Thursday, September 27, 2018

Underground Witness


I’m at underworlds, this Super Inclination, this Supper with Rivals: our meeting frames, our terrified guts, this balloon of butterflies: those made for symbols, that wretched orchestra, or Beethoven at tyrannies: our bladders full, our inheritance dismantled, our souls sawed for inflated: this gut-war, this mental game, or pieces becoming life like: at 40 days by fasting, or this contour glowing, to break (fast) with strawberries: this blueberry tension, this cherry deranged, or our bodies disguising ten heads.     …it’s been raft rides, this canyon of oceans, this wellic cry: as bent for surviving, at longings for newness, to acknowledge those tears spent writhing for sophistication: this inward churn, this burning edifice, or trillion dollar episodes: our daughters laughing, our daughter’s feelings, this shy, bashful, aggressive creature: our nights in limbo, our mornings at breakfasts, or evenings playing our parts: this inner film, this inner grin, this professor analyzing glaciers: this theologian fire, this poet igniter, or this engine tweaked to ensure our rollercoasters…our sakata passion, this esoteric mentality, those few psychs confirming our eyes: this bleeding hip, those acacia thighs, this cypress sap: at inner music, a bit infatuated, while adoring living, but tales are gray: this life by infractions, this wild eyed mulatto, or treasures distressed for wrenched: this pliers empire, this kingdom dynasty, or hours to admiring Korean Calligraphy: (as getting lost, this manic composure, this maniac brain: this filthy drug, this cherished belly, at soldiers devoid of feelings: this soul watching, this killer waiting, at thoughts our daughter’s intestines: to stab a Porsche, as standing out-of-bounds, spray-painting an iguana: those deep phobias, this serenity of psychotic features, a bit alone fleeing this island: our ecclesiastic rites, our Ten Commandments, or this palm of goose-grass: to respond to illness, at nostrils grieving, to remember father losing his cartilage: thitherto, or partial insanity, to cling for purpose behaving inappropriately: to expect full devotion, as one reaching holy legs, while life has become make-believe: those tall towers, those scraping bridges, or silverback eyes: this ruby sun-gun, this tragic rug-pain, or days to moistened cloth: as one a bit angry, where others are perfect, but Love moans and rants about every night): our escapes deranged, or hopes for more deception, our eyes pleading another soul's heart-shatter: as feeling for sanity, while cut with illness, to demand total loyalty: this mule gunning, this man laughing, where bullets hit atmosphere and return: this misfire, this missed-brain, those missiles at core-penchants…such sickness by genius, such water through dryness, or arid personalities sudden to bubble lively: this mis-garnered woman, this mish-matched gasoline, or songs un-scored and ruined in tempo: those fine apples, this green loquat, or years to trekking through ghettoes: to meet, Fantastic, to need, Fantastic, while underdeveloped for, Fantastic: this moving frenzy, this treasured reality, this captivating, Brain: as one refocused, or to need for one season, while scoping for kaleidoscope honesties: this fool at ceilings, to drill a tiny hole, while rain ensued that evening….     Seriously, it’s un-cool, Love, this addiction adults swim through: these myriad realities, this tribal game, this kill for breath: our nut-crackers, our trenchant disguises, or to love a woman and vanish: this need for condoms, this breath for insistence, while one day Love will embark upon marriage: this lucky friend, this fevered insanity, this white dress: if but for cloths, if but for dreams, if but for instances: our burning earlobes, this tragic episode, this inner movie: this tale for ass-kissing, this black man running, this world to Race suggestions: our camerawoman, our Kodak moments, this capture in engrams: those otiose realities, those small negotiations, where arguments lose nuance: as one would say, or one might assert, Some arguments are trite: but reason for passion, to understand those feelings, as opposed to being swayed without deepness!

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...