dear confessional,
as inner sanctum, so close—for essence too far.
I pride women—I debated
mother—a grunt in an ocean, a gauge in treble, distant like machinery.
never touched,
never lived, an anchor—filled with tongues.
aunty would leave,
granny was torn, we hear in private homes. pure polarization, interior voodoo,
taking it to pagan fire. the witchery if sanctified, needed rituals, a fire
blast in mid motion.
purer fury in women,
heaving up intestines, grieving some visceral karma—to die in stillness, afraid
to move, I would kiss jazz; another desecrated, another scraped, I yell, stop naiveté,
stop affection, check the pedigree.
father was
accustomed, to certain beliefs, I pardon his soul.
so hard to be
honest, it will hurt, truth is overbearing.
men are without scales.
like a ghetto theologian, sugar-fire, corn-mills, a grotto in a castle.
I was at
submission, baptized in flame, wondering about upheaval; maybe a good guy,
maybe reprobate, maybe pleading beyond ether; the desk at trial, the
stenographer brain, maybe many will permit change. a cloister of funny
business, a gutter of blackmail, or Augustine suggested penance.
who cares about
raiding fruit, being temperamental, abiding by the years of one’s youth?
I would fall,
begging, needing direction; if steep enough, if aloft by linchpin, it would
occur, forgiveness is granted.
melancholic
temperaments—chasing doors, a vestibule inside, most devastated to play chairs.
fiending for evolution, in sense made spirit, at webs chard by mystic sinners.
maybe I’ll wail in
Syriac as an appeal in liturgy, maybe I’ll learn Arabic as a sign of
repentance.
like a Phoenician
dream, in an Assyrian temple, much wrath in Ishmael.
Hagar as friend,
mother, lover, servant.
