PS.

 

 

The strength to withstand the winds; a spell as it effects/affects some creature. A sudden moment filled with absolute certainty, so wrong. How a mind tricks itself. Accused of being insensitive, too much to sustain. Lions in fields. Snakes in dungeons. Part mammal. Part reptile. So impossible. So probable in spirit. In priding detachment, one will lose something. In kneading nihilism, one will become saddened. In revering existentialism, one will notice nuances. So greatly confusing: to watch, to search, to be close enough to taste breath, so divided, a need to look inwardly. Some require tragedy, others need dialogue, and some dispute quietude. Loving her seems easy. She elicits admiration. And she prides relations. It becomes stringent; reality becomes fuzzy. We’ll see it in nerves. We’ll sense it in an undertone. An interior is whole at points, fragmented at seconds, holding to ethical conundrums. An author speaks from herself, neat abandonment, charged in an instance, repenting an infraction. The parts ache; keeping closure. Such precision the art in her essence; sheer magnitude; facing vicissitudes … a quiet person, a full person, a hidden inside person. To seem what is required; strength of falconry; eagle eyed. Filled with intuition. A soul marvels. If we knew depth, misunderstanding, clarity, confusion.

Perspective: Temperament or Reality?

 

 

Irony. In the losing to find parts of one’s mirror. To see tragedy lives, such radiant joys in others. To decide by hands-on, wisdom is pride, threshed like wheat. The beauty in tomorrow; the glee in hope. Trying to ignore being human, the travesty is happiness of the matter. The feeling is strangeness; the cadence is deceptive. In life one might find meaning, until it loses its fruitage. The soul is evolving outside of itself. One should treasure their joys, keep them close to heart. 

 

Often, one entertains something with motives, unbeknownst to us. The seasons come to pass, holding to perception, faced by actuality: to have lived if passed into a condition. Just learning the debt, just inhaling the scents—most complicated of souls, looking for credence, exercising discernment, offered one dark, endless guarantee. Over a bonfire, strumming existence, battling an aged old dilemma. Such mortals; such vulnerability. (In seeing how souls adjust: book clubs, 

 

poetry, religiosity, volunteer work, close friends, to make a world—filled with precepts, other pleasures—becoming vices.) How do we know? When one partakes against his will.  A song is soulful—those days rushing faster, those weeks passing and losing memories. The sun rising—rain falling, to partake of realization—a promise always chasing. And some are filled with joys, nesting in temperament, shifting perspective. They amaze us.    

Holy Handkerchiefs

 

 

At life alike to wars. To enjoy a glass of cognac. To embrace chaos. A soul to dying often, living in-between times, missing lasting realms. In a tear deeper. Into dreams with reapers. Motion never comes to rest. I try to keep quiet. An impossible chef. We’ve a situation at hand: can’t absorb her completely, can’t live without her completely. Too close to what’s elusive. Minds upon tightropes. Souls upon indifferent waves. In trying not to perish—still breathing, trying to be decent—up against all things. Neckbones, potatoes—resistant to it, too occupied with it—if to see struggle in her eyes, if to ignore beige walls, if to listen during times of distress. Such precious lives, oriented by trials, building character—enforcing a hardened countenance—going through dreams. Ghetto charms. To wonder why. From where souls stood—it wasn’t getting better. Byproducts of poverty—impoverished murmurs, indebted for surviving. Faced by violence. Formed by silence. Under conditions others died by. Building images. To walk by faith. A sign—something tragic was born. We might adore what we can’t keep. We might be wrapped in struggle, in love through miseries, proud to have perished together. One immortal portrait—same picture, different islands, parents looking crestfallen; so great by its churn, to make it through years, carrying experience, walls swallowing souls.

Summation

 

Another year made of fantasies, visions, dreams, escapades. So much cheer; so much somberness. A wilderness for souls; watching life moving, promised departure at some juncture. By some point, we confess limited control; at some point, we see a division: what I desire, and what is, they tend to clash. I pay it my mind. I necessitate a few pleasures. I feel a harshness to it all. Such verbiage. 

