The mind is an organ.
A certain Florence.
Playing along, the surfaced hymns.
And silent and active, and the night pivots.
This frame of mine, crowns of stone, erected breath.
to belong to no one,
and to be no one.
comes closest when your can no longer hope-
I can, no longer dream- I see patterns breathe-
The floors inflamed by a most driven scurry.
The thorough need to create.
The tarry. The ocean waves.
And you can feel it almost silently.
And if I caught your discomfort, forgive me.
I intake the fluid tears of bathers.
The skinny cat’s ribs bridge against her fur.
I’ll travel the night until I break it.
I’ve wanted to cry for so long.
I’m resolved Tina.
I want only, a few more months.
Fine, here we are
The madness increases.
The spiral, terrible circles and night.
Venetian plaster and my hands stomach
an uncertain birth. My hands tremble you see
with the purest longing- fingers mirror the
provoked will of crayons grasped.
I long for white, and blues- bring me
the sun for these pages- bring me the
mule hours of work. exhaustion.
I resist your sleep.
And here it is,
Right hand construction.
Left hand structure.
That which escapes is birth.
It is conviction led by abandonment.
It is consistency in blindness.
The human discipline.
The old symbols destroyed.
All in the name of the sublime.
you become a beast, you are monstrous.
is this the climax of our hearts?
beg of your forgiveness.
and i would stand there
with the shining cries of violins,
and strike the rivaled smiles
until pavements bellowed.
i enjoy this demise.
it is the darkness that is most tender.
it is in kissing you my dear, Isobel
and knowing that after today,
i will never play you.
and seeks perfection.
a structure built by design.
repeat institutes comfort
but if the object is broken,
if it is vulgar- then the mind
is forced into abstraction.
a response to the unaccustomed
creates strife. the mind straggles
and is aware and retaliates.
the mind seeks perfection.
it fights crookedness.
the left hand is crooked
the shutters curtain my sight.
the symbols are broken and suspended.
rigidness flails the vigor of drums on page.
and i scratch this surface.