I lose touch,
infested by ideals, failing to fathom normal inheritance: those torn revivals,
our rearview education, while daughters rescue mothers: such irregular ideals,
our parents opting for solitude, or houses filled by silence: at some place
far, so destined for rivets, while playing this mirror shame. I’m certain to outlive mud, as such an
illusion, while deluded by facts: this world of violence, where thoughts cost
revenues, while honesty seems quite appealing: a person disgusted, will suffer
agony, if but told delectable truths: our Ponderosa,
our House on The Prairie, our Matlock deduction: as terrible
creatures, so difficult this space of acceptance or troubled by social
indoctrination: our myopic bubbles, our Heat
of The Night, so confused, at once appealing, by southern mindstates: but
yours is education, A Different World, flooded
by majestic, cosmic, intrinsic mysticisms: as one so young, so gifted and so
temperamental: at opera, cadenzas, arias, and symphonies: at recitatives, at
optimum performance, at art and canvas and destiny: washing in rainbows,
negotiating with leprechauns, or strumming a flaming violin: those songs by
elegance, those curly, redemptive particles, at memories or voice, surrounded
by endearing friends: (those wider vines, those figs with plums, at years,
dedicated to a perfect Triolet).
I lose perspective,
so addicted to truths, while such a fallible creature: I die at times, looking
at this hindsight movie, realizing understanding: those crucial mechanisms,
this crucial force, where reality is nudging for assistance: try so hard, Love,
adore with glee, Love, and live like life is dying, Love: such crucial points,
such radiant Christmases, where toys and dance and caroling seem so
insignificant: our golden linage, our terrifying roots, where yours is a
combination of viable survivors: at Europe in winter, at America come sundown,
at Asia midsummer: so African inside, so threshed for assisted, while so
politically straight: those revving articles, those ritualized trinkets, at
sky-ethics or earth morals, reciting something intimate: as yours is fire, and
yours is water, where religiosity seems to percolate: this deep reality, where
truth-thoughts, find its deliberateness is sacred meditation: such cubic
arrows, such rubric personalities, while sensing all inheritors appear a bit
out of sync.
I lost reality,
sentenced to aloneness, while insanity claimed its parameter—this vessel
running, this cadence broken, or this biblic person specializing at sin: I walk
away—listening to old Folk Songs, trekking
up Sunset Blvd: at terrific dreams, or wretched screams, seated over chili and
tamales: our squeaky nonsense, our interior honesties, where some things we
never utter: but realism is persistent, facts never die, and loses come with an
explanation: where audience whispers, while listening closely, by another arena
feeling terrible: at sliced thoughts, formed in disobedience, so adult so fast
and dying as adults do: but yours is radiance, and yours is confusion, but in
essence, yours is intelligence.
I lost something
dear, where appearance means infinity, where Christians are perfect: this
imperfect sequence, this perfect repentance, so militant, so studied: this
battle with control, this loss of relaxation, therefore, this trenchant death:
our index eyes, our calculations, while Ms. Perfect has a thousand lashes:
indeed, Mr. Perfect is church silence, where others play ‘remember games’, and
life is chased by old infractions: our terror, Love, to lose your soul, Love,
while perfection is rotting inside out, Love: but yours is reality, and yours
charges into clarity, while yours is quite unsatisfied with shadow languages:
this root in bones, this marrow, scientific, our Lucy, our ape works, our (Homo
sapiens): as treading this fence, looking into tomorrow, encouraged to die,
walk, and relive: this furious practice, this miracle essence, at tender
re-memories: where Love is insistent, as needing confirmed language, while
analyzing configurations: this fevered winner, this fevered daughter, while
feeding geese and pigeons and treading algae and grime, afforded one entire
universe.
I’m gaining touch, if
never those arms, but ever this feeling: to realize something crucial, to dance
where color is crucial, while some are playing pretend: this terrible, some
people, so dreams game—where death is but inevitable: to agree with likeness,
or thoughts resonating, where we meet ourselves time and again: 'you think like
me, you agree with me, and, therefore, you may eat with me'!
