I
get rawness, lost and screaming, studying damsel flies: this cry through
darkness, this heart as pumping, this fear as inverted: our last rounds, our
inner guns, this large participation: those butterfly veins, those leafy veins,
this mongoose race—as racy souls, to regurgitate life, to resuscitate deaths:
this gremlin face, this mulatto’s blood, this albino’s wisdom: to course
through dungeons, alive with fire, and fluxing through vestibules: this
bright-death soul, this light-breath troll, our years to reminiscing upon pain:
to hate with venom, to rob our legacy, to mirror our appraisals: this small
vehicle, as testing knowledge, this field of Mahayana maniacs: this entering monk, this full pledged monster,
this gut discerning between energies—as built through stress, this palm of
insects, this Japanese Red Swan: our black guts, this sudden feeling, this
mystic bewilderment. I’m struck with
kindness, this telic leviathan, while chasing iconic ideals: this lovely woman,
our lovely aches, this motion that dazzles: if but to die, this palm reaching,
this hunter too dismal: our addict inheritance, to ponder so coldly, while to
seek in every household: those steep ridges, this bridge to China, this assault
upon Africa: this Rose Royce, this internal psalm, our knuckles bleeding white
magic: indeed, Love, this killing insistence, this inner bribery, this session
in golden deaths: our brains railing, our tracks crawling, this world of
seahorses: (this brilliant diamond, this achy fly, these morphing alchemies: to become with passion, to laugh
this glorious tear, this man distorted: as never for pleasure, as more this
academic, this metaphysical tune moon): this autumn yogi, this tale as
unspoken, this van as Illuminati: our
creeks weeping, our brains chalking, this outline walking: that like this, or
this like that, while mother chokes bleeding this assassination: where dreams
are sold, as children confess, this bleak disagreement: if but to live, this
rapping enterprise, this freaky R&B, this blue jazzy execution: our minds,
Love, this place I dwell, to cut greens boiling intelligence. Its difficult arcs, and difficult hearts,
this space in atmosphere: this swagger, this cautious night, this snap while
pulling by dungeons: this summer mother, this winter goddess, this sameness as
screaming our identities: this beautiful otherness, this have-not curse, this
living as born to explode—those crazy thoughts, that scientific gravity, this
God as splattered upon kaleidoscopes—this Jewish woman, this old professor,
this tale as lives become evidence: this infraction, our daily curses, this
thirst for witness-ship. I gravel Panama, staring into this capagen, at love with primatology—this grammar
problem, this black man, this ideological warfare: this woman laughing, this
daughter flying, this mother to days those sweet gardens: our looking eyes, as
never but dung, to plead for what:
this little person, becoming almighty, while teaching with vengeance: this
Malaysia curse, this Malaysia treasure, this tricky drongo bird: to chirp a
sound, to mimic a feeling, to trick with pride this unbelievable face: our
courage cries, this love as bleeding, this carpet damn near toxic: as arts to
pavement, this inner Guadalupe, this trillion dollar mystic—It lives! I ache her heart, to diminish her hurt, while
to siphon this indri yogi: our days feeling important, our years damn near
dead, to revive as seated by Elijah: this foolish dreamer, this dream as
manifested, this pride as becoming evidence: this fire Malachi, this prophet
our guts, this troll becoming this flying phoenix: as dear this life, looking
for perfection, and damn near close to sharing: this remorseful life, this
wedding with flames, this person as unbeknownst: those copying skills, this
detached attachment, those principles providing sanity: this small man, this
large otherness, this cut so cursed we inhale: as students bleeding, this
immortal crush, this fabulous dreamscape: those romantic hypnotizisms, those
romantic facts, this matter of Acts: to live as dying, to thrust as wicked,
where mother felt deaths growing wildly: this book of yore-bars, this
antiquitous affair, this life as merely an excuse!
