i see the Passion in the eyes of one
adrift; i feel patience, hear fusion,
as one soul devastates the atmosphere.
so much power. Does it hurt? so wild we
die, left to rot, left to refute Sadducees.
so viral, so electric, such palatial
thighs. so Versace, so clear, fretted by
reality, much pain, in a name, to make
its fire. Has time aborted itself?
the fame in its force, to have a reason
worthy of adherence, mistakenly
unmistaken; to eat a phantom, in
one brief second, sweet brevity, assuming
what we see, presuming what we learn,
into a split second to sit by watching.
back upon the grid. his life an episode.
not many just give a spouse away.
out of Chicago—most can’t understand,
as permitting fate to take its course,
when a person is set on an action.
roaming NYC streets, visiting Bard
College, witnessing powerful women.
streaming inside, slow motion inside, i
see the Passion in the eyes of one
adrift. I sense the loyalty of dreams
the powerhouse soul, the beauty in
its threshing, at some tower, falling
into ascension. by the struggling
force, at a soul’s lecture, confused to
have existence, with deep troubles, as
complex excellence—watching the
apparatus churn. if it can’t be changed,
one will notice steel, the phantom
watching, the spirits running amuck.
much interior yearning, or so ethical,
it gets complicated; the feral fire—
into instrumental, the mystery lungs,
fevered as souls, frantic as powers, to
live with vacancies, vibrations, valiant
spirits; the penalty for loving sight
unseen, so enthralled by converse, so
consumed by a promise, if it hurts.
