An orchid garden—surrounded by scarecrows, the fields
full of outcrops. It might amaze her, to understand, her husband writes, an
author, just to impress her. Another is a doctor, to purchase items, to satiate
materialistically; herring bones, diamonds, interior sexuality, to have died
holding her heart. Ringlets. Smokestacks. Needing orgasmic wheezing. I new an
unstuck feeling. I exercised with banshees. I sold huarache(s). An Armani soul,
an Ann Taylor spirit, two in affects, misunderstood, gothic because its first
in line; perched, unclothed, singing about birdies—father of greater sadness,
to try at escape, to become too hardened, as to have compassion, showing a
lesion, a wounded womb, wrestling aloofness. Seeing souls bleached, major
affliction, all colors are racing for identity. Marina obsessions. Billie Eilish.
Prince. A desperation in Jacksons. Writing life, a foreign penmanship, cursed
to have found too much, a graying weather, a seed in a snake, an egg trying to
hatch. (Many a soul has fought for purchase an empire.) And loving you has been
embarrassing. A sickened man, settled in needs, finding satisfaction in adoring
what hurts. By a forest, tropical parrots, vertical lovemaking, trees 100
meters high; starling shows, to impress again, angelic scars, milky pangs, a
primitive, warlike possession—those eyes asking questions, dry, made wet as
oils, trying to overcome instincts; mother of a son, cousin of a prophet, so
great the inheritance. Swirling skies. Winning miracles. Loving has been an
adventure. (First encounters seem more compelling. Something to it. To have
defied gravity.) Again with blocked thoughts. Mandarin pains, a line on
recording, a love for something desiring heaving(s). Senses destroy us. Correlation
is possible. As far back as commonality, sameness of antiquity, forefathers and
mothers the same ancestor.
