I feel it as it stirs the cadence of its sway the art of its insistence; an uncured soul, a smaller vessel, absorbing ghetto heat, or soaring up the PCH. I feel it as it rises those meadows with thorns, those briers on high, to kneel for a moment. Rain, natural water, a sunny day, a flower’s whiff, its scent, gravel so aesthetic. Voices in the courtyards, growth in souls, to realize what it means to have color—in a world—learning to include color. I feel it in a gesture, swelling of intestines, a wash over with essence, teary-eyed, part way, moving along a highway. Made more complicated—an ideal in sins, a flavor in repentance—aside a cherry blossom path. I can feel it with presence, a while from itself, swarming senses, as I steady a leg to slip on denims. Like an alien inside, removed from self, I can feel it nudging—like if I could just relieve its source, its hurt, its curse. I can feel it—like motion, like smoke clouds, coming in, dismounting a previous excellence. Made more complicated—self-contempt, engrained stitching, images, features, a certain type of dance, it ought to be illegal—where one inculcates division, a soul learning to ache its existence, as put in scripture, one learns to suffer his presence. I can feel it where arts are sacred, an intimate sentence, as it never comes back, a song inside, such radiant purpose, to imagine where I’d be without it: somber of creativity, sails by chi, a wilderness of wilder winds; to know by an unspeakable thread, by unthinkable reality, to have a feeling, fraught by tomorrow’s forests.
