…undress our souls, fevered in violent
holiness, shaved by purgatory: thereby, unleashed, flaming through
acrimonies, agonizing over those future wars: as cursed at birth, or maybe
conception, fleeing into this unholy chasm: as
bled his mind, loving Jehovah, at face to shoulder this war upon roses: as
lives insanity, this casual Jesus, our olive gardens: so fueled, staring into psychology, thrashed and buried in
theology: so remorseful, so Pisces, so Scorpio: this inward stinger, this bent
wind, those mothers hibernating: our souls so tarnished, sipping with inner
persons, at psychiatry to imagine a cold grin: those rescued orphans, so
threshed and cursed, where a good life
ruins particular proclivities: this mad lieutenant, this captain cartoon, our
souls to pushing, poking at tulips: our mystic body, our mystic church, our
mystic sorrow: at yogis pleading entrance, as found in our mirrors, while
ceilings touch floors at midnight: those charging phones, this ringing brain, at
poison sipping nectar: so steep in prayer, while mother’s screaming, this room
so friendly: to cut with nonsense, to come straight-forward, while analyzing
something seemingly boring: at terrible liturgies, our souls wretched-asunder,
our eyes blind to something experienced bodily: this holy Father, this unholy
soldier, while Jesus sits in shadows: our Jung libraries, this creative mind,
while rules appeal to Danish Dignitaries: at core concerns, sipping Irish
diaries, removed from something intimate: our African pieces, this tribal cult,
at worship sifting through nature: such naïve poetry, or sentimental prose,
seeping into an ecstatic frenzy…. …it
loves me, it loves me not, this remarkable Mother: she hates me, she hates me
not, this egregious Father: as but a soul, rebirth’d in soil, as oiled in
flaming sulfur: those fiery preachers, this fiery professor, while many are
orphaned to silence: our childhood portraits, this childhood daughter, while
grandfather was such a memory: our granny insights, our elder advisors, or lost
in therapists too gorgeous to retreat—this vague alienation, this concerned
sinner, while evil has succumb to gray repentance: at Love, my life, those
stinky caricatures, or this wombic odor: our holy matrix, this labyrinth garden,
those talkative shrubberies: where Love is plain fantastic, so charged with
glow, such a radiant sinner—where souls acquiesce, and mother is crying, this
fictitious reality—as charged in brains, feeding this corpse, looking into her
digestive system: at leaky waters, at circus heartbeats, our cymbals signifying
our parents return: there-above, this shivering infant, this trash of aluminum,
our mothers racing to re-capture innocence: where Father lay slain, where
Father arose, where Thomas poked crevices—this black sunrise, this dark, murky
sky-skate, our benighted, sunlit, radiant diamond-deaths….
…we
redeem with time, this immortal Soul, this Clairvaux understanding: our chaste
minds, forced to submit, where sin seemed so perfect: this sick man, those condemnation
hips, while adjusted to attempting self-forgiveness: so temperate our deaths,
so angelic our evils, to tarry with Jesus: this found Warrior, this interior
conclave, our instructor by experience: to touch agonies, to touch miseries, as
touched sensing our weaknesses: those beige women, this river of trust, at
dusty mounts cleaving to variety: indeed, those paradoxes, our hermetic
exchange, so enclosed fortunate to exposure: our brand new hearts, this Father
I must surrender, as Mother became a portrait of Oneness: to all persons, this
one motive, as winning in earnest: our choppy address, this psychotic remedy,
while charged enough to corner Yahweh: so iridescent, so dearly opalescent,
while running towards Gethsemane: our Bethlehem souls, our deep disgusts for
goats, while reaping insistence upon despising something dying: such mercy his guts, afoul a thousand curses,
studying firsthand something seeming chimerical: such sweet terror, such
sweeter ambrosia, such thoughts permeating our triumphs….
