What to call it?

those disparate streams David 
they ribbon into twisted hums
of soliloquies made of barns
and watching barns
geometric lines
the curve of the horizon
like the cusp of something culpably 
sublime and mathematical 
I want to feel that sweat, that salt
that tornado that bent your face to it's grid
I want to logically determine the wind
your loneliness
lyrically alive in those 
carefully 
chosen
words and diatribes 
stitched between the leanness of 
narrative
meta- narrative
mid west Mecca 
meta of autonomy
the smell of burning corn
co-ordinates of culpa 
crawling through the ligaments 
of is and is
the inner worlds we knit
and knot into a hubris of longing
how we fantasize and fetishize the high of the high we wish for 
let me crack that ball
cleanly 
knowing the bend of the breeze
the pock marked tarmac
let me not know 
of straight lines
let me breathe
in the depth 
of what
is broken
imperfect