been sitting still, reminiscing
upon a bird, songstress pain. the remainder aches, soft into a miracle, the
closet was profound: big body rain, goodly miseries, an edge on all Negros;
doing my penalty, chained in space,
many gods in our time. at higher frequency, had to pull back, heads-in, prone
to doing something right; granny was facial, mother was carnal,
poppa was destined for the final
miracle; ashes rolled, the urn leaking, the gold in the ground. to change in a
blink, to see in a mirror, to ask mouth to spirit. the mind-side, like a
lakeside, filled with platypuses;
eating syrup/ pineapple, smelling like lilacs, wrestling despair: a whit
different, fretting the hope page, enlightened enough to ask for assistance.
the chameleons are feminine. the
feminists are androgynous. the existentialists are bleeding anguish. such rich
depression—to sit in a room, undergoing mind-parts, swooshing and
swerving, the gates just wide
opened; those that die, are those that mourn, leaving substances behind. many
tales, many more jaguars, to tailor the insides. earth to skies, skies
to dirt, the last of the trumpet
whispers. eating oxygen, redeemed early, those footprints are legendary. shapeless
gnats, her understandable face, blue-red-and burgundy trials.
with a shout to endless waves, spatial
in a coma, sipping with no intent of enjoying it; glances at my daughter,
needing to hear her, like motion into a different dimension. caught in
crossfire, those years, soon unforgettable.
over yonder, a lady with pride, re-found and delivered, like rushing tidal
waves; aside a silhouette, into a vase, the territorial problems.
if we abide, never to seek further,
glasslike hankerings; to need the filth, to favor the fever, to feel good,
looking forward to the melancholy. placed in the ground, seething in spirit, placed
inside underbrush—the brushwork, the film inside, the last to adore us.
