Failed Attempt to Say: I love you.

(I love you, a thrumming heart; and I must qualify such love.)

An evening is weak without a soul—a woman your mind. I

grip and pull, lunging spirit, ever to perish your eyes. You

grab and tug, nailing words—falling and gnawing knees. So

cry a night, where spiders crawl, and swim a thought; for I

love you: enough to part rivers, and gut fish, sick for love

and rhythm. Feel as instrumental plunges into reality, and

firehawks swoop into a groove, where inhibition deafens love.

I ache your mind, kneeling at an altar, sacrificing both meats

and fruits. How do I love thee: enough to carve both brick

and wood; enough to immortalize such love; indeed, enough

to ignore unsaid lovers. I love you as a moon descends into day;

as sun descends into nations; as stars hide and float in stillness.

Indeed, life extends your beauty—ever to perish a slight

remark—tottering upon skates, falling into both warmth and ice.      

We Express through You

She has the strength of Sun Tzu, the wit of Simone, and the

rhythm of Shakespeare. I watch her, portraying the depth

of Whitman. She creates with the sight of Emily, and her reach

is that of Robert Frost. I ask our mystic Blake, shall the heart inflate?

Indeed, she wails the cries of Maya, and features the hurt of Pablo;

for love is warmth, the culture of Langston Hughes. So walk the

beaches. Kick the sands. And read the legends of Homer.

Indeed, sanity is the mind of Ezra, and structure is Angelina

Jolie. Now we wait and feature art, and we die Mary Carr, and

muse Nick Flynn, and ponder Sylvia Plath. Our lunch is

authenticity, and we gnaw upon nouns and verbs. But never

such to love: our width is that of Nietzsche’s. But ever this

wingspan, and ever our sycamore scent. Only Denzel

Washington could act this love; and Angela Bassett feels this

art. I thirst you, and live C.D. Wright; and Trethewey called upon

thunder. So pose a nightmare, and excavate a Robert Greene.      

As Vague as: “I love you.”

We falter gusto, a fist to wind, gnawing upon our palms.

I

scrape and scribe mirrors, immortalizing a name: as vague

as: “I love you.”

A ceiling is fallin’, birds are chirpless,

and ebbic our grief, a nightmarish blight.

Indeed, sorrow

is on repeat, devastating a prow, where print and blood

trickles upon petroglyphs.

I like you so much more—the

art: fleeing in place, squirming and gripping pride.

A cloud

and call, crawling into bushes, extolling something sacred.

I love you so much more—the pain: needling grain, lost for

wheat: as vague as: “I love you.”

I fail to see a pulse, dearly

adrift, and wondering: why shouldn’t I love you?—a life

flapping in the balance.

Indeed, I fall your joy, pleasing God

in our honor, ever to fly.

So light a candle, wail for love,  

only to rise, scaling a thousand walls.  

Swagger

I feel you in a Bugatti, my love; and so vicious, my love. And

imagine a Mercedes-Bens Sprinter, cracked and bleeding in

halves. Indeed, our African-jade tears; and only but a moment,

adrift a silent gem. Quartz fills a soul, praying Lamborghinis,

athirst for riches. And aqua-blue Bentleys flood a mind,

crying: I’m more than inferior. Oh how I love you, feuding a

black-diamond, and bluebird-dreams. You’re more my emerald—

a Witty Bugs, as hectic as Yosemite Sam. I’m such a devil, or

better said, an advocate, sailing a Ferrari. And her hair, heaving

gemstones: a Tasmanian fortune. Call us in a night, where

graffiti paints a moon, and gold platted braids swagger brightly.

I love us like pain is myth: active as a Road Runner, sketching

your eyes. So pop open a bag of Lay’s, rev a porch, and stab a

pedal, drifting into a Rolls Royce.            

