to fall so awakened or to deplete so much madness while
often the soul is functional sadness. ours is its cage so fraught by dying
while I blame majority on mother; those aches or agonies so sorrowful so bleak.
too much wincing or too many arguments or too much addiction; a cursed seed a
southern orientation so remarkable the way we pretend. we have difficulty,
unless by imagination, it seems appropriate to discover love: so relaxed at
times so pure at seconds if but to unveil so close to fire—the furnace for
refinement those heavens for another level or our guts for reasoning. so
untrained roaming with hounds. our dingo instincts, where one was fluent in
violin.
those
pathologies such rich antipathy where most humans are filled with too much;
such cacophonous mind-ware or penalties for utter truth while most never
believe what color is professing.
such
balanced behavior, as fitting the stereotype, where perfection is found in
pulling it off.
I write
sagas. I look to your eyes. it seems lonely in there. (so distrusting or so
neat at some hectic design.) fever in ruses or music in juices while no one is
quite clear: we see excellence we hear eloquence but something doesn’t vet
itself.
as
days will avail as nights often prevail those years are waiting for us to
renege—on each trombone, at every piano, while we become treasured time-wasters.
too much to apologize. too much to accept apologies. & too much to make all
parties accountable.
either we live or rot or die—as it
all matters such helium in veins so rushed to perfection. a soul at his
daughter. a daughter at her flute. or most watching or hoping while needing indemnity.
such raw excellence. such an inside voice. where rugs are using guitars.
