if
I were normal—the life I live, most would criticize.
by
a vacuum, consuming its heart, by the pain, becoming a tree, or sherbet at her
smile.
an
inner conclave, a slave at war, such sticks for swatting leaves; walking
without aim, kicking patches of anthills, a bite at my ankle.
beautiful
brocket eyes, one never adventures, to notice whaling aches; such sugarberry
gins, such fraught absence, so close, I hear shells.
mayapple
signs, blueberry tears, ruminating frustration.
too
wise to become callous, people killing something, taking one’s ability to feel,
to emote, to waltz—lost souls, over one totem, restricted to utter silence.
the
vengeance of army ants, those clouds storming, sullen rain in conduits.
the
trumpet will sound, deserts filled with warriors, sickness made rule of the
land.
treasured
gems, triumphant combat, a concave boiling in spirit.
the
fruit of its mistake, those wires at wrists, so potent, so devastating, too
popular for what she chases.
strong
overcast, Santa Ana winds, a hospital in Anaheim.
to
burnish emotion, to fret desperately, to ask for everything one can give; no
remorse, falling into ecstasy, so close, hearts cello as one—the screaming
skies, raspberries with cadence, triple beats in drums, a raging tambourine.
so
deep is the yearning, so decided is its curve, humans need unconditional trust—if
to function, a person’s fleece, their mental tattoo, so deliberate, torn in
halves, coming together, to elaborate wholeness.
the
church is its heart. the portico is its soul. so pious if possible. so human
its tainted. so confused, we die.
a
melancholic glow. most have never noticed, the way we smile while dying. most
need, never echoing, something sacred is commodity; to ask for perfection, as
given its lead, so thrust by some unpracticed ideal.
take
the gavel, take its helm, stir the ship.
so
rhapsodic—so quick knitted—so uncanny—so sublime—so desecrated.