Exotic Scarlet

I watch imagination, to envision flowers bloom, where we

leap into a private dimension. Petals are all about us:

roses, lilies, daisies, and begonias. Indeed, a scent of

alpine aster wafts a vision. I pluck a carnation, and sing

to birds of paradise: you laugh gently, and caress a gardenia.

Our warmth clouds our reason; for we know of animation:

moments grieving, and cosmo pink ideals. But our loins:

fever, favor, and morning glory.

There’s a buffet: deviled

eggs; gourmet salmon, cat fish fillet, hushpuppies, and

gumbo shrimps and oysters. We partake in leisure: ever to

yearn Champaign; and suddenly, an orchard flooded with

bubbles.

Oh to love deep in Moet, sipping Dom Perignon,

tiptoeing intoxication, spirit, and opera. 

I Love you As We Perish

I beg you to love me; arms free a mind screaming; for

chemistry, a pagan’s rites, where Gentiles love and die love.

I see you, fallin’, and liquor spillin’, articulating arithmetic.

The sky—a purple sky, and Prince is wailing—such

my thoughts. I feel you, stressing my heart, where we love,

a moment near death. How have we lived, dying in

segments, authorized to plead God? Forgive an open fount;

but love to bloom, and life to cringe, a city lacking

daylight. I watch you a vision filled with hope, dust, and

kryptonite. You beg me to love you: I plead the same; and

we fall a bed fraught with temperament. Our memoir, a

poodle’s infraction: tears fallin’ and rising a month in May.

Again forgive; but ever my soul, aflight a future, sailing the

Caribbean. It’s you, my love: adrift, argus-eyed, and music.  

As a Child

I bore witness; afraid to utter the word, addict. It was forbidden.

We wrestled with ourselves, proud of our bag of cranberries.

I’d toss tomatoes in the fields: straw was knee high, and

rodents were everywhere. Grapes were in season: we’d raid

the neighbor’s yard, snatch a few lemons, and head to our

honeycomb hideout. Often we played the dozens; but I lived

in a glasshouse; so it was quite painful. Such poison and

headache: powder and solids flooded our community. Parents

looked like zombies, asking: “What’s your name again?” 

Kids were astonished; fathers were drenched in liquor; and

grandparents played Nanny and Uncle. They guided dreams,

and fashioned laws, where good manners were demonstrated.

We each had a burden: merely eight years of age grappling with

demons. The future was rarely uttered: we lived it, unaware of

variety, pledging allegiance to a subtle pain; but deep inside, we

watched a cinema, where parents were sober, children were

proud, and a light at the end of a tunnel flickered brightly. 

Among Lovers

I’m without reason, my love: chasing and ever returning to

self. You stand so crooked, my heart, where lovers fawn. I

remember autumn so cold, and winter so warm. We’d

argue, lie in passing, and share something secret and painful.

But ever a tug your soul; and ever a love my mind; where

only concrete petals absorbed blue rain. So mystic our moon:

fleeing both earth and space; and your arms, reaching for

another—ever content and lonely—and free of guilt. I knew

of wages, to gamble my life, where dignity spoke: “I’m

several women.” I stared and faintly asked: Unto what

degree; and how many levels? You nudged a wrist, pulled a

finger, and asked: “Does it matter?” Our moments so brief;

plus, forever, so insufficient; and never our love the measure

of songbirds; but ever our measure of woe, love and fear.  

I Shall Love Again

If you shall not return, I shall not chase. I will die here alone,

loving and nurturing memories. If you shall not return, I

shall love freely another, with dire wants, and eyes closed;

for arms reach for moments—devastated and visceral. If you

shall not return, I shall not chase; for emptiness and love is

upon us: an empty love, filled with everything, including

emptiness. If we shall not love, I shall love freely another,

with opportunity to perish and fly. If we shall not love, I

shall hold a grudge: lost in anger, cursing name and soul. I

love us enough to relinquish love: to drift palm to palm with

another: to skip rocks to sea; ignoring both face and stream.

