I’ve
not been pious. I’ve framed a violin. If by chance, we reconcile. Strong
illusions—hassled by expectation, debating poltergeists. Jittering softly—an
alien tremor—so unclose it hurts to see you. By trembling miracle, immortal
portraits. Ears to doorposts. Seamen islands. After something we missed. It
becomes a great challenge. The whelp cries. The house is with lies. It becomes
natural—by fireplace and campfire, unlived interior. Such duration, briers are
extinguished. The endless camera, chiming lenses, I carve an endless estate. So
close and unvetted—it seems normal—unless we account for the wild. Musical
angst! The passive fixation. The haunt for more flowers. Such pollen and
sneezing. Such debated covenants. Granny paid alms. Those terrific
feelings—born to unrealities—nudged by delusion. Ladders have meaning, standing-mirrors,
pain is wafting, such to listen to dressers, much blackmailing. The inner
alien—so aloof from reason—interior has become estranged: from self and
soul, from mind and body, from faith and religion. The pain we live: so
determined to depress, so eager, too eclectic to utter a love spell. Those
storage-bens carry history: clowns and caricatures, depression and freedom, widows
and widowers. The exquisite harmony—exquisite bellflowers, exquisite, unfamed,
self-reflection; as souls unhinge, as Bukowski chuckles—we feel a need to rend curtains.
It becomes sunlight. It polishes stain glass. It stuffs letters in ottomans. Kids
deliberate, family inculcates, I said something sour. The phone, a monster unanswered,
to hear a soft whisper. The road paved with mirrors; the Comforter in-distinguished;
our daughters presuming a long voyage. Chairs moving in rotation. Magazines are
reread. Beauty in dimensions. To unlock skies. To adjust phantoms. In a burrowed
mind.
