aside a wristwatch sits a dream, the core miles from its center; soft jazz wafts, pearls are aside a television set, racing to apologize; so often, looking at inner specters, some woman in a child’s voice—speaking to a toddler, or a man, the fuel running low. the other side is a mystery. the pain is a blanket. we might ask for particles, mechanics, alchemy, rain inside, psychology, a feud in screams—show me it hurts! next to a tear, upon a banjo, eating tribal drums, racing to Africa, rebuttals from Egypt, siding with American syntax. a scarf hangs, it has history, she wore it on our first date. another, so scientific, such a boxed radiance, such icy fire, such opened skies—to die on occasion, ensuring it never happens again, everything is in its place. rust is settling, startling, swimming into social ranks—a poet pushing, prodding, one simple gesture, so wise, as it becomes a book—on life, on women—on what the poet cannot obtain.
as a broken viola, or a transmigrated pillow, or an inanimate object, created just to listen; to come to life, as some gorgeous soul, whether right or wrong—the secret is intoxicating. a puma watching, deeper into the esoteric, hatching, uncured, reasoning in several directions. siding with self-analyses, projecting wisdom, it must be for one we never give the benefit of the doubt: “But it’s beautiful. It’s growing. It’s reaching.” so many ways to regroup our cries, a clarinet isn’t loud enough, an empty room is too crowded—like a mazeway, social shrubberies, chiseling mannikins, repudiating new classifications, many never fathom it’s decided quite early on: those ranks, those cuffs, those dreams—as terrible repercussions, filled with frustration, dwelling in a cocoon …
pure fire, balls in winds, so many trying to make a team. nonetheless, Love is watching. What have you come to see? a maniac, a psychopath, an angry mulatto … nay, a person, a seer, a screamer—those doors unjammed, those nights reknitted, the misery as privilege, the riots as training, the courage as osmosis—those aches, those ribbons, endless affection, axioms on life, while curious enough to never say, “Hello!”
more to silence, tacit chimes, winnowing spirits, intrigued just to sail—like dying was good, like dying is bad, like sprinkling attitude to induce a current; many frequencies, some are gifted, they assign a name to winds. so close, trampling dahlias, cupped in a fetal position, racing in spaces, hallowed for repression, dearly running into suppression; a little friend, upon a whisper, to undress a heart, to float into azure, so turquoise, at every entrance, surety in vows made metallic.
