…afar those daisies, as petrifying
languages, our Asian wives; or tragic this hype, our Jewish medallions, this
ancient mandala…our madness fleeing, by
awakened sky-torches, embodied a scream: those bright colorful spiders, as
webbing instincts, to forfeit his pride: this dying abasement, this candle-lit
Buddhist, our yogis proud to suffer…such tragic echoes, our tiny hairs to
pillows, this month by moths: that inner mosquito, to exit his nostrils, as
scorching fated dragon-hood: by liquid torpedoes, to hold alligator composure,
a tear impressed by distance…this wretched interior, as outer Cinderella(s), at
forces longing for closure: our bouquets writhing, our souls rumbling, this
alligator crowding his mirror…to know by deaths, this rabid luxury, our homes
speckled with glitter: our tetras souls, raising tetras seeds, fretting our
tetras puzzles: those staring walls, that buoyant bed, this exacting of mutual
pressures…where mother hovers, our grandmother’s soul, seized by chastisements:
that creative Africa, our Ethiopian women, this need to know his name. (I ache this oozing, semi-distorted, by
confessions a man to features: this
bold convention, our linguistic battles, this war to subjugate; as seeing us
straddled, our horses galloping, this tear to such nourishing fruit: our
doctor’s surgery; our mother’s nursery; that photo-album our father’s
dreams…our inner portfolio, our bleeding palms, this imitating by
characteristics—to love ourselves, addicted by reflection, or terrors those
hardened genetics—our sweet liqueur, our nectar rich teas, this feeling those
eyes shall not relinquish—as torn for driven, our Irish churches, or that
missionary from Kenya: where shadows become humans, riveted by Jung, our
matrimony depended upon variables…this must for dreams, this must for flying,
our triumphs buffering our ambitions—as freed of laughter, or captured by
sternness, or those weekly fried foods—such to crave for, as Mediterranean
rice, or Louisiana chicken, rinsed with cinnamon toasts brandies; indeed, for
adventures, to love so gracefully, to age as living our parachutes—that gliding
through memories, or parasailing life, our cosmopolitan brains). Some perfect their dice, those tiger
stones, those numeric infatuations—to have for visions, our unraveled
dynasties, where envy becomes important: our jaguar bones, in jaguar brains, fleeing through jaguar deserts: those
marshy brooks; that rabid father; that innocent mother—as cheeks to bellies,
listening for grumbling, at measures to fast
a fortnight: those beige berets, bereft of silence, bleeding social
constraints…that second with love, as forgiven for love, while mourning our
gray dominions: if but to roosters, or flamingo-colored ducks, our amazement
laughing by instincts: that measured man, as meeting standards, as wanting
children: those high cheek bones, those genetic rhythms, that particular
grayness: as but to live, this barrel of dice, that woman accustomed to
winning.
Capture this ache,
our faces crumbling, our liquids merging—as pure ecstasy, this holy vestige, by
sheer disgrace an impeccable human—as torn versions, those particle selves, our
Hindu orientations—that mental orchestra, that maestro as astral scars, while
invested shedding our snakes: this space inverted, our hearts to pavements, this
monster within leviathan—as dragons singing, our Chinese astrology, this
phenomenon exploding his instincts: that physiognomy, our narrow features, our
bulbous eyes—as lifted his coma, that ten page phantom, this mystic too far to
reach; indeed, by weapons, peering at models, this life as craving its
adventures: those rubescent thighs; that insidious grin; this place in scars
debating our futures: if but was sung, this daughter to dreams, our parents
complaisant despising our visions—to have for cravings, alive this ache, while
contemned for outright ambition: that incredible feeling, as volts to brains,
where absence spells a series of hurts—this
feral fire, as favored destiny, afore our destruction.