 

Such clownwork. So many antennas, many more sounds. Blood blue penalties—deep sacrifice. Like ventriloquists are watching. Like dolls are walking. (It never meant nothing. Love was there. Everyone was altered. A soul left. We communicated. It was simplistic. It was fruitless. Souls were altered. A soul held to that for his life.) It never meant nothing. Spirits sing to glory. Each on his 

 

journey. Some, one religion, others another. It seems similar at times, such differentials—nothing with split hooves. (We traveled, made thousands, moved pieces, too much to exhale.  Alike to a castle, seesawing memories, so far apart, and Love had a dream, needing before it’s over.) We meet people in their bragging, they meant it. I shan’t complain, looking at many faults, trying to perfect 

 

something flawed (self)—being better, needing a venue, easing into meaning—life of a person’s spirit, days feeling schisms, albeit, days are often good, a slight emotion, a threshing artist, trying to escape while close to one’s beloved—knowing for uneasiness, wondering why, having to push it away, where it makes for errors. A true condition

Us & Ancestors

 

 

I have to surrender, most humble rites. It comes like a vision, a dream, Love. At tyranny inside, haunted ribs, skeleton traumas. Cranium pangs. It seems vicious, a nation born to survive. My ancestors; such radical affliction: We seem closer to an ideal. I have to surrender obstinance. I have to be smarter than myself. I have to know rights are negotiable. Upon plains—into fields: corn, sugarcane, cotton—fingers torn, sweating Jesus, upon a whip, too many deaths to count. I heard of a Promise Land, they called it Canada. I heard souls running, bullets chasing, to cleave to guts, tumble over, one last breath. I feel it more with aging. To see inflexible patterns, a soul pleading to meet humans. I can’t imagine how far from grace souls are, a man finding himself, begging forgiveness, screaming like a mad man. It gets like that, two breakdowns and a psychotic break. One wonders home a soul makes it—drive, luck, training, fortune. I look over to wonder what souls are thinking. This begs a question: Am I qualified to cast such assessments? Who knows. Foot heavy on a lever – days inside – trying to enjoy December. What was done! I read one in his depth. He spoke of fighting a good fight, prepared to change dimensions, proud to have been of service. One chance to soar. One real life dream. One positive prophecy.   

Entering Climax

 

 

When sunshine touches morning dew, when pain feels good, we arise to singing softly. And I never knew for majesty those eyes, aloft and sudden into a daze—terrific passions! Sorry it never poured as a storm, never sacrificed existence, never begged repentance. It’s hard to focus, adrift through horizons, nocturnal pangs, aches and arts, such shivering limbs. And Love was a mirage, a blessed curse, pulling and tugging, silent sirens, sullen goodness. So much fiending, Love, so gathered near winepresses, tender heaving, gravid heaviness. In dying it felt unrealistic, akin to mania, so many creating psychoses. It’s not new. And needing agonies to suffice and survive, to feel existence—sable-blue-green eyed ghost woman. And with it all comes danger, cemetery visions, vivid and part empty, vapid and full of life—on occasion—so nearby. It was never called seduction at heart, it was vibrant violets, numen nemesias, radical realism; in remembering a voice, diary of a phantom’s brains, chased as it is, something living in me—such eruptions, sheer peaking, permanent genetics. To happen upon excursion, hampered by fears, most favorite of dreams. Let it be excellence to enjoy. Let it be pains to enter. Let it meet where it lives. Ripe persistence; aging perfection; by exposé, by watered livers. To sound out syllables, to create ecstasy. To live!   

Departing Climax

 

 

No amount of love compares to your kindness. And let dungeons be gentle—as we surf waves, embody hertz, too much to breathe. Feeling you in my heart, debating a flaming future—as casual creatures, impartial blasphemy; something said would haunt love, would kill parts, thrown to throes of passion ... if to fever in time, to share forbidden ambrosia, goddess of gods, electric fantasies. Fire as it churns. Undulations as they vibrate. Pure value; let it never diminish. Mother of all that’s beautiful; angel of all divinity—sensual elation, cemetery tears, palatial gardens. In chasing to perish by lust; in adoring by ache—it enthralls. Do suffer me—fueled for emeralds, bejeweled for angst—O heavenly nightmare, poetry for its own sake, roses and hay fever. By your utterance, by touch, to need essence. Such unconventional diamonds, to pardon such love. So much a frugal word, so deep in meaning, wrestling with deaths, caged or flying freely; tender emotions, rabid heartbeats, pure wicked kindness. To hate in one breath what makes life good next breath. In capturing devotion; in rationale, remote activity, losing what a man begs for; poetry for its tragedy, warmth for her furnace, kiln as it levitates. At a bridge, laughing unbeknownst to self, conscious, nonetheless; giving all to sustain it, radical passion, desperation eyes. To have loved in vision, to manifest nemesias, such raw anxiety, one departing climax.  

