I
listen carefully, our children to bars, our ghettoes to slaughter: our mothers
to dementia, our fathers to streets, a man firsthand staring into barrows: this
blood blue war, this core frustration, our black kings upon Death Row: our
wives delirious, our souls to firebrand, our guts to marijuana: at tyrannies,
filled with passion, a bit too much for rectification: our moody atmospheres,
our lovely women, but Love needs commitment: those winsome arms, those winsome
grins, at fens and wine and dying with laughter: our guts running, our guts
imploding, while adored as statuesque: if but this sermon, if but
rectification, if but permission to participate: this deep fracture, begging
for entitlements, while adoring something too involved: our market lives, our
trenchant courage, while bones are shattered to gristle: soft zephyrs longing,
this moon chilled with summer, those tools failing their contemplation: this
church life, those tenable solutions, which require full participation: our
nation so lax, while filled with hatred, those regurgitated clichés: this
undercurrent ocean, this pale dynasty, while a man needs something another man
developed: at deep resistance, fueled for flamed, at fractures debating
nonsense: oceanic eyes, or brown havens, this person but a linchpin: at torn
capacity, needing panaceas, imbued by promise to pine hopelessly: indeed, a
sick participant, to lilt for adoration, while something precious has died so often
it’s hard to breathe: those miracle thighs, this entrance to paradise, this
killing, insatiable undertaking: at Junoesque calves, or Don Quixote’s
insights, at both this miraculous and damning parade: if but to ruins, such
insoluble circumstances, fueled by something incredibly odd: those anguished
ankles, this charmed wrapping, so distant, so close, so unfastened.
It
must be clever, this sphinx upon islands, to drain something promising clarity:
those rubber replies, this sin-lock frustration, at tears but feeling elated:
this joy-sorrow habit, this gut wrenching sincerity, while one ignores such
damning loyalty: our cuts running, our grandfathers demented, or close to home
feeling passion: this gray horizon, this colorless friendship, at bones and
gravel and torpedoes: to ask for truth, to negotiate with grandmother, to fall
so short from hell: our poetic screams, our demented minds, tugging at energy
valves: to feel with absence, to become purely angry, while sense is preaching
participation: this gut-fire, this core-terror, as a man loses everything:
those miles, Love, this ring, Love, this man so short from perfect, Love: to
give with alignments, to receive with glee-ship, while a crooked vine receives
our benefits: this wrecked paradise, this forgiving alienation, while Love has
adored his filthy claims: at tragedy laughing, at remorse pleading, or so far
gone a hospital appeared fair.
I’m
thunder-rain, at deep sophistication, where Love appeared as something foreign:
this theological mistake, this philosophical hero, or so convoluted Love has
built an attraction: our conversations, our pause with lights, to realize one a
bit redemptive: this symphony lake, this orchestra ocean, at lutes and drums or
something so silent it screams: our white noise, our fields remaining, or caves
so aloof we feel like strangers: our minds like typewriters, our souls like
irrigation, or our arts like mathematics: our painted cans, our scissor
mentalities, or scythes restructuring something that should die: this tug in
men, to fix those bleachers, while sitting seems apropos: such fairytale
illusions, so drained feelings, while one yanks through mental wavelengths:
this crazed suggestion, where sages are quiet, and souls are churning
attempting to break silence: this spirit-kiss, this tall tale, this hellish
cell-gravel: weeping with ghosts, or floored to rebuild, at something so
fragile, so evolved, and so ridiculous.
