what a thing, to have
within my grasp:
you, so dear to me--
your actions, your words.
what a sight to be heard--
how many times have you fled, now;
how many
times have you died
inside my head? how
many times have I
(fortuitous brother, wife unmarred
[and unnamed, forever scarred, unladen
of/with your fearful perfections])
died, to be reborn
in a blacker ash, in a
less conspicuous dust?
why does the glass of our glossolalia
burn with undue corpulence, o
why o why.
how may we make the conjunct of "us" right?
how may we lay-- side-by-side, in
sighing asym-metry, may we
share thoughts,
opine
upon
beats, arpeggiated chords, and
dischordant screaming, bleeding
vocal
chords, and
quiescent melodies;
snare-hits, tom-
whalloping, galloping beats
beats
beats
beats?
does the strum of the guitar thrum
thrum
thrum
thrum with uncalloused
abandon, sickly-reckless
(cantankerous) soul-
punching, dual-amp-crunching
grungefueled postpunk dooms
and seraphim-sucksiphoned
gloriffic stories?
inside your wholeheart?
can we talk, can we talk--
or are you with the gods, now;
are you the deists'
maker of clocks;
does the time tick away
without you?