Eating coconut mantis—learning religion—sawing at
inhibition. He wrote his obituary and read it to strangers. He dispelled
anxiety by disappearing into dust. A false horizon must return to self, waking
up at distant hours—seasickness inside, swaying ships inside, love and stature
inside. It probes its reality, so much an unusual creature, must we all desire her?
A nauseating question, like an MFA in chemistry, so hurtful to ask, so
causeless to say, no! At first glance, a quickening shock, a phobia for years
in passing; bathhouse baptism, arranged in there, so compartmentalized. In
hating her, the poet loved her, so many tears in Tibet; thoughts chafing, oxygen
wafting, so tender inside—the guilt of a falling castle. Eating prayer wheat,
fretting so much the beauty, knowing—most are a fraction of their beauty. Many
inner portraits, pictographs, minds undergoing satori; much upon rawness, a
sickle to spirit, to touch, taste, and tease. So serious—preferred in essence,
feeling unusual to smile. Gibbons at rest. Mystic fruits. Leaf cutters moving at
pace. Hands in slime, mold growing, so purified, so cleansed. Casual eye
contact, jerboa swiftness, quite imperceptible. Remora instincts, fighting as
we sin, some uncomfortable with being realized—wilder roses, gripping thorns,
self-analyzation. Each crucible inches to skies, so grave in sanity, too bold
for faint of distinction. (In boundaries—wandering her excellence, catching
palms filled with vapor—miles into some space, an unreal dungeon, found smiling
at zinnias—by fever at seconds, bodies too explosive, parts planted into the
future … purple dynasties, violet heartbeats, drums made tribal.)
