Hi Love; this miracle transformation, with
mother seeing glory: that potential element, that Jesus scar, our grandmothers
dreading death—this existential, that pragmatic voice, this heat rising in his
intestines—where swans drift, at cadence a terror, to cut for hearts a simple
sentence: this casual plague, those ignorant guitars, those placating
clouds. I know for ventures, this
getting away, this ship split sinking into bubble gum: if but for love, to come
through pains, as livid a lucid lightning-bar: those mental prisons, this
crucial psych, our distance as such to breathe: haven’t you heard, this
immortal luggage, so hard to face that unlivable clash—those graphic arts, that
mural in Watts, our Spanish ancestors; where this is life, those merry eyes,
that bounce cleaving to perceptions—to hear for deaths, to curse for feelings,
to sip this pail of coffee; indeed, as wrecked, searching for transmissions,
shifting through spy-crafts: that inner membrane, this precious swan, this
liquor offending myriads—as loose with negligence, while vocal with guidance, a
place in tears crying as relieved. I
pass by deaths, to rejoice in pleasures, seeping into rhythm for blues: those
plaintiff red eyes, that lawyer digging, that grandfather living—as but a rule,
as dragged through memories, to see this internal inheritance: as craving in
private, to generate a distant soul, at remorse coursed to recite a thousand
verses—that burgundy moon, as knowing for tired, while cringing for dying
ignorance: that trickling blade, this itchy neck, this space in orbs explosive
with chaos. (I blaze a cigar, pondering
sunlit eyes, infusing this immortal swan.
I think to mother, pleading for tongues, as a father sips teas: that
reckless third person, that furious feature, to come to grips acting for
spirits: this brook flowing, as Gertrude watches, this cygnet splaying smaze:
as Irish liturgies, seasoned with nuance, to courage as dying infrequent with
deaths: our inner voice, your mobile soul, this feeling to floors gripping his
guts. We love at passions, fleeing to
islands, pausing for flying through Russia: this inner woman, this mental man,
our studies to Jung. I ache in
treacheries: I live in futures: I die to explore this glacier—where mother
frowns, but sees for goodness, as
convicted this inner Ghost; albeit, wretched, this terrible feeling, to come to
sights peering at colossal breath-beats.
I love this swan, to perish for treasures, while roaming this adult
land: those petit arguments, this thrusting of energies, this love for
something we die to complete: as freezer arcs, or warm lagoons, to leopard
through Savannahs). [I love for you,
as blood drips from Christ, as science proves for viable. I’ll perish this cycle, while laughing with
Yahweh, this Jewish woman adding this prophet; indeed, this Danish friend, as
never for sacrifice, while livid to stars this Irish soulmate; where rituals
explode, as curses are broken, this nun splitting for drilling at Elijah. I love for us, this breath so young, while
years pass as feeling inadequate: to watch a sibling, loving her father, while
ignored a slither: this want for hugs, plus, advice, to sentence this death:
our casual icecream, our seconds to looking in, that friend as a bit
complaisant; but this is life, where thoughts are not there, to run from
anything confrontational: this wretched soul, pleading for intelligence, met
with something by richness; as, nevertheless, to pray for souls, speeding
through magic, afar a scar, adrift a moon; as cryptic science, to infuse your
heart, a bit vocal this majesty. We
adore mirrors, as cursed by mirrors, this cedarchest advice—as moving
mountains, to flesh a fig tree, our reeds bleeding our brains: this velvet
love, as died for nothing, to relive for something: that mother spinning, that
father smiling, our families as debated: if but to live, while cut through
veins, to ask for pressures to abate. I
love your life, this violet constellation, those terms as purely
unconditional—where love puddles, as splashed through caves, this pantomime
riddle: if but to sing, as but to live, fleeing for captured while gnawing at
infinity—this inner collision, this colossal scripture, our days to loving
songs to daughters].
