Walking
by dreams, haunting the faith, life is what it becomes—changing faces,
diplomatic chaos, frenzy freezing impressions; dice made of plastic, numbers,
ink, rubbing more screams—those apelike, archery and diamonds, at neural lakes,
on full admission—of facts, dating into antiquity, with elegance seeming
pivotal.
I should explain—by rivers in
Jamaica, traveling the nearby tundra … to have adored like Prince, a creature
made indelicate, so great the faith in humankind: liquidity muscles, fierce
muscles, rather crazy to have left muscles.
Trying to reduce reality, shivering
over excellence, made to mention it to an inherent portrait.
Believing
in fate, faced with faith, controlled by trepidation, under pressure, and
terrified of love: a creature made of kismet, knitted into fabrics, fragile and
beautiful … life with love, art with anxiety, absolute private and public
passion; to have died in sin, living in faith, destined to love the fragile
existence.
Breathing was once easy. It became
difficult with weights, love, passivity, assertion, and museum. Caged in
reality. Laughing and wiping tears. Frantic and chuckling. As one watches.
