Tuesday, June 16, 2020

The Gnats In His Pocket


I whisper a prayer or chant into the void while it listens in return. with innate spikes or animated sin while the brains are mopping: such sweet indecision, so afire wholeness, by gray centipedes. by sound those fringes or art sullen-gorgeous where it means beauty or susceptible. a man flung into destiny, if but a careless damsel, where he wasn’t groomed. but long upon a sky or dangling mid-wave if power would address its pains.     such voice in you such a flowing estuary or horses bright tan raving or leaping as time is so quiet; to glean imperfection while painting her face where treasures muse by reflection—those savior arcs or running rivers after solace as serenity where most words carry connotation.     I cringe to know you’re hurt, as a mute creature, or fluting mother’s canals; so grown as watching where respect becomes its monster.
            by greed of the leprechaun or rapaciousness of the gremlin while vampires crave after blood.     I felt leery or eerie or impatient or struggling where Love was polite while inquisitive! such is the human, to adore but desire distance, or too close where she needs shame.     by works a man wins by behaviors a woman rules where rudiments distress our inner kingdom: those firefly gazes or mosquito eyes such nicks or pricks while I write, reflect, or scratch my scalp.     one will see independence. one will try to stomach it. one will soon despise independence.
            soon a habit, as first a preference, while its aftermath can become lonely. such slumbering instincts while we thought about love while we entertained cherished fiction. those mental scrolls watching chasms while listening to what we need to believe. but Love was such physicality or a cleek I caressed or anxiety’s atmosphere.     a man doesn’t know himself! he raves or kneels for eternity. he is sightless to his trials.     a man is selfish. he moves by his desires. where a woman moves often by what others might appreciate.      it means such gashes such gnawing while memories are accounting for gnats.  

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...