…often
upon orange moons, this feeling for passion, this cleat throttling madness:
those breadths, this interior, this bailiff—at terrible concerns, trying
desperately, so close it aches: such vulnerability, to sense those eyes, to
realize our growth: to touch with fire, to tug resistance, to realize
something’s wrong: this vehicle man, this gila-disaster, those damn noises:
while ass backwards, needing insistence, so sweet, so dangerous, so
misrepresented: as loosened and threshed, as one blackdamp, our garments pitch-beige-darkness:
those feelings, looking for essence, where life is quite superficial: this
wrestling machine, this running from abuse, to gaze at a therapist—afforded one
opportunity: this behavioral index, this self-conscious reality, or therapy
centered upon therapists: our subtle mistakes, our too validated positions, at
tears for ruined: our bowels rumbling, our minds at battles, our guts pushing
private agendas: as controlling vessels, pushed into intensities, over
something seeming quite casual: our moving eyes, our hand-ornament-gestures,
while realizing this velvety sorrow: our wringing palms, our meddling paws, our
shifty extensions: if but to lie, this difference with time, or but to
fawn—this picture in flames: as pure rejects,
reduced to loneliness, as forced to fend for solutions: (as mother warned, this
man of stolen pride, our lives are in our hands: our rules are according to
facts, our punishment becomes our independence): this ache with time, this
friendly disaster, while time ticks and laughs and becomes blatant…. …such difficult attraction, so many hidden
agendas, those things if revealed become deal breakers: this intimate prison,
this miracle offshoot, while one pines in spirit: this luxury planet, this
person with mechanics, to realize that two would dominate this universe: our
writing frenzies, our horseback galloping, our ink-bled brains: at guts and
stomachs and dynamite—fleeing into something quite skewed: to possess ideals,
for this outer picture, to step in and feel totally disappointed: but
perception is madness, and feelings are sensitive, where it requires pure
objectivity: this running from personalized suggestions, while peering into
facts, where one is partly divorced—this self peeking, this cliff giggling,
where emotion tugs and pulls and laughs with violence: our torn brains,
replaying our encounters, to realize something slipped in: those masters by
impute, this subtle insulation, while beauty becomes a felony: (to imagine
years by trysts, as intensity waned, while options became appointments): those
options retreating, our hands to our whereabouts, where memories activate this
intense feeling: that once before, these
fragile elements, while one is prone to becoming bitter…. I thought to her, this daily madness, at
face to face pinching(s): I was angry with Love, I afforded forgiveness, I lost
ideals: this portrait leaking, this sky raging, this pavement offering its
concerns: this rain filled soil, this muddy cliff, those petals across a windy
fan: to adore an idea, to push and pull this inner self—so lost for months,
laughing at reality, for souls affect higher operations: this sentient news,
this absent thinker, while improved as a critical magnet: so lost and raw, so
with courage and gone, while reducing attraction to psychical operation: our
long hallways, that cul-de-sac door, where reality feels like illusion: our
pinched bellies, our bleeding remorse, to snatch intellect oblivious to natural
inclination: at moons giggling, at Love forgetting, while spirits proffer
memories: this one to edges, this other to self-mirrors, this other too gone to
suggest anything reasonable: (as left with self, to fathom this essence called Love,
as it becomes an unappealing presence: this constant windmill, this clown’s
caricature, this interior momentum—as pushing rapidly, so close to inanity,
gathered and thrown and receptive to cadence): those days squirming, this
wiggly atmosphere, to possess particular insights: this essence probing,
without rationality, this poet’s conundrum: to sense activity, to sense
intentionality, where reality is but a present factor.
