the
deaths keep coming. a man wrapped in mortality. a woman given to her legacy.
the chills of the furnace. the ambrosia of souls. a man catches an infatuation.
a woman catches a mission. both meet eyes to loquats.
maybe
the beauty is its entrance, the reality is the beauty, the children are the
drains.
clocks
tick roughly. many are sipping intolerance. another legend has passed. mother
writhes. I’m certain. mother is floating, I’m certain.
truth
is located, rarely given, it requires voyage, damn near clairvoyance, perception
seems woven by deception.
an
imp is inside. a phantom partakes on fears. no place is a place for our seeds.
writing
to break freedom. writing to capture in words some reservoir inside. holding to
a woman for dear receptivity—amazed about sour simplicity. in knowing a simple
fact: it could be different, as perfect acceptance in the difference.
I
must admit, when it happens, two will die holding their legacy.
Hilfiger
poetry, Chanel prose, Versace depression, Vera Wang miseries. a longer road,
laughing melancholy, Harlem Rebirth.
writers
fall harder—we see life in sullen bliss—things shied over, take on Rembrandt
meaning—blueberry rhythm discussed in woods upon tiger gazes, blues in
merchants, medieval wire-roots—the paw of its panther, the stubbornness of its
spots, into superman wisdom, or superwoman anxiety—finding in pain, each
person, cleaves to breaking silence.
I
never saw such rosaries in winds and chimes and sandstone ancestors—the fire at
its lakes, those icy, furious, flaming icicles—the furnace big as houses,
sulfur dripping into lungs, freedom to every writer.
