many hertz, aside
ghosts, mostly a feeling, mostly energy. how have they mangled us? why are we
restless? it can’t be crops, winnowing emotions, saddled atop a horse-less
head. I’d be remiss, in breath, sweet nectar, made sour instability—to
un-analyze so peculiar, as demonized, and aching. life will never be. it will
never sing in totality. it is always hiding. I’ve located a missile. it mustn’t
be so gray. what sourness would exist? it was unreasonable, thinking of our
existential, conditioned into meanness. days were activity. pain was
syrup—treasured plums, temperamental apricots. to speak vaguely, so opaquely,
damaged by existence. I wonder about years, stuck in duality, redeemed,
forgotten, filled with aftermath; slight PTSD, inadequate feelings, formed as a
creature of excellence. the battle of our galaxy—trying to get right—without
realizing, it was destined—yearning for some park, filled with rides, laced in
glory. I spark a cigarette. morning is in winds. I ask for wilderness, or
thirst, or hunger—in spirit, in numen, in Zen. some space in
specifics—thwart by my angst, aside my temper, art is terrific! what has come
in us, flying in us, where love means something in us? air and gusts, gauged to
expire, more nights debating ambivalence. so much need to forgive, much more
for vengeance, most excellent as seduction. those days in power, to redeem a station,
filled with lawyer talk. to have become an alarm, if but to die a queen,
esteemed as the greatest in gowns; arranged in myths, surefire a machine, art
is musicology; signs and souls, souls and symbols, reaching for invisibility.
the ostrich would
speak—trying to hold its energies, vibrating, shaking, in each syllable.
intuition is counter to itself, oil and water cause a mess, heartstrings are
thrummed in hours pleading. so much wreckage, so many pure thoughts, such
longing as lemurs for fruits. if rawness, if ecstasy, some place in its
determination; those fields filled with sugarcane, those cotton factories, such
energies as escaping slavery—the aches in their reigns, those arts in those
hertz, much ruin in such affection. so far to unveil, so close to vengeance,
such craft in abashment—never those waves, some arc in behaviors, if growing,
if grown, what becomes of new sentiments? many mandolins, many piccolos, dirty
terrain, such shame, as two would collide, clash, come to horizon—bold in
endeavor, ruthless in alliance, bathed in garlic. such a soulprint, to have
offended Penelope, or to have affronted Athena; some sailor, drunk in capture,
debating, carrying chains—to eat his vomit, to return to slop, as one feigning
his elegance; untrue in darkness, untrue in escaping, genetic remnants,
cultures engaged, similar histories, a richness in excellence. those tiny
miracles, an aesthetic frame, such force in needing silence—the apple of its
tree, so much a notion, so fair as unfair—so simultaneous, such heartsore, a
violin upon a dreary night, to awaken filled with apologies. soaring sunlight,
boiling fires, passion in its cuffs; to live in penchants, an inrush of
essence, chiming with some intention—as a confused man, rowing upstream,
swooshing through determination. some are qualified, as for par excellence, others
stumble into something unfamiliar; to know with open eyes, a vestibule of arts,
so close, in one second, to have died as relished opposites.
