I have
habits, I possess terrors, I panic and regroup: I creep silence, I laugh
heartily, I fall to pieces: this honest man, so deeply with tenses, while
losing every direction: those bolder cries, this wrenching gut, at spasms so
entrenched in thoughts: to perfume life, to imagine beauty, while so removed
it’s hard to adjust: those slow melodies, this gentle lullaby, a bit of
cinnamon to sugar: those revived feelings, as so intense, our minds debate our
resilience: to have for deaths, to abate an emotion, while it creeps when souls
are stronger: our internal doctors, this thought we forgot, while experiencing
as if it just happened: our soldier wines, our warrior liquor, our cinemas upon
repeat: those rejected feelings, seeping into intestines, while sudden upon an
external rash: sipping softly, our hours crossed, up for clearly too long. …nary a bone, nary a gut, or nary a wound:
our palms to galaxies, our women such a riddle, so pulled, so gathered, nearly
a hundredfold: those thousands, at remorse, those dreams, our curses: at
something pushing, this determined person, this indeterminate vision: at laughs
with Love, at cores with Love, to adore so much information through, Love: at
screams and dancing, so lost with feelings, so reserved with feelings: as
sensing intimacy, or tugged for ruined, while suggestion speaks to tranquility:
that fair trait, that fairer deception, those terms frightening our overseers:
for souls react, while others contemplate, where one might become labeled: such
trepidation, such cautious insight, where Love agonizes a volt unto something
unintentional: this leaping at babes, this fret in guts, while too evolved to
breathe: those last seconds, this deep shift, if but to return, scream, and
demand a human being….
I feel teary, pouring for
sipping, plus, a guarana pill: at ginkgo giggling, such growth pangs, such
ecstatic remorse, while daughters simmer a second: to feel ladyhood, this deep
passion, while mother harmonizes, if but a glimpse—those bolder lies,
this trenchant abandonment, at papa a bit too late: as never a correct episode,
but ever a damning saga, at mother, or those images, while scarred for essence:
our black sun, our darker moon, as both bled an early morning Sabbath: to dance
so gently, to exist so harshly, while mother was but a dream: say it closely, die those tides, embrace
what appears as death: this compassionate maniac, this Sybil alignment,
those short, but too long, adversarial thoughts: as placed in straps, or
wailing names, so wicked as thought to drill his skull: but life is good, this
running manic, this candidate for survival: as never forgetful, as always
thankful, where death should have swallowed this lamb. …those eyes, so serious with observation,
so deep but merciful: such war-care, such battle-havens, but adverse to
perishing: that scream, those dreams, this voice: it creeps, it’s cultic, it’s
orphaned: at oracle flights, but tugged by sanity, as willingness proves
insanity: those slight bruises, our interior muscles, our intellectual tissues:
if but reborn, as torn asunder, to ingest a losing miracle: this man to cries,
this legend to deaths, while literature is immortal: so concentrated, so
imperfect, while perfecting imperfections: this deliberate touch, those
deliberate roses, this deliberate sky: as dreamt a young lad, looking at
mother’s eyes, while mother was intent on building something adverse: this
in-deliberate curse, those deliberate vines, at peaches and plums and total
insistence: to die a smidgen, to live more, to dance while sipping: this
inhibition, such held back feelings, where many are at rest: those open eyes,
but more to witness, while so uncertain it feels good…! …keys are ticking, pianos are blaring, a
man was stormed into jungles: our afforded miracles, our recorded alibis, our
days meditating through darkness: this yearly event, this tug by life, where
returns seem impossible: that innocent daughter, that playful son, while our
behaviors seeped into their souls: to ask about lying, to ask about behaviors,
to devoid ourselves of mirrored reflection: we never know, and we never tell,
while sudden upon a deeper epiphany: those angelic whips, those angelic scars,
at something too angelic to capture.
