Those
wine-house eyes. Glimmering midmotion. So crystalized. / At home cooking, or
taking a shower, those similar enchantments. / Red-river souls. Blatant respect.
So terrified to adore. / This welkin exterior. This gothic interior. But a held
hand, hurts. / At silhouettes pausing. At pictures those shadows. Or cameras on
repeats. / So sincere it’s anguish. So detoured it’s pain. Or so close forever
in myths. / Our underground communion. Our ravished sensitivities. At black
moon terrors. / Our turquoise holes. Our physic minds. While here or there at
sudden impulse. / Smiling softly. Or a faint laugh. Built for serious
reflexiveness. / So silver those vines. Or seated in lavender. Our souls
seeping into driftwood. / Matching luggage; Similar rain; Choosing to savor
something special. / Our beer with chips. As one in enough. But chips forever. —to
bone and grit and table and paper and pen and dynasty; moreover, we pillage
patience, we peer like chimes, communicating our silence; such fragile
creatures, rereading Schiller, musing upon naiveté; or at meta-vibes,
intensifying energies, while a man gets lost; a bucket for hearts, a filled
canister for pride, or this shallow sky holding love; so yogic, so mystic, so
christic; debating Ransom, hexing consciousness, or meditating so close
to redemption. / We need variance. We desire static electricity. While our
pavement speaks in abstracts. / So much confetti. Our feelings breezy. Our
triumphs shaded by travesties. —our mother woes, our control penchants, or torn
for something metaphysical; this New Age, this Old Country, while something is
different for us; our stern countenances, our distressed overseers, this push
seeming dissimilar; luting our emotions, those clouds holding hallways, or this
vestibule caging its tornado; becoming numb, or celebrating spirits, at
moments, so afar from holy.
…such
wanton exaggeration, rethreaded so early, where life is promising; looking at
wheat and saffron buddings or riding tricycles; existence was large, skies were
gigantic, and space was fraught with exploration; so mesmerized, so inflated,
captivated by fables and animations and cartoons; so oblivious to grown
language, adults seemed angelic, where memories were altered by something
needing to survive. Maya’s silence, our caged birds, Baldwin’s love and
admiration and tender presence; our Mountains held in contempt, our teeming
frustration, our contemned forefathers; at something incapacitated, or
something too stern, or something too underdeveloped; our firehouses, our
glasshouses, our discerning boulders; this pushing frenzy, this lasso for papers,
or total nonexistence; so there they say, while feeling obliterated, where
certain peace comes with loses; residue and tar, mortar and straw, or Africans
and chains…
this
moving process, seeming individualized, our thisness and thatness; our
whatness screaming at ground-glitter, our trains surrounded by rocks,
our dauntless but daunting tasks; as mere specimens, or cosmological numbers,
to imagine changing over fifty years; or waiting for something new, this coming
by far, while needing belief to endure tragedy; reticent disbelief, adhering to
company, while terrified by a ringless phone; felt by penchants, adverse to too
much, while comfortable with uncertain contradiction; listening to routines,
rerouted at times, given a definition for interior operations; raffled to
bidders, mistreated by adored ones, or misused by mirrors; so indelible, so
erased, and compelled to live such confusion; at parks reminiscing, at old
pictures in tears, while something needs a breakthrough; our chapped valves,
our oiled spirits, while kneeling and rising and feeling existence; this wave
of minutia, this glamorous determinant, so small, so big, so interchangeable;
such difference in sameness, such universal dilemmas, our nectarines seeming
congenial....
