I blaze a cigarette, thinking, Mafia, knitted by wounds: this frantic
mother, that fatidic husband, our morning communion: to dye this life, as to
die this wife, our caskets outlined in sincerity: those beige dreams, as
screamed our guts, sipping our itchy Scotch.
We miracle love, aborted but breathing, our destinies woven
conspiracies: our uncles bleeding, our cousins heavy at traffic, our
grandfathers sanding sky-clocks: to love by tendencies, as abused by realities,
to cut threads while scythed through dungeons: our rabid introjects, our heuristic
inquiries, our days to idiot savants—those fatal moves, as steady a daughter’s
flights, at courage to attend churchlike brains: this steep calamity, as
seasoned for disasters, while at forces to avoid delusional cults. I felt gravel, Love, scraped for distorted,
revolving this past existence—at tears to fly, studying Freyja, at remorse this
curse as artworks: that cigar soot, that inner smaze, this chimney choking
Santa Clause; therewith, this Cognac sin, this bottle grieving—that silent
language.
I flipped pain, this treacherous
inversion, as cut to blades: to rethread ghosts, as partial visions, to assume
that dreams are omens; indeed, to psychs, this flying frenzy, our frail
perceptions—as blotted by strife, this familiar cycle, as close to a thousand
eyes.
We tend to fantasies, If but this sequence, If but this emotion: our tall tales, our
galaxy screams, our waves ablaze peering into heart-fires: to love as dying,
our renowned atmospheres, this present tug preventing fluidity’s outpour.
(…so cursed to pinches, at terrors those
feelings, to want with ecstasies—this flare for passion, this literate
conglomerate, our thrusts through middle-school. I was dead a man, as merely a child, our backs
to lashes: that foreign cry; that trip through Europe; our vehicles by myths:
to claim with deaths, this breathing insanity, at love as purely confused: that
first missive, that second shadow, that third to fourth unreality: while
cleaving fireworks, our inner Independence,
as something we leave to fates….)
Alright,
Love…
…I delve deeper, spent into chimera,
realized as falling gravity: this inner mystic, this cagey existence, this
place as faces that psych: our inner theories, this outer magnetism, this
inverted therapy—to know for powers, as, too, for energies, to see with faith
our Precious Empires: that edge slipping, this daughter vexing, this mother
with wands—our grannies flexing, our muscles bleeding, this uphill battle this
dingy boulder—to love with fashion, as accustomed to dying, to enter by texture
this fervent past—as pure fertility, to give us a child, to carry as nigh
another soul: those morning greetings, this reading to wombs, our legacy to
witness worthiness…as more full vulnerability, to have this friend, at loses to
court this phantom…as steeped in deserts, at war with delusions, where beauty
returned to Asian America: that wealth through deaths, as never for hate, while
emotions become rabid atmospheres….
I adore swans, this welkin sentence, our
mothers trying desperately: this force in souls, to cleave to wakefulness, but
blunted for blunders as burrowed into oaken silence: that soul to treacheries,
that soul to redemption, this place in Christ as unforgiving (Read it closely,
Jude).
