…at
softer summers, or elaborate theorems, reviewing premises: a slight itch, too
much yeast, at dynamite weather: too seldom a dream, debating insecurities, so
struck, so determined: at camp wood, flickering passion, while Love stirs a
monsoon: but life to roses, tears to souls, and craving hearts to wolves: so
much religion, so many contenders, over eggs and bacon: our sinning community,
sorting through trauma, re-measured, resurfacing, as radical winners: such by
rubrics, such by rulers, wrapped in social rubber: as resilient creatures,
cuffed to chaos, so psycho, so maintained, as mini-mansions: (I looked,
finally, at something distressed, but alive by a particular pride: desiring
dainty, or severely a flower, while something rough is loyal: where flattery
dies, structure lives, while it wasn’t funny: searching evidence, searching
behavior, while accountability is paramount: a second to love, a destiny to
live, so accursed, so brilliantly and bashfully blessed: such hate by love,
such cold and warm water, where most churches are tepid: cornerstones, or
touchstone patience, while those same persons seem dislodged: at suffering
miles, so deeply forgiven, while we must oppress our souls: sated by
experience, to enjoy communion, while souls need control: to pray accordingly,
to exalt unto displeasure, while a Father is Mother): an ax to roots, a branch
for Gentiles, while graphed due to cultural rejection: not by merit, not by
behavior, simply because others said, No:
more this life, while created and displaced,
where rings were created for mystics:
this claim exhumed, by Life and for Life, were all things created: a certain power, a certain understanding, while evilness is but a deficit of goodness: a slight jogging, a slight
jousting, while a spirit just jetted: midnight studies, a bag of issues, a
slight increase: or thumps suddenly, while deeper those thoughts, wondering: Why have you visited me?: at future
transgressions, where some are masters, while one entangles a broken flute: such
disputable doctrine, such inborn dogma, while Love snatched, decreased, an
attempted to divest her collar: those anchors at home, our fathers ruined, our
mothers trying but human: our children become sponges, our interior phones
raging, while Little Jenny gave birth to a horrible reality: sliced for lunch,
restored for dinner, at breakfast with a sober hangover: such prosaic ballets,
such Shakespearian ballads, so soft, so subtle, such screenplay balloons: at
ceiling walls, re-carving boxes, while wilted, wrung, and bouncing belated
behaviors….
…while
a theologian, but a critical poet, reviewing both prose and lights: at
sky-birds, at marigolds, at something that makes little sense: so drawn, while
tugging backwards, a bit concerned about ethnicity: at money-exchangers, at
flipping tables, at messages to a singular crowd: or living in sections,
seduced by interior, roaming both tempest and sulfur: as endued with fire,
re-harnessed in faith, while spikes dig into a scientific agenda: our singular
meetings, this breath as a bench, where Om
tends to terrify: those trenchant concerns, this partial gamut, while Love
reviews particular inconsistencies: our short range fevers, our fervent encounters,
while one is quite uncertified: this remote behavior, trading our percentages,
while condemned for normality: this pot of choices, while pleading and begging
questions, where its six in one dungeon, and half a dozen in another: as
stumbling into clarity: if all ends similarly, why distress our Hourglasses?: quite defeatist, quite
deist, but life requires a reader’s nuance: our piths are pleats, our
intellects are a bit moistened, where reality might slip through crevices: if
by Intention, and through Intention, How
do we exonerate Intention…?—this vest of thieves, or this village of white
arts, while black art carries a particular affliction: indeed, a troublesome
claim, or a valiant pointing, where our audience might reflect: so addicted to
persons, while committed to life, where behaviors seduce our dreams: our
knitted opus, our carefree adoration, while slammed into something existential….
I pry
at times, rereading parts in Descartes, singing or whistling or plain excited:
so seated, so calm, at perfect behavior: but internal madness, a deep sensory
system, so devastated, so reborn, and so affected by yearly traumas: at
spirit-pangs, or signature impasses, a tear to soil, a passion for progress:
reviewing something terrible, as those positivists, or something more
concerning, those anti-humanists: it kills to sense things, it destroys to
adore the wrong person, and it distresses to lose something inherently indebted
to roots: a bit wordy, a bit too clear, but this is existence: to seek and
find, to open and receive, while critical analyses doesn’t extract this fever
for Christ.
