I am
that I am as a ghostly creature exposed to both silence and vocality; disposed
so early, to violence or vehemence while so unvocal.
our pinned
traits those key instruments to have pegs or screws or bolts;
to
need pliers or to pry into adolescence where
something
was penultimate: to explain:
a
soul is destined
while
we see it often, one determined to lose; such mudslides such media uncovered
where most perish by debris; pushed with brooms, made for poverty silence, so
impoverished, or waiting for breaths;
our
Turkish ghettoes, or African slum areas, so close to us, too much for us, and
stranded near junk yards.
so
much reflection so drastic or such iron instability
to
have lived in trauma to have felt molestation or so close to one teaching dysfunction;
abandoned buildings or rubble and rubbish to have assumed a precious
California; our doctors or lawyers, our scientists or religious, after
something presumed for the earning;
our
rattling cages
our
pigeon-coops
our
irregular conceptions;
to
have death with life to have seed with dishonor or to complain too much.
I would
something I can’t say or spatial concerning passion where most need something
to give us life;
our tender
exhaustion where something beautiful is ever conjured while we captured it neatly;
this need
for
tragedy this cosmic comedy associated with something asinine;
our
baggage our lawns our circumference; our grass
our
weeds our liquor;
too
patient or too intrusive or arousing anger to actually heal something oblivious;
our barking auras our screaming contours while another is trying so desperately;
if
but to see color if but to live color if but not to lose color!
a
plague so certain as to hawk our fragments as
trying
to exist where it was unleashed;
such
violence without remorse such lying to sing its anthem—our courage to fly our
privilege our terror; such chemical atmosphere our adored
essence
while if it strikes a daughter may never marry.
it
has become natural, to abandoned dreams, for but a few smiles: to live darkness
or to live fears where tragedy is cultured; by massive destruction, our war in
Italy—while collecting bodies people are meeting death;
such
frames or portraits, such raining disease, in such a few hours.
our
remaining irony our cello and saxophone our New York blues—
to
exist one last round to become our river or to confess our needs!
