…sweeter
ambrosia, this dynasty born raw, at rebuilt instruction: such wretched pain,
such captive glory, so remote, so uncontrolled, or so sanctioned: those blurry
binoculars, this gusset reigning, those optic garments: as young pigeons, swept
from our caves, at tears or ruins so cultivated: those larger boxes, containing
smaller boxes, where a treasured armoire rests: this wasteland of articles,
this ability to fly, or this capacity to sink lower: so pure, despite
irrationality, so clear, such anger, such crying, exhaustive rage: closer those
nights, redeemed by something irregular, so cursed, so reused, while walls have
never appeared so high: by musical tensions, by orchestra frustration,
attempting to reach this interior infant….
…those pillow demons, at creative dialogues, while reason watches: this fairer disappointment, this reachless museum,
where many shot reason: this
skeptical in 3D, this unrealistic, but loved cinema, at complex and jewels and
deaths: rewind our souls; capture our intelligence; restore our firehouse: at
seated stature, so saturnine, where many are at war: our actions striking
chaos, our responses our doom, while Little Jenny cries, Power: this world of screams, those inscrutable colors, so much
invested in fleeting roses: accustomed to living, or dying softly, looking at
this silent, dynamic, or self-roaring mirror: kicking gravel, ungluing
pavements, only to awaken gripping papers: those furious gems, or sweeter
emotion, filled and running from poetry….
I have a daughter, so serious we
are, so concerned with dying hay: I implore emotion, I’ve missed those times, I
implore intelligence: but days are gravy, this mudslide, this uphill debate: I
know for riches, I’ve seen ignorance, at once, I painted its fate: this falling
dimension, this rising castle, while running into emotional intelligence: this
Buddhist’s Cry, this neglected song, or forces and currents reigning in
opposites: this lover of passions, this mover of furniture, or this rebuilt
credenza: our names in savagery, our sails upon lands, our sand-prints in
brains: so irregular, such a tyrant, so aware, but pursuing our actions: at
granny those years, at mother those months, at something quite capturing: this
mine of explosives, or this casual approach, so reappeared to mirrors: this
screaming heart, those few days, our love so dependent upon irrationality: to
need something abusive, to make for seasons, this light, this flame, this
brewing fire: such rapidity, such soul-vices, as once charged to exist.
…those
few beliefs, remaining unchallenged, while conflicting with reality: our hollow
domain, where others see inconsistency, nevertheless, we avoid riots: this
endless cost, this shrine with idols, while pitching our tents: as never for
one, this controversy, while ignoring headaches seems richer: this pail of
sediments, this bucket of hopes, turned over and forgotten: so accustomed to
lying, so easy to mislead, while something desires a calming palm: as resistant
to nature, needing appreciation, while disregarding foundations: so cemented,
so crazily enlove, while desecrating everything those good waves: (I rant from
afar, this misread legend, this misguided, hopeful, even irrational miscreant:
for no one desires the spotlight, while crazed, muddy, and dying: thither, this
hate, for secrets are meant to keepsakes, while one would gladly watch as we
die: this preferred miracle, this life while questions brew, where one is
angered to remember lies: this need for non-examination, this life so hurtful,
while one is nurturing spoiled peaches): so soft at struggle, needing to adore
something rare, desperate to fly into bliss: our harvest premature, our souls
re-knitted, our grains uncultured: our neglected minds, our fevered emotion,
this claim from far those roses: this intrepid fire, this regular requirement,
at dire needs to structure our conclusions: for life is running, and years are
dying, while senseless, or better, approachable pains are filled with
rapidity….
