these are torments. these are privileges. those are cultural
realities.
the
roughhouse anguish, where it sits, moments are temperamental. loving a mirage,
sensual in pain, agonizing, writhing, enlove with horizons.
the
penalty of silence. we rarely speak of it—silence is often unsettling; those
terrifying fingers, those screaming nails, so much rage in beauty. a
treacherous sophistication, heinous glory, paralyzed by niceties.
I can’t taste you; I hear you; I can’t unsee you.
many
will disappear. some will purchase life’s tickets. as gorgeous hearts,
remarkable souls, outrageous consideration—for the beloved, the anxiety, sheer,
rescuing turmoil. to have existed, let it read, “To Have Existed.”
to
walk closer, arranged in destinies, re-interviewing with each acquaintance.
lost studies, for unaware, many human signs—on the table. these stars, gazing,
exploring, I’ll see you in a lost dream; I’ll locate it, it’ll breathe, I’ll let
it go. I do try to lie. I try to
make harmony. I’m usually too absent.
miracles seldom cry. affirmations are unison. failures
are misidentified—so are humans.
I
remain speechless, dredging up demons, maintaining dissatisfaction. the pain
they give. a soul undergoing recovery. sound, symbol, signs; as if telepathic,
as if unearthed, never unmuted.
