I picture glasses, I picture psychiatry, I
whisper, Psychopath: as one
uncertain, for stigmata screams itself, and positivity dreams of positive
qualities: this fear we possess, while living our curses, to crawl into
closets: this drug called, Existence, or
pragmatic hassles, to realize this epistemological lagoon: to know by
certitude, this rude disposition, while reevaluating old philosophies: this
tender death, this warm execution, this father’s guillotine: to comfort
passion, those psychotic features, to anger our Judges: while psychs explore,
to become this reflection, and to utilize such inheritance. I picture this woman, explained in
concrete, but too abstract to fly: or withering slightly, an inner mercenary or
too by liquidity to become peanut-butter—this spacial genius, this negative
enforcer, this prophetic jelly—as men to women, singing this instrumental, to
arrive as peeking at something growing: those hidden discourses, this churn
with life, or armor melting where resurrection becomes normal: our childhood
stories, this certified extraordinaire, or this penchant for something so
powerful it remains disdained: this cross with reality, this perfect intake, or
this perfect distance: to adventure closely, even enthralled, to lock loins as
strangers: our mothers pictures, our inner mystics, or this resistance pleading
its turmoil—where jingles appear, as cribs spin, while Mozart becomes our
memories: this man pushing, if but to succeed, while therapy pleads as clouds
dissipating: this inner picture, this overseeing nightmare, to soon disenchant
authenticity: America Screams, trespassing our inner tornadoes, where Love
types as pursuing a different angle: this slight discomfort, this Dream
laughing, where souls rush for branches—this social leap, to congratulate a
leaf, while slipping a worm in his tank.
I picture psychology, this stressor of souls, or this cosmic
countenance: that scientific awning, those literary canopies, or this boat
floating upon abstracts: this running essence, this pictured man, and those
un-vetted suspicions: It must be
insanity, or It must be magic, or this Feature has become dominant: to go
further than prayer, to actualize participation, or to feel life by engaging in
preparations: that small secret, that in-crowd elation, as nothing to venture
but, We were arranged: this man
running, as leaping through Africa, to arrive in African Americas: this soft sailing,
this recharged historical, or this man running for files have become too thick:
at wars with self, those binocular brains, or philosophical remoras: this
clutching for cleaving, where we never operate as equals, while, nevertheless,
equipped to outwit our pitfalls: those steep canyons, or steep battles, where
issues are addressed by selection: this moon-talk, this pillow-grease, or this
ability to discern when enough has arrived: our voices, Love, our inner
accounts, or our bodies displaced: those ventures with courage, or to sit in
loneness, with this false claim that life is perfect this way: as never
adventured, our lives in castles, where everyone is under evaluation. I picture assumptions, to believe through
inexperience, or to vet through years of training: this lot of souls, as
sensing by countenances, to realize we adore certain reflections: or to examine
closely, to conclude upon self-interest, where clarity scribbles its riddles:
this inner motion, this floating emotion, or those internal feelings: where
mirrors crash, while projection exhausts, and reality becomes this, Perfect for me!: indeed, we get closer,
this internalized intention, to get near enough to find faults: this need for
faults, to feel for comforts, while hell has arranged her course: this dying
wilderness, those hidden realities, this frontier of scientific concerns: those
sky-walls, this mystery unraveled, while we demand our second kiss: those floors
speaking, Picasso, this concrete associated with abstracts, and our certitude
becoming a palm of sandcastles.
