…in
a subtle sense, we die yearly, we perish in minutes—this blue grave, this red
slave, this gutter mentality: as filled with passion, and livid with remarks,
or trashed as dearly dead: that intimate seduction, this past reality, this
inner molestation: that foul creature, those trenchant nooses, as alive roaming
cotton fields: this family of masters, this gut as livid, this mulatto accused
of treachery: for thoughts are intricate, and death is gentle, this impossible
way out: where mother was kind, this blind sensation, this Danish curse: as
Irish friends, this bottle with liquor, this elixir as reaching, or graves so
warm gramps has occurred: our lullabies, our tar behavior, this pit of
feathers: to curse Jesus, to die in Jesus, to arrive questioning Christ: those
waves, Love, this development, Love, to find majesty in pure turmoil, Love: as
granny revolves, as mother feels fears, if but to die as apologetic: this sheer
remorse, this Constantine, or Jews with weapons posted at gates: our craved
habits, our dynamic daughters, to encourage where war is inevitable: our sexual
orientations, our bowels to Lucifer, our dreams dictated by inner operations:
this fool psych, this fool psychologist, as fools so damn close to reality: as
minds ingested, or media seared, or technology proving inadequate…. I died at reasons; I cried in agonies; it
felt good to die: for love is perfect, this reward for dying, this grave
feeling good: those remote islands, this beautiful clearance, this tragic
horizon: if but for closure, if but for Love, if but our remarkable seed: this
bleeding youth, this wanton curse, to find that God is moving traffic: our
dreams, Freckles, our Ingrid Encyclopedias, Freckles, or this powerful mind
zeitgeist—where it felt passion alive, or death as remorseful, while bleeding
our realities: this feudal mother, this dead father, this observant
grandfather: in granny’s guts, in aunts spirits, in daughters trying so
incredible hardness. I pillage souls,
I cadence magic, I flip as dipped in lagoons: that baptism, this pill his guts,
this illness that woman: if but to drip, as flipped in accents, to remain as a
Latin Dove: our brains, God, this filled Lucifer, this majesty as unrealized:
our beating hearts, this field of reality, this gut as swollen: our ape tears,
our chimpanzee remorse, our Sade warriors: as men living gutty, or women playing
violin, to remote with tendencies: that small cry, this lively fire, those
remote controls: if but to win, if but to sing, as alive but dead inside.
