Analysis of Unspeakable Loud Mirrors

with the gray sky, in a gray lane, listening
to gray wines; the green light, passing through, at
a cool temperature; laundry out, a
man has a dimension, a split atmosphere
—a demon of some angelic sorting;
a chuckle into a hallway, a vestibule
into a dream, a problem into a
capture—the inner fugitive, the
scoundrel inside, the repenting paradox
—to adore her powers, to let for
sinning, to dislike her essence—the face
yelling at me, the nightmare manufactured,
the situation made this way—to claim
it that way—with nothing based in
actuality. by the sin of the
waves, those seas inside, those memories laid
at the shore. so busy working against
us, trying to write the ultimate
commentary, with everything knowing
the roots of the false ghosts. maybe a dear
soul—to conjure in likeness—to nudge a
confessional. maybe a sexy temple,
a withering naivete, so
seductive in a second. so lost,
captivated, rummaging neurons,
caving in treasures, like unexpected
the last sentence. so much an ottoman,
an old settee, an armoire, a credenza
—a few pieces of furniture … spent half
a day fighting depression – a low, heavy,
pushy force, edging into consciousness,
made for a pledge, no negotiating;
with permission from islands, with
nepotism seeming real, or
nihilism on the brink of an uprising
—into consciousness, into a
galaxy, so cursed to see it a little
clearer; an afflatus, or metanoia,
some converging, a machine, a problem,
so much left to choosing our final
decisions. not all will say it. not all
will assert it. not all will miss what was
knitted. many loses. to just look at
it. it could drive a soul into knots.
more a problem, on with life, to endure
it, one knows, made smug. the viable
roses—time in shadows, content with rooks
and checkers and pieces—so real, it can’t
be refuted, we’re debating
interpretation. to speak with knowing
the cloud between the ether. celestial
vice, body to meme for, made fire in an
instance; so low, so high, making
interior contributions. the lake
sulfur, the boiling passion, using
each for a source of its power; or the
maddening violin, running into
his skull, so fierce, balled up, so close to
negotiating, in a space, where nothing
can be discussed, where everything is
transpiring. dearest members, saying
it was true, such drench in one felt
environment—to listen inside, so
clear, so deeply misleading.