let it be
fiction—to love as extraordinary—let it be fact, fashioned in fury—for the
beloved. I daydream. I ask forgiveness for dreams. I imagine your art is
extraordinary. you seem groomed, a specialty for happiness, a place in some
unbelievable rocket. I was kneeling low, touching gravel, hit by sable brown
eyes. I was alone, in company, fretting if you’d smile. a summer ache, gates
opened, I pondered scents, odors, paints, brushes, how have you spoken acrylic?
I feel uncharmed by self, alarmed by new seasonings, palming garlic, nothing
undoes sweet, capturing spirits—soft, dangerous limbs, surrender made in agony,
the force of souls realigned, steady galloping.
like being in a
capsule, to again pure presence, more pain to have desire—caves inside,
petroglyphs with faces, bulls ramming excellence—to keep trying, to vocalize
like adolescents, sure tender mysterioso. as a flaming crush, nay, an
infatuation, nay, some extraordinary force—with passion churning, butter
melting, ice asking questions.
I stand accused,
asking for more beliefs, some core person holding to some instinctual science.
as nothing more than fantasy, a foolish dream, torn from atmosphere to skies—as
much higher, or too close, while I never left my screams. by the art of loving,
to have something incredible, to remain astonished, begging for a soul to
complete the witness.
too much in
disguise. too undercooked. so raw. yet thawed, burning, never enough for
eternity. a cry inside, those hands doing justice, the neck turning as if it
could embrace necks. tingling napes, wilderness alienation, so much a craft to
see—the moon vanished, the stars at penalty, the exospheres indicted. oh too
much, just to say, some power has a hold on me.
