…something
so gray, to love beyond insanity, to need pure spectacular, even irrational:
those hanging dandelions, this flippant cloud, those wild leaves speaking
depression: this gentle magnet, this gentle flower, to pull backwards lashing
out: this falling leap, rolling into petroglyphs, about something quite
peculiar: this lying tongue, this lying history, this lying flesh: at beauty
resistant, at life this secret, as one under-qualified for theology: those
sorrowful priests, this inclusive philosophy, at something overly pragmatic:
our dreams, Passion; our feral intestines, Passion; our quivers spent and
leaking, Passion: those arrows, Dynamite, this future, Swan, at Love aching for
invisibility: to swoosh at rest, to awaken upon flame, at minor prophets:
otherwise, such tears, at Zephaniah chuckling, at Amos admiring, while
something spins injustice: this vandal, at violent literature, so vexed
doctoring by theses: (at major threats, to have something precious, while wrung
for flung dipping into mental traffic: this Lamborghini, this mahogany Lexus,
at Bentleys crying imperfection: those curved feelings, those a.m. cookies, at
milk and tea: this atypical creamer, those creative loses, to remember
something so painful: to shed a river, to ask for arms, to suggest a certain
sentence: this tugging sky, this pulling earth, while it was meant for a
moment: such lemon grass, such cricket noise, looking eye to gut: this furious
plaintive, this defendant laughing, our money speaking justice): at something
inherited, this genetic intelligence, at deep controversies: to remember
something in pain, while steep those rebounds, to enter new relations while
un-healed: that villain manic, those deep marks, while Love behaved according
to lusts: to frustrate axis, to pivot a nightmare, to become a nightmare…. I’m growing strong, this fair entity, but
suffering from humanity: those opera eyes, those symphony lips, so romantic but
distant—if but to relax, if but this ship, at seas, at ghosts, at something
incredible: as agony descends, as mythologies instruct, as dying becomes these
rites of passage: at deep inconsistencies, dying and sipping, confused and
pushing—at forward motion, a bit too cursed, while settling into an
uncomfortable habit: this roaring epitome, those otiose gestures, as magnetized
into something grand: this inner fleet, those outer fleece, at furious
distractions: our acute minds, threshed by experience, where we become
sluggish: this inner chase, if but excitement, while sold to something
paranoid: that interior message, this constant evaluation, our brains becoming
prisoners: at Love guessing, at Love despising, or so abhorred our thoughts are
irregular: at major ventures, to meet by disaster, at Destiny’s Hands: those
warn sentiments, this need for horizons, at self-esteem debating merits. …so deceived and valiant, so succinct and
off-base, where it felt normal to go through hell: such indoctrination, our
resistant bodies, those specious arguments: but needing to believe, and needing
to die, at salient, unorganized portraits: feeding koi, such sweet ambrosia,
while so cuffed internally: this barred gate, those sounding chains, at nights
viewing our arrivals: such breach and chaos, such tender disbelief, at moments
wrestling caprice instincts: this battle in souls, this deceptive, guileless
battle, while roaming this interior blueprint: as made to perish, or made to
enjoy existence, or this ruthless, and ruth-driven correlation: to burgeon at
seconds, this love for humanity, at something beautiful seeming unfortunate:
our cries through parks, our small hidden animals, while so for passion it’s
hard to resist: headlong and dangerous, at courage improperly, to invest years
in something about secrets: or touched by angels, this treasure in diamonds,
this truffle in cloves: our latent, underdeveloped communion—at inner shivers,
at interior films, so adjusted to altering reality: so transparent, or so
opaque, but, nonetheless, so wonderfully intoxicating: as olden tyros, or
classic sinners, or something indwelling….
