It
appeared easy—mechanic oblation, face valued responses: something seeping, a
Delphic fire, those Tyra eyes: ebony nightmare, so scented with oils, so dry
with anticipation: at music and shifted, at opera those curves, so deeply at
panic: rhinestone concrete, diamond abstracts, furious gray passion: or ivory
hips, at ivory thighs, so charmed to die with me: our poetic soil, our memoir
dynasty, so encouraged to adore seconds: so pulled in me, so tugged in you, while
awakening in sweltering sweat: as embarrassed to fly, or courted to exist,
while flushed pure burgundy: reluctant fantasies, pitch green realities, our
souls speaking silence.
I
awaken softly—thrilled to revisit, gawking at invisibility: sweet delivery,
caged aria, at something sourced in sadness: our minds dancing, fretting
narration, at meta-stories: so metaphysic, so essence-like, where waves waft
towards dry, deserted senses: if but to create, as but to exist, where joy is
presence: our souls insync, our bodies at rhythm, at heart, shutters and
insistence: if but to sing, such unsung glory, at terror concerning full
felicity.
We
underwent shock—so seldom heard, so frankly ignored: to meet Love, this crystal
floating mid darkness, where grackles plastered impressions: our thunder
claims, so lost at seconds, found, used, and displaced: but life is resilience,
this shimmering horse, our glimmering senses: at tender blue skies, or muddy
brown creeks, while renegotiated and sentenced: such fury to live, such passion
in death, our last rites: reversed so early, re-socialized so late, asking to
ignore this thing in humans: our cryptic grays, our philosophic ways, while
most feel deep resentments: russet carpets, empty proclamations, or Love so
filled with sentimentality: cursed to exist, but cursed to perish, but cursed
as ministers: such flaming forces, such recooked languages, eating, nay,
gaffing down existence: as young creators, or old gatekeepers, our screams sent
faster.
…sundown
emotion, a naked artist, a canvas restored with ink: body paints, palm prints,
delicate fire: an old vase, a freshly plucked pumpkin, an old rickety ladder:
waiting for Joseph, our Egyptian wives, and Benjamin: a broken zipper, upon an
expensive jacket, so clear about repentance: such values, unmarketable
principles, even bitter unsewn anxieties: (Love looks advanced, fierce, plus,
rechanneled: while men lose course, our tracks treaded by trillions, our souls
exercised by contentions): just one last leap, at ends with trials, while
coming through prepared for one last leap: this circle by purpose, this inner
ocean, those wellic gut-wars….
It
was serious captivity—those wrestled persons, while fending for dignity:
finding love, under harsh circumstances, where healing diluted love: our
agonizing truth serums, that stranger while alone in our shower, or those
foreign eyes we never quite capture: so involved with dying, while missing key
porcelains, at piano rebuked by perception: born to communicate, redeemed in
sequences, unkept at trenchant pains: our sights blotted, our old friends hard
at war, where everything said to silence has been revealed: such vengeful
categories, such sunrise margins, our neighbors downcast: to witness deaths, to
rebuild as living, or such by wrath this dying: our crush through centuries,
our perfect atypical countenances, our spliced genetics: so reversed at chimes,
so touched your pain, while a stranger longing intimacy: painted into concrete,
sandblasted into pavements, or walking around with you so near: our banished
findings, our crucial beginnings, if but to retrieve one last embarrassment:
those earmarked pages, this ink-stained booklet, at serious tears, so
justified, while reentering society.