I shall not return, and fall a dozen more times, unaware of

beauty and love. I shall instead flee, and roam, and mate a

love—brilliant and free: free to love, and free to fly, my soul.  

Our Love: Such Sweetness, Such Struggle

Love us forever a kiss falling softly upon peasants; for we night

a well of lust and drift a wealth of flowers. Hear it in prose, a

soundless sound, wailing through silence, begging and

pleading forgiveness. How do I love thee: as star to space, fruit

to nectar, floating and wafting through time and pain. I love

you come sleep, and court you come light, lost in such pursuit,

madly aloft. Leave a trail and wax a voice, for love is bitter, and

love is sweet, where a meal is life and gold. Life, for charm and

heart; and gold, for love and rain, a season of leopards. So court

and love and write and rage, for ours—immortal, a waterfall of

joys and flames. I see you near a vineyard: heaven is speaking,

and such warfare, where love is persecuted, and dreams are

punished; but love such light, burning and streaming through heart

and soul: love such light. Else, fall and perish a soul screaming,

“Such disaster”: wailing and lost, dying through midnight blues.

Love & Pain & Pain & Love

I want much to reach forth: to numb such insecurities: to nurse

a wing of shadows. But you cry, and move a soul, adamant

about pain. It’s yours; and love can’t take it; and heart can’t

move it. I retreat, filled with longing, and fraught with

vibrations. Morning is grapefruit and pineapples; and life is

sweet for but a moment. But I ask: Why cleave to pain—with

such pride and dignity? for it must be similar such ache—a

trenchant soul, falling and driving through such kisses. I’d die

to hand you love: wrapped in complication, yielding

heartbeats. Such valor, captured resilience, crying: “I love

you.” So nibble grapes, and sate a mind, most distant and

aloof. I recognize such love, and fault not a winter. But

summer is near, and blueberry love, ever to see glory. Thus,

Venus, a rising land, and we perish adamant about love.  

Pain & Seeing

What are smiles without pain and pain without smiles? And

there she stands a bundle of angelic sorrow. I tickle and tug

and tackle angst, afraid of letting life; and she smiles

innocence—and cries luxury. We die our passion both sky

and moon, forever deer eyes, gazing a weathered dream. I

catch her kneeling prayer, alive in ecstasy, nursing purgatory.

We nudge an instrument and sound bursts forth and art is

graphed in symbols. I love as yesteryear our first date; and we

tether our third week, speaking and vowing of tomorrow. Our

earth is so vast, filled with meaning, bathing in values. But

pain, a vocal phantom, depicted in disposition, flying into a

frenzy. I’m so near tears, a palm filled with crosses, etching

into our fingertips; and so much to gain, trekking through

haze and smog, latched to misery, fraught with visions.   

Screaming: “Goodbye”

Music and madness, my love: flavor to flavor, and bark to tree.

If ever this love but more than shadow and more than time: for

such divine travesty, as tragic as voyage and sea: as rich as new

born life. Our love chess and checkers, move for move, and

rest is for babe and crib. Thus, a heart, antsy and slanted, and

love an hour past sunrise. So here’s a letter, my warmth: read

and chant, and ignore misspelled words. Feel as lines drift in and

out of sanity, where love is draped in cashmere and rubies. Hear

alarms ringing near a soul’s cabin, and float a love bent upon

rush and rage. Indeed, a mind is witty enough to mate, stern

enough to see, and bold enough to love. So how shall we perish,

ever soaring through valleys, falling upon clumps of grass, nude

and wild-like near a furnace? Forever is so close—so far—a

moment immortalized with love. And every kiss inches through

heart and soul, climbing thought to thought, screaming: “Goodbye.”

   

Subtle Dynamics (I See You)

Such endowment: to ponder at capacity: a distant mind, ever

challenged, and ever condemned. “See as I see.” But even

this—a moment in a shadow, and years of subtleties. I see

you—wings of manipulation, moving both mind and muscle.

