…sudden
spontaneity, sudden clutter, our occultic silence: this riveting ripple,
firewood, firebrand, such loud language: our gut-souls, our heart-phones, at
spirit-telegraphs: by rust, rut, and rails, by courage, curse, and cleaver, as
men modeled for mischief: so closed into, this triple conclave, rewound to something
earlier: so unborn those days, listening to father’s voice, and nourished by
mother’s tacos: to jump and leap, running fields, or beleaguered by
happenstance: our minds searching, while becoming adults, cooking and cleaning
and working for soul-favors: an inner feeling, monkish eyes, climbing and
falling or bracing and flying: a tire and rope, an old broken fence, so high up
there…! Our caged voices, our interior legacies, or better, some kids were
deeply moral: but years to dungeons, or tears to fabrics, our dreams becoming
juries: birdsongs or heart-whispers, seam-catchers, or screams—so enveloped, so
enlove, while life was kicking ass: all such rain, unlocked and set loose, or redeemed
and re-stressed: this doorsill metaphor, or an actuality, while color is under
its gun: such off-putting, inconsequential, or radicalized assertion: our pails
with fish, our freezers with steaks, our memories with exchange posts: cupping
clumps of grass, or rending our tunics, while gripping and throwing dirt:
sipping black water, treading black mountains, or eating black passion: so
reversed, so crooked, or so straight life is refusing our admission: Rumi or
Christ, us or them, at an above, super-imposing language. This life with feet,
this sub-sizzling, at days remembering those behaviors.
…chattering
chains, shifty motion, abased by indiscretion: remote emotions, crowded
aloneness, where we realize trust; this compartment, so dependent this
category, while leaving the seat up: so minor, such prophecy, such noble music:
too honest for me, too ashamed of me, while I can’t stop such music: those
habits but erumpent, this feeling like pavement, so captivated by racing luminaries:
unmasked and seeking, core freedom but caves, alike rushing rivers—this fume so
low, this majesty so low, this tickled and solitary design: if but cadence, if
but loudness, if but redesigned music: a feather so heavy, a nightmare so
light, this frequency seeming curious….
…at
crevice currents, concealed in lies, aberrant or absolute: or too passive,
lacking rawness, while one never appeals this light: or too aggressive,
instilling fear, our rooms filled with screams: occasioned for dreams, such
difficult thoughts, while reasoning this wretched loss: it lives in me, over a
decade strong, while gripped sudden panic: re-reached, an angry intruder,
practiced at voiceprints: a spirit-paw, a cub’s claws, a mirror racing through
coldness: an eraser, failing its enterprise, so attached to something mobile:
our kinetic language, our instrumentals, so challenged, so ahead, while behind
in other cultures: mainstream prodigies, falling radically, as touched with
evil tenets: so softer those nights, so ridiculed those evenings, so delivered
those days: as ears gnawed asunder, inner taste becoming disturbed, at chase
and vase and rabies: our mind-museums, our last defacements, accrued in time
and spatial validity….
…many
conceptualizations, or many more false perceptions, digging for freedom and
living our utilities: encased in energies, this vulnerable fortress, while some
elements are left to the hands of fate: such the cliché, but dear this agony,
or soul this penchant: our literary genres, or stretching prose, or ruining
poetry: lamenting those chances, or forced to retreat, while convinced about
falling clouds: this sad song, delivered in anguish, while so close to availing
our identity: those blues blazing saxophones, such rabid affliction, so close,
so respected, while dying so young: or droplets of reality, or silky lies, this
fly-catching insanity….
