Tuesday, March 10, 2020

Fantastic Humanness


The soft rain so explored as water-bugs dance and butterflies hibernate. Crisp beautiful skies or thoughts by pash such hovering fire. To have filtered us to have died to adore while receiving is becoming indebted; as shared lungs or crystal arteries so close to losing animosities. Our regathered senses or editing with fierceness while after something posing questions; such critical elements such rich procedures while thumbing through Trethewey. Our magic arcs our fruitful promise where souls discount such radiance. (If but to console myself, if but to run from you, I could perish angled by pure distrusts.) Those marvelous lines those marvelous features while Love is deciding if writing is demonic. Such graves those eyes or such deaths as poesy while one fathoms a friend’s request; this island of concerns this need induced where energy stimulates a response. But passion is art or art is fretting where we delegate such sweet forgiveness; for self and agent for dice and losing or for trying and receiving; (to drift by furnace to adore something terrific if but to live in someone). By dearness, a sakata upon an antenna or agony writhing by freedom; such pursued beingness or nothingness outliving its corridors at essence we claim perfection; such roving miracles such locusts against lice as if we must complain; pure heaviness or falling rain while walking in utter silence. (It was excellent, this detour those years while many are never the same; passionate ghosts or falsified arĂȘte or opinions of self, angered by nonchalance; for many can’t see us in those colors we see us while needing recognition.) Such sweetness, if one can view that, while getting closer is remarkable; but qualification or richness or something so educated it pours out; or someone needing disgrace to lower inhibitions while soon found reneging; for What have I done, this filthy fire, where it feels so decadent: this negligence we deliberate, this cadence we sense, where something so filthy makes such goodness; by pits of fury by diligence to escape or so lost it never ends!

I’d Save The Reader Years

    The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So curs...