Escape a romantic fancy where subjects daydream. It

comes in the absence of a culprit: a conscious whiff; a grand

remembrance. It’s similar to a person inculcating thoughts.

It’s pure repetition: a must acknowledge: an insidious

gesture, even mind-control, manipulation, and manners. A

cycle ensues: where all parties are affected: searching for

disrespect as opposed to a healing presence. Such to induce

growth, solely dependent on disposition; whereas, some

perish: and monsters sing; and demons whistle. I see you—

years of perfection, moving both mind and muscle.   

Calm & Tears

Blare a clarinet and hike serenity, draping both mind and soul.

Infuse infinity—a beating vibe, vox, and veil. I see her wiping

glass and buffing mirrors. I kneel and touch a pavement, ever

through her eyes, absorbed and semi-intoxicated. She smiles

and turns left, gripping both palm and wrist. What is forever—

aflame two souls? I groan a tender call, aloft a Ghost. She

sighs and whispers, “Jesus.” Awake us, and ever this match to

strike, afire such storm. Our pain the pangs of birth, a dreary

season, where fears wax and welt a soul. But here’s a brooch

and star; and ever this life: a steady affliction: a daily triumph.

Where still, a pavement of tears: a season of scars and stress.

So blaze a flute and strum a harp, ever to sing of pure glory; for

pain is segue, a route to moments of bliss, where peace yields

the deepest calm. 

Gnawing & Climbing

(Such madness, coupled with insanity—ever to long and perish

a nightly heartbeat.) We crawl to rise, thumping at songbirds

and plucking feathers. I touched a pendant and broke an anklet,    

gnawing at something invisible. Such degrees of death, duty

and glory—kneeling eye to eye with phantoms. I value such

birth and ash—grit and pain: a phoenix: the fire of souls. Ever

we live, gripping cross and chain, covered in essence and life;

and I love the haze in you: a lilting fog. What to give, mingled

with madness, speaking a foreign language! It’s ever a thirst

for light: an emerald glance, gnawing at granite earth. Tell with

voice, signs, and tears: the furthest regions of insanity. Climb,

hike, and kayak through a synaptic gap; and promise not, a safe

return; for spiders web, and cobras fang both heel and bone.

Plus, bark and rock bear witness the death of longing souls.

Chaos & Glory

Is it more than music—our bite and grit—tooth and gums?

I cringe at the mere mention of forever dangling from a

terrace. Our pallets filled with cranberries and strawberry

gin; and something grey, a love rising quarterly. I see a

symbol, a cryptic claw, engulfed in fears and dreams.

How to hold what’s fallin’: midair, groping for a parachute,

and praying for cushion? Be it the tempo, a flaming violin,

edging us to sex and graves. I hear it, seeping into soul,

and reaching for psychoses. It’s ever alive: pulling, driving,

and preaching a Gospel. This is our life: a mini

nightmare, even a bless-ed event, and touch is tragic. But

ever we love, clanging cymbals, and smashing cellos, if only

to scrape the belly of God. What is this chaos and glory—a

world of vibration, and hectic dialogues?  

I See You in Streams

How to say I’ve been thinking mystic? where lanterns burn,

and rabbits nibble grass, and brockets dance for apples. I

ask—mocking lemurs, to ponder psalmic eyes. And you

stand distant, screaming: “I hate you,” and nothing is

accomplished. But what of mystic brown, a mother of

pain, screening and screeching for lies. It’s similar to a civet

refusing to eat, lost in a city, mourning a world. But keep

a mile between us; where cheetahs race forever, and fruit is

sweetest alone. Else perish communication, and ownership

of wrongdoing, where intelligent minds reason for peace and

joy. Indeed I dream, where genet poise affects a heart, and

nighthawks awake a mind; for ours is confusion, a wealth of

wants and needs, where absence enflames imagination. Thus,

protected in silence, we wrestle coyotes and fuse a paradise.  

