…long
overdue, Passion, and sturdy with
misery, and caved above luxury: this mental fool, this timeline massacre, or at
Love agonizing over this dead-end: our brains upon heavy, our guts ruined, this
pin-drop insanity: to curse and float, to float and curse, while behavior seems
unruly: those casual grins, this fen called into notice, this mystery roaming
valleys: our torment, Love, our gates laughing, if but to exhaust with pride:
this penchant bleeding, at detail those variances, to ponder a dependent
variable: as mother dies, as father lives, as both root in soil: this bloated
maniac, this gutted tillage grind, those fools abandoned to street life: as
fueled and running, or ruined and thrashing, to come to languages speaking
Swahili: (our ghostly cries, this phantom in beige lingerie, or this one
persistent though souls would lose existence: those shiny eyes, that black
face, this total disgrace—our hearts feathered, our pandas lingering, or this
pond sighted in other engines: that fevered Tibetan, that West Indies Beaut, or
hell forwarded towards dying)…!
…it’s
ecological, or coasting in gravity, to perfume a moon blinded about reactions:
this mental tiger, this gutted cheetah, or days to writing a private essay: at
Love as an apparition, our souls at fire, this core at war with Jesus: to race
by agonies, or to surface an island, or to see children, plus, a husband, and
realize that nothing grows: this plant upon mushrooms, this life as something
detracted, or too sophisticated too win a hearing: our nuts and vinegar, our
cookies and vinegar, or Olay bitten by saturnine: those blue purple bruises,
this maniac in tragedy, those blue prints in cells: as but to trilogies, or but
to Trinities, alive but seated that far back row: to see Love, as eyes glaze,
where Love walks and talks and dances her Love: this midnight trail, this hell
in silver, this flavored insistence: this hectic soul, so wound upon lies, with
rings as dreams: this small inlet, or unpacked nightmares, while fueled to
destroy destiny: that ache, Mommy, those Latin fevers, Mommy, as aloof but
close—so tender this parachute, Mommy….
