As
but distance, this radical instance, those fumes our dementias—afloat canyons,
that sky-drop sanity, our swans so Cajun with fire—those kites as eyes, this
flickering, stirring, at snaps to perish living its cadence—our music dying,
our notes to keys, our symbols screaming thunder: this craving feeling, to
divest this mask, this welt to guts reaching for portals: those exotic fruits,
that erotic color, this city of sky-brains [if but to live, that immediate
expectancy, this river so steep his slithering bellies—those dragon-bars, our
snakes at prayers, this layer our closed mouths—as sung his devils, this
psychotic fever, as purposed for presence those cries] to live evermore, this
cagey awareness, our palms gripping windowsills—as if he loved, while ever he
died, to come to terms reaching for helmets—that armor bleeding, his bones to
wars, our tendons tugging at roots. {I
remember drillings, that aria as sung, this delusion such captive dementias—to
curse his heart, our travels afar, our souls as Ethiopians—those silent flints,
as witness to vows, as sons of anarchy—this penchant fig, as broke insanity, to
crave but a second as slithering—to wax eloquence, our loquacious tears, this
fiddling pathos—where daughters fry,
as infused a scream, seated with mother debating futures: that welling will, those pagan cauldrons, this
feature as peeking while secluded within;—to render by secrets, this force in
brains, to alert a socket this fuse to burgundy cries}. I know your flame, where most are lingering,
there effects as dormant. I know your
arc, as fleeing for rapture, to sit as seated enduring introjects: that early
daughter, peering at mother, a bit to miracles our fathers: that steep
addiction; those cyan seconds; this plethora of personalities; as never was
uttered, as sung to silence, where moments kill for purpose as flying—that edgy
soul, while steep with friction, this inner dungeon—as visits his life, our
cuffs smelted from flesh, our brains an image of electricity—insofar a curse,
this love-agony, our candy-canes our scarred memories—that mirror laughing, as
demented our thoughts, this portal in rain where doves cry—that raging ache, as
slammed a lion, this kitten purring our sentiments—as, therewith, this
humanitarian, this oath to evolve, this feeling as tugged so close to God’s
brains—that dying calamity, those indwelling aches, this fury for disposed as a
partial maniac—to cry her life, as died his veins, our methodical
heresies! [We film perfection, our
calligraphy weeping, to choreograph a daymare—those soft angers; that cried
insanity; this balance as tested this inner voice—to squirrel through deserts,
our camel’s guts, this Antarctic windstorm—as swimming dusks, our bathing
dusts, this fuss as maniacal hysteria: those sudden leaves; that sky-blackened-soot;
this parish that inner god our lights—we could to live, as grieving our
gardens, this paranoia so close to Eden].
I’ll remember desertions; I’ll remember those battling warriors; I’ll
perish a list of names for that tribunal—as extinguished with breath, or flying
wingless, at captures to control this inner damage: our cold grip, punching
into snowstorms, fleeing for returning our calm atmosphere—those steep desires,
to want that love, if but to evolve that second at tears: this movie bleeding,
that thump at secrecies, this cinema as blaring Beethoven—or hearts to skies, alive
at Sia, sketchy for mud this mental extravagance—indeed, to laugh, if but to
crawl, if but to know silence. {You held
tightly, this perfect fool, to die so with passion: this elevation, our
annihilation, this birth dormant in truffles—as cried our arc, this flipping
dolphin, as wild to voice this extravagant message—that steep massage, as livid
its tyranny, to come by kisses whispering after vexes—that portal chasing,
those waves soaring, our rites as cursed to prisons—where addiction films, this
want for normality, while normal becomes this excruciating project—where eyes
grimace, or resentment sings, as we find our sun shining upon tender
ambitions}.
Rainbow Guitar
I must
to sin, this grin blazing, this man at deaths—our deep in-currents; our steep
clarinets; our daughters at communion—as laughed a soul, this cyan swan, our
gravid cygnets—that husband cagey, as graphed in transgression, that linguistic
heart-pear: if but to die, as laughed our souls, so bold that November trespass—where
mother paged, that inner intercom, this rage of fiery palms. I’m caged a fan, at spins by summer, this
closet too full for merchandise; and still to die, and still to laugh, and
still to hold brushes: that antic spinning; that father winning; those grins
disguising, I see you; where gramps
signed, as delivering that hatchet, our grannies too steep to retreat: this
courage bleeding; that son at dolphins; to flip through currents straddling a
bear. I see us framing, this
make-believe game, while sealed at Satan’s trestle: those whining demons, that
screaming mother, our brothers praying close to violins—as harnessed his
brains, to enclose his soul, this jest as laughing while purposed for rebirths:
that cryptic temple; those cultic practices; this love for deaths that
destroyed innocence: our fathers drinking; our mothers puffing; our
grandparents pleading sobriety. I ask to
math, for much that mercy, a friend you wouldn’t deny—as cadent candescence, or
garnets at play, this garland as singing but slavery—if but to love, as
gripping for passion, this flight through intimacies. We live it crashing, this soul knocking,
while doors remain closed: that simmering crock-pot; that inner ferret; that
desert mosquito: as livid brains, accursed for breathing, this game our gods
are instructing: this spirit weaning, as graduating infancy, to come to closure
bleeding insanity: our riveting spells, as to retreat with time, while all for
embraces that restricted curse. I could
to vanish, as time must dictate, at heart to touch but silence that womb: our
bold intrusion, as worried he died, while at markets this hush of
penalties—that crazed villain, as more to exile, to flee as an outburst in
Jerusalem: that pineapple skin; our swords to guts; our lands invaded by Syrians…if
but to times, this cycle of life, our twitter born presidents. {I late-night a feeling, as killing his
bones, to know that love would exist but a week; for souls are ravished,
designed to flourish, while a seeker rarely sits still: our daughter’s flute;
this man’s spasms; our cities abroad as drilling that journey—as mothers bend,
this thin reality, finding with essence this curs-ed life: those flippant
lungs; that melody wretched; those feelings streaming through, Aretha
Franklin—as told to fly, as refusing to die, at lands so permanent as to
sin—those cold glaciers, that warm furnace, this refinement as killing our
souls. I treasure laughter, to see it
with jealousy, as confined to find it in privacy—this privy voice, those smiles
by travel, our eyelashes winking—if but a curse, this lavish languishing, to
spew with crime a menacing kiss—where fathers sang, as adrift through chimes,
this firefly as rebuking our pleasures; indeed, to live, as fueled a poet, this
land so spoiled with travesty—to live existence, as bold to flurry, at tiers
piled in a pyre of resurrections: those flitting brains, as afloat but
captured, to love this song as dying its curse: this land fleeing, our love
mangled, our whetstone to feet while running—for death was gentle, this curse
his mind, as never an excursion—to love as willing,
while to come to adjustments, to fracture a segment of reality: that woman
dreaming, as but that fraction, to have as friend a restricted stranger—as torn
to laugh, where tears would fall, this vestibule an extravagant wall—as
speaking French, or murmuring tongues, to shout at sudden this three tier, Logos; as beige our brooks, or lavender
our rivers, while violet our majestic rain: that savage waning; that theory as
vocal; those travesties as reported segments of love—where hearts are pure,
extracted from caves, this essence as bleeding our sentiments: those scarred
monsters, that beautiful tragedy, our arts as vehicles explaining misery—as so
far that spring, as sung that mountain, our frantic fires}!
