Oh
to madness, explained by mother, this ain’t living. A smaller chance,
million-dollar dreams, fretting ghettoes—coasts to seas. Let-downs, Harvard
visions, taxes, more in it for winners; poolhalls, jazz and jive, blues and
burials; silent tears, raindrops, beauty in something suffering—microphone testimonies,
cacophonies, allegro relations, everybody asserting wrongness, to hate
parts of self; bigger loses, integrity loses, spoken in word and at a deficit. The
melody never heard, needing to go to a particular space, so low there, so
dangerous there—to assert one’s excellence there … most starting to see a gift:
bills those lives, tenements those slums, dirt and filth, scrubbing daily,
trying to wash reality away. It’s not exciting, until, one garners a
scholarship—traveling across seas, still a product of trainings, to catch self
in midst of destroying opportunity—the upheaval, the silent hatred, to feel
unredeemed; an inner satellite, spinning upon tracks, lumps in flesh, angered,
heading into traffic, a mile to surrendering, to see total shocking, abandoned
at the finish, or aloof from the beginning—a tale of a soul, his life, his
family, starting to realize, an anniversary, a curse made blessing, with
tremendous loses: setbacks, illusional facts, dysfunction, many won by leaving—to
capture a portrait, to seize self, in the middle of escaping interior—some fantasy—awake
in ghosts, rooms, activities, hangups, bad breaks, to win—the circumstance, haunted
by trainings, borderline thoughts, fixing self, a daily war, years later, still
at a few intractable beliefs. (One will kill himself trying to ignore certain
patterns, attempting to be pure goodness, wrath upon his heart, doing what’s
impossible, where one says, “Don’t destroy yourself.”) Too late, becoming
spirit, art indifference, never a hassle, hurdling over spheres, spending it on
something to eat. (We look at each other, tears before they drop, we change the
topic; natural fact is, it isn’t easy to care, to accept a person, to live with
adjustments, believing in ideals – just wine talking.) To have been a child,
trapped, it seemed, desperate to outwit fate; to exist in a box, to break an
edge, to peek out, and see a light. To run back inside, screaming about
enlightenment, with old timers aching to destroy the findings. Lasting hopes,
making it a wailing feast, and God was at the forefront: sad, joyful,
simultaneously, an outrage, filled with Love, something a man struggles to achieve.
(She might feel me, at this point, to understand part reflection—of self,
immediate excitement, to say something, on the fringe of being true.) Those
dreams shall prevail, connectivity, in some person, to have been thought
before. Refaced. Effacing words, eating macaroni for breakfast, and chasing a
dream—to be a poet, to say something unclearly, to ignite a spark, made of
topaz feelings, facing blithe, blighted at the garden: to have tried, to have
lived, adjusting to a great deficit. To
see it more often—a palm squeezing a tomato, a lemon dangling from a sunroof,
symbols and dreams, associated with love, to have a feeling, to ache in its
essence, pure quintessence, an epiphany in addition, as to wrestle over something
impetuous, trying to become everything to another person … Oh madness!
It
seems inevitable, eyes filled with enlightenment, to witness self a piece of
dying; to never ask for suffering, some obscure reality, nevertheless, filled
with pains, smiling, nonetheless; in communication, asking complex questions,
placed in confusion—loving feeling itself; a person as a dynamic force—patience
exploding and complex, panic at one sincere.