Sacred or Profane

 

From deeper seas: I was born to master it. A long time coming: so many bridges. Alike to unreachable gates, immortal swords. And by love, we mean healing.  I felt unborn those years, cleaving to the profane—such unholy creatures: it becomes a war, striving for the holy. The artist spoke it clearly: “It’s a feeling.” I entered by measures. I swore it by the Ghost. Having difficulty with clarification—outside of belief. Such nomadic spirits—sudden joys, settling back into essence. Full pledged darkness, upon a spark, awesome lights. Aside musical rites, slave of the rhythm. Pure ecstasy; down near caves, reading inscriptions, feeling a certain vibration—if to live, if to perish. Torn elastic; framed by it, still trying to master it: an illicit activity. Primitive souls, sabretooth twins, kneeling into ocean sand. Seemingly, seeking skies, emotional comforts, and life appears harsher than first thought. Like a breeze at times. Like numen at moments. Pneumatic concerns; at a fixation, transfixed, unto grave and resurrection. Utter dynamics; such modern-day primitive creatures—to see as it unfolds, a moment between comfort and immediate displeasure. Preparing by choice, feeling phlegmatic, disputing necessity versus preference. Souls of the nocturn, ancient presence, at Love with a diamond ring. In hearing, “Yes,” no other wildness.  

Everything Is

 

 

I revisit illusion to see clarity, upon ironic paradox. Would entice through esoteria, a soul begging the question: What is reality? I was thrown into cadence, standing where invisibility erupted, an elderly woman asked: “Are you alright?” Winds into valleys. Death to each, as we fight for immortality.  Such metric melody. A soul will reminisce … —through drums, bass lines, tribal alertness, currency waves … to believe in affectation, emoted from depth those wells, phantom of ambrosia; in becoming christic ink the oceans filled by zenic archery, a man to his enlightenment, pains to their arts—to have adored with such little information: by gentility, by grave, by cemetery plots and passions; fleshed out, listening to gait, debating disclosure, all of a human’s being. I revisit illusion to sense understanding—forsook to koans, trying to decode antiquity—longer into nights as upon a thought—seated in numen, a place in minds, a galaxy we attempt to control. I woo some part of delusion. I sing by silence. Such surreal ambition, collar of one’s spirit, gown of one’s holiness, feathered wings, regathered essence. I do weep the damages to character, faced by cryptic morals—something telling a soul he is with penalty—ache of those moments, tower of sails, across seas to conquer, pleading religiosity, to chance upon one, to cherish unsuspectingly. 

Core Person

 

Rather the difficulties, rather the curses. By vice and performance; by chains and resistance. The legacy of profundity … baffled at all times. Seduction of the core person; articulate pain. If to taste life, to live ecstasy, by dear disappointment, sudden reincarnation. A given pool, sweaty napes, thrown into passions, a sigh, a giggle, a knee. It wasn’t intentional the rivers inside; it came with ripples at heights those chameleon eyes. So many prisms; plangent winds, mythical gods, every incentive to create meaning, if to define existence; asking Love for clarity, attacked for masculinity, minds dedicated to persistence. Wasted wines. Waist bound. To give ink, to challenge consensus. (Years pass swiftly. With remembrance of schism, stained church glasses—in trying to feel goodness—she passes into glory, so alphabetical, pursuing her come sunrise. Experience is fleeting, to have loved sight seen, a smidgen of dying as years passed by.) Soulful persons make life—to want versus to need, if to study personality, if to become knitted. Amazed how spirit necessitates, some element rising inside, making desire palpable, to yen for one soul. Purity of experience, such human vessels, perfected vassals, going through portals. So heavy those years, addicted to a feeling, so neat the company of angelica—a cured man is a deceived man—it takes eternity, several trips, sweet resurrection.             

Susurrous Breeze

 

 

Upon a feeling those vibrant pangs, like arts and medicine. If to sing it naturally, part creative, part self-affliction. A mellow melody those summaries, with souls pointing at imperfections. I long to have a dynasty, surrounded by confidants, celebrated like kings—fever of souls, ambitious enough, needing to increase my chasing. And spirit was in its prime, full of dirty dancing, to have chuckled prematurely, to have laughed at another’s anguish. If I gave royalty, I’d expect regality. With so much ahead of science, with so much defaming religion, to come to a point, a road, to admit to commonality, seasoned for greater chaos. To have loved in essence, to have melic charms, by grace, by crude oil. I couldn’t woo as it was those years in ecstasy. Talking nice has a deep clause to it. A soul ages in many respects. If to fall into an abyss, captivated by character, to have treasure in one’s personality, when words are existence, two coming together means life. Such yelling inside, echoing into pillows, to find with time no greater estate. Wilder eyes, prior to domestication. Articulate newness. Much in pains—to have wrecked pieces; in a gentle soul, to redeem time, living sight unseen. I know of tales told, a mythical creature, full of sensational paws, to have stimulated by greatness—curse of majesty, blessing of transgression, art by winds.