I’m
losing this part, this interior self, this Colossian Essence: murmuring to
winds, lively with squirrels, while destined a dreary algebra: if but to dance,
this pillaging sensation, at guts and loins: if but more sequences, more
alertness, more something askew: at soft music, perusing metrics, so lost by
American Industry: those lofty
feelings, craving something African, a
bit re-screwed into our fabric: such beautiful pride, such courageous warriors,
plus, this slant towards women: my first image, my first consultation, my
ruminating glory: despite, certain tragedies, despite, travesty, and so blessed
it never lead to hatred: our deeper roots, plus, this passion, while women
adore those men that hate them: such literature, such reversed introspection,
such inverted passion: at mystic poetry, or political prose, where both seem to
sting: at various websites, looking for this reflective nature, in so deep it
leaks into margins: our ghetto faculties, our mental sensorium, at tombs
speaking tribally: our school district chaos, our college introductory, to
stumble upon someone finding themselves: our steep responsibility, to gently
nudge, while evangelists are searching for longing souls: this product of
ecclesia, this cataphatic allegiance,
while some merely need space. …leave
me lost, and I’ll find home, or death or infatuation: leave me hell-soaring,
divest the best of us, and discard something that no-longer fits: rearrange
fate, plead for seriousness, and wonder why heads are churning…. …this reborn flesh, to imagine that
past-self, while some are there, in that space, reliving high school: at
seventy or six grade, at life with miracle dice, where some are cemented in
something like motion: our nights searching, where instant beauty fades, a
particular reason to invest early: but what for cries, this internal compass,
when life appears misused: (at something thinking, this radical force, at major
intrusion: those few by birth, our
father’s gifts, so afar it’s cold to speak: this internal leakage, this
familiar grin, while adored by something held personal: those red flowers,
followed by green signals, if but this space so internal: those immoral
responses, those immoral persons, this self-talk evolved in interior ridges—as
sunk so aborted, this life to rooms, while feeling content with language: our
feudal cries, this spoken remedy, if but this internal apocalypse: as small
infractions, or too many years at disappointment, or receptive heroes fully
intoxicated)…. I’ve thought to
silence, as creative as evolution, as rebuked as a second thought: to picture
in essence, this mechanism of significance, at strong interrogation: this light
rosette, our hectic beliefs, at ranges guessing ulterior motives: as plotting
forever, to arrange mastery, as such to fail and could get a bit closer: such
arranged hearts, or deep disappearance, while located walking into gates: this
field of night-ghosts, this phantom empire, or love so ingested it leaks
through pores: at Biorè instincts, at Neutrogena facials, at Newport lungs—as despite
this life, this interior fortress, so silent, so revealing—thereto, this value
trespassed, this value inverted, to value so intensely our eyes grow dim: at
miles to justice, where years shall pass, while elders grow numb: but this is
love, this marvelous sacrifice, this forbidden sky-scratch. …we close at miracles, to need to call it
curtains, this flurry of rainbows: those deep bridges, this flippant moon, at
desperate explanations: with life and bone, digging with expectation, while
furious concerning reality: such half science, such deciding pastures, at
something too slick to capture: our re-wrung ambition, our terrific cries, our
blazing sun….
