I
shy briefly. An inner languishing. At capital rumination. / Our similarities.
Our cautious whips. Too florid, too abused. / Our nightmarish remedies. Our
indigenous sparks. As men loving loosely. / Aborted to trash bins. A cord
dangling. A child running from DNA. / Our record genocides. Our Armenian Women.
Our African cages. / If but so lovely. Such interior chaos. As gorgeous as
Kenya. / Restudied. Removed. So radiant a night by winds. / Goatskin for
sackcloth. Sheepskin for terrors. Our daughters fiddling beliefs. / Such
knowhow. Such blatant ownership. Where two give Eternity. / Our bashful arcs.
This swoosh in shivers. Or one collapsed mid-traffic. / Screaming at demons.
Proclaiming Jesus. Reciting Jewish texts.
Into
silence—while louder creations—invoked, stressing rituals. / Those bulbous
lips. This resonant interior. While never meant beauty. / So ruined in
red. So threshed in blue. So occurred in mahogany. / Our ravishing arteries.
Our beef with onions. Or garlic with fangs. / Aloof at integrals. Re-elastic at
segments. Those confusing encounters. / If but to meander. If but to fly. While
it felt nice to wander. / Those fantastic feelings; this fantastic fever; at
tiles and blood and winter. / As men laughing. So into those crowds. While
alone a threat to sanity. / Our coarse emotion—our fretted islands—so into new
relations. / As cursed survivors—selected for tyrannies—our communal
communities. / Our hats for huts. Our romances for children. Where something
trenchant is occurring.
A
fist filled with pride. A mother filled with disgrace. While another spreads
our wings. / Attached to gentility. Running through mountains. Our minds as
ravines. / Accursed for special—so special for ruined—while such paradox is
landscape. / Our remarkable silence. Our egregious acts. While asserting
terrific beauty. / To die this way. To relive those slays. As riding so afar it
screams. / Too close to ignorance. Too afar from humanity. Looking but never
owning. / If but tremendous. If but this clamp. While something judges by tributes.
/ Those red robins. Those Blue Jays. So low it felt good but love. / Our candid
gestures. Our misread kindness. As souls evoked to rescue.
I
wrote a feeling; lingering into signs; abused for debated. Our worth running;
our souls jangled; our rugged and jagged arcs. If but to receive in you; if but
to re-love in you; so scarred, so crooked, stumbling a straight line. Linen
made bloody; a thinker made evil; while we have imaginary evils. At riverbanks diddling;
at estuaries pleading; so cured but cursed and forced to create. Our haven
lives; becoming quite drab; in need for something sickening. Those bold
languages; this futile insanity; to happen upon a frightening second. Where
souls are arrested; minds are reknitted; while salvation is reachable. Those azotic pens. This erotic pencil. Our
exotic women—our fragile wickedness. / As feeling so good. Or feeling so ahead.
Where reality becomes an enemy. / At lavish concerns. Rebuking disagreements.
And truly too close—those fervid charms, this idiot participant, to want, need,
and feel irreverent. / A deep savant. So encharge. While life is beautiful
poets. / This prose pain—this palatial phantom—too ferocious, so feral, while
fair lady is crazed with feelings. / This charm in me. This creation in me.
While vetting became irregular to me.
Drifting
softly. At deep imagination. Or deeper understanding. / To insist upon roses or
delicate daisies or tragic consequence.
