Looking
at reason, this monster of errors,
such ferocious beauty—as guided a brain, at blue jay ribbons, our customs to
sadness—while affected his faith, scraped and scarred, by texture those minds
of roses: that inner plucking; to realize rites; abused by perceptions: or lights
at tethers, that flailing ball, that pole by stature. I left as seated, feeling
resonance, at horrors but joy: our
pelican friends, a bit simple their chase, while pausing in mid air: that
passion of gates, our gripping and shaking, to witness justice disappear. I’m
tracing circles, a child to minds, eschewing blocks: that wayward soul; so
filled with agony; too young to distinguish traumas. (I’m a man, as features
would speak, at gates once again: torn but reckless; seasoned but raw; barred
with wings: those curious waves
as
pure electricity, hassling as a called soul). We tenderize, this reflexive
mirror, chasing illusions; to purpose by hearts, this shadowed discussion,
afraid to unveil: such critical minds, only to love perfection—this plight of
women: by Vodka alert, reeking of silence, as loud as he loves; that connected
feeling, as purged by morning
our
furnaces flickering.
I speak a self, this traveled mind,
this island of souls: to know disturbance, that mental reflection, as pulling
into sacrifice; where petals trickle, as spelling names—this treacherous
turbulence: that cryptic face, at moments to watch, while to yawn and turn
away. This frontier; our coastal lands;
our seaweeds as friends: that Celtic portrait; that African symbol; our Asiatic
souls…
as mothers mitigate, holding a tiny
palm, bathing a wayward prophet: but tainted roots, this literature as aching,
knocking by Sophia.
Before invention, I traveled by
brains, as a hunter of his father: such purified passion, failing those restraints,
as about as menacing as losing reach: that perfect curtain; as believing in
life; our foundation a barrel of vines; where souls dwell, gripping for
speaking, at love our terrible treasures: (that technical light; that breath of
liquor; our pills as mutual): to palm a caterpillar; or pet a Labrador; while
uttering softly: that waging tail; those moist eyes; that gesture for a belly
rub; while Love ponders, as watching measurements, at needs for love; this
constant feature, as sung to life, rummaging through cedarchests: such thrashed
portraits; and magazine clippings; and grandmother’s calligraphy: to probe
gestation, as mere a toddler, crawling about stuffed animals…
where daisies cry, as ruptured in
graces, this inversion of humans: our gleeful presence, as woeful agonies,
while treasured to share: that pelvic music; our tragic lights; our fairest
winds.
