Unborn We Flew So High

…perfume wafts tensely, accompanied by melon cologne, while intrinsic senses grip for gravity: those practiced eyes, those palatial gestures, those shrine instincts: as men apologizing, for fear of losing, to find justice in a daughter’s fens: this inner miracle, this polite tan, this stirring of heated energies: while, nonetheless, this mystic group, this coupe of intuitions, or fair to chaos this inverted courage: to mimic activities, those calibrated women, this caliber of saber-tooth sages: our clinical histories, our medicinal agriculture, or lithium as pure clearance: those shy facts, our interior travesties, or our bipolar psychiatrists: those clear women, those investigative auguries, where perceptions blend into absolute truths: if but to teach, our mandarin images, our magnolia almonds….     […we palm marigolds, or begonias, or exotic fruits…we dine with thoughts, nibbling mental-matter, while engaged in exegeses: our hermeneutic digestion, or internalized suggestions, while one assumes pure individuality: to scribble napkins, another bite of asada, or a sip of cognac: this space eclipse, our social tickets, or this thought concerning swans: our snuggled heart-drifts, those retrievals with time, or days feeling pride about to fall]: moreover, a dream, to capture our inner wheels, while accustomed to aggrandizing mortal women….     (…we ingest wrongness, our working jurisdiction, to honor this ethical recital: our moments at hell’s gates, our shrimps with sadness, our theaters with keen intrusions: as lost souls, while found near pits, our palms nailed by silence: to come for that reason, while offered recourses, where one suffers intentionally: such gray-matter, our religiosity, our tender catastrophes: as, notwithstanding, our catnip pride, or souls to grunts reading tabloids: thereupon, a curse, our active addictions, this status, this reality, or this switching of addictions: to search for normal, while hard-pressed to sense it, while myriads become subjects to confidence: those absolute dreams, those absolute persons, this working, contagious charisma): if but to dream, or but to live, our deep inclines.     I sighted birds, our chirping moments, to return from that dreamscape: our welded memories, sensing only what our minds can carry, while angered concerning perceptions: at livid sacrifices, or mongoose parties, a tear partial to our thoughts: to utter a lullaby, or fang a flute, where agitation becomes vocal: those sky cranes, or anklet anchors, or aglet restrictions: if but to breathe, this excited life, where Love becomes her philosophy: this one-to-one correlation, this pudding as proof, or substance as substantial—our butter with milk, our panorama insights, or this torn desire to become this incredible galaxy—where red visions erupt—into blue oases, our guts revved with appreciation.     We adore positive feelings, to fly with elevation, or to float this new engagement: our greedy eyes, our filled bellies, our dry wines: if but a song, diminished by travesty, to reminisce upon something pleasing: our shedding hairs, our groomed nails, or more to heart, our fragranced elements—as pure warriors, at battle for years, to return weaving our sentiments: when letters grew lights, to wax with such eloquence, as realized this sentiment with souls: at evermore, or never such a cry, to war for Love so far astray: this dying frenzy, this Spartan woman, this sword to intestines—as lives deaths, or rabid beauty, while confined to tragedies: our gutted saxophone, our lyrical membranes, or this ability to compose whilst deaf: as tyranny men, or tyranny women—so courageous as to laugh while cringing…this land of dunes, our sunset dungeons, while keeping company with beetles: as ever we live, as forever we die, while cultured too pure for human interaction: this guilt with time this shame with existence, or mere our bowels rumbling indecisions: at trepid arts, our watery glasses, or sweat to earth this farm of whys.