…something is
looming, so many predicaments, and such hassle to become: salty feelings, accursed
flames, so close to dynamite: those inner truths, at spacial cliffs, while
attempting at self: by far an omen, while feeling discomfort, where composition
is effort…. I climb invisibility,
astute for pride, at war with reality: this motion battle, this churned helmet,
or this core ship: those devastating choices, those molehills, or this mental
cathedral: ecclesial art, ecclesial tenets, ecclesial sacrifice: I knew it
would come, after so long at running, to awaken to a heavy presence: while food
is sour, where thoughts are optimistic, while analysis speaks to several days:
this duration in time, this rattling sadness, where we sense remedies: at dark
corners, benighted by hope, exclaiming those riddles in souls: something
passing, something emphatic, where senses pretend it’s normal mechanics: at
ill-adjustments, at torpedo inclination, where beauty seems appropriate: to
imbalance silence, to shun violence, as a nation of passivity haunts: unlike
any other creature, where we locate God, boxed in this unrelenting maze: our
shrubberies so high, our skills but challenged, while sadness has grown its
root.
I give it utterance,
so enthralled by thoughts, romanticizing one redeeming this curse: slowly at
war, returned to earth, bathing in hallowed water.
They never told us—concerning this adult industry,
herein, this dimension of thieves: informed by passion, restricted by maxims,
where some are excluded: chasing our doctors, demanding something incumbent, so
shocked to meet humans: maybe this woman, or maybe this daughter, or maybe this
mirror: so charged and churning, such humor glazing sadness, or restructured
with a heavy glow: at haywire feelings, resurfacing through indifference, while
something tugs at this interior compass: our deep direction, our powerful
determination, or realizing parents have left us this way.
I spark a clove,
reread Rumi, or a number of ambitions: I rehash infatuations, believing in
miracles, if but this radiant soul: I dance in heart, I feel something
glistening, I resonate with a group of legends: so gone at points, so tipsy at
turns, so alive but sad: this allotment for me, this ancient curse, this
streaming confusion: so into mystery, utilizing devices, where passion seems
indifferent: passive for comforts, needing something too inclusive, where souls
rejuvenate each other: I feel it rising, I imagine a source, I’m so far
removed: I talk to it, I dine with it, it seems relentless: this ozone layer,
those precise tentacles, while Love is at life: seeing in parts, our mirrors
foggy, where a glimpse is devastating.
It was life those
days—so accustomed to winning, while, nevertheless, life becomes particles:
this deep ingestation, this curious adventure, and so alert as energy snuggles
tightly: this invisible cube, this feeling heart, while something mysterious
becomes so natural: those deeper complaints, while knowing for better, but
still laying blame throughout this universe: attempting to suggest courage, so
lost for seconds, while redeeming an old album: this book with pictures, this
woman I once knew, or this indifferent nonchalance: to sense one in turmoil, to
realize a particular power, while feeling good to witness darkness: this fever
in hells, this kitchen in cells, while souls are combating for empathies: our
tortured friends, our casual glances, where deeper thoughts speak to passing
attraction.
…sudden to feel you,
or sudden illusion, while needing to become you: this firework, this firebrand,
this incredible fever: such radical anger, encompassed by shadows, while
carrying Infinity: those smaller hopes, this smaller portrait, our rooms
decorated by sentiments: as fleeing at times, or fleeing in return, so able, so
willing, or so drastically tired: this need for you, this welding for passion,
such wax and glue, fretting as we wiggle: our wretchedness so silent, our
dejection so private, while keener souls are asking questions: such intrusion,
while relished in time, but semi-deaths are so intimate: this affair with
melancholy, this battle with depression, where pulling forward takes a modicum
of effort: our blue flame, this rebelling arc, as redeemed if but one dance:
accustomed to phantoms, while re-stitching mirrors, but alarmed by living
shards….