 Chi-Minded

Such pomp and passion pain and grace; and such rhythm, peril,

beauty, and scars. What place this love—this chant—this ever

a land of lotus dreams? for never a mind such flame, an arrow

digging midnight hearts, where darkness is such attraction.

Such is chi, to pervade a room, a circle of slanted brains, and

semi-manic waves. We see, float, and muse, quasi-religious,

weaving psyches and jotting notes. What is this passion:

science misunderstood, mystic and mischief? We sit, moving 

through portals, ever to search, and ever to experience. It’s

a muffled chuckle; a locking of eyes; or an unsolicited smile.

Such pomp and passion pain and grace; where ponds are words;

and trees are verbs; and every branch, a midnight segue. So feel,

fly, and fret; and such exposure, an altered soul; and such

attraction, an endless music; ever to increase in tempo.          

Mountain Sunday

I’m low, love—imposing upon disposition, and dragging to

a cave a welkin soul. We’re twins, lost and forsook,

found and thriving, piercing shadows and visions. I love a

love so forged, alive and disappearing—a phone ringing

daylight. What zone to enter our memories outlining

a moment of insincerity? We fought and fell a fate of life and

love, leaf and prose. What is our presence: jazzing and

singing, and feeding pigeons? It’s a life of music, as subtle as

breakfast, as rich as gourmet veal. This pain, my love,

lingering and touching souls, ever to challenge—warmth and

bliss. Thus, in part, a search for hurt, despite morning dew;

and ever a preference—the hearth  of God. Why, my love: a

flare for woe, death and tears: if only to touch, fall and rise.

Indeed, this life, a wealth of motion, guiding palms and

inking toes, where forever plagues, probes and drives a knight.

Mystic Air

Let earth speak of such kindness; where songbirds deliver

ink, and meerkats draw portraits of poetry; for this art so

vexed a soul, inflicting gentle sorrow. And how long we

chanced a dice, upside-down to trek a moon. Forever is

more than vice: breaking down, a wretched pain, searching

a wounded love. Open a portal, and tug upon infinity, ever

to near a sphinxly core; for spirit tingles, and fever burns,

a torrent of volts and fire. She’s a mystic mirror, mother of

bobcats, and father of kangaroos. I see her in flamingoes,

and male jungle cats, ever to feed from palm—a hyena.

What is such mischief, but faith and flame—a finch’s

wings. With mud and clay—veins and blood, and ever we

grind, knee to chin. Such is fox to mind, alert for cheetahs,

trailing through a Savannah, eyes filled with mystic air.   

Symphonic

In G Minor, my love; a blazing symphony. This is how I love

you, scribing concrete. Our eyes, an orchestra, flaming

ripples and jarring kisses; for I have you, a season of desperation,

longing for morning praise. And so many violins screeching

harmony; and so many breaks, preaching our war. But love,

a trombone in silence and bass a thumping soul. So finish,

my love: feel the excitement; a heart leaping at peaks. Allegro,

my tear, a continent of water, pouring and streaming, draining

from a temple. Here’s a comforter; and here’s a vase to

capture diamonds made of snow; for ours is mortal: whispers

of oneness, a season for lovers. Meet love near a canopy,

and pop a cork, where structure is soon to perish and aching

wounds speak freely of love and eternal vows. Yes. Pierce a

countenance, and skip a rope, where love stirs a fortress.   

Life Again

A tear for love and life and lust; indeed a tear; for the wine

Is rich; an earth is riddle; and her eyes touch my pain. I

Was angry, and she tore my heart and rinsed a friction.

How do I impart to you my thoughts? How do I confess my

Sin? And she says, “Love, are you crying?” How do I lie—a

Tear my cheek. I’m troubled and burning bridges. I die,

And many wail. I have a friend I can’t see. I have a life I

Can’t flee; and love is torturing a weathered soul. Forgive

Me for my fret; and I fail to confess, for I trespass daily: many

Venial sins. And how do I plead a brick wall?

The lights are

Out: a subtle condition. And the lights are bright: a favor

Of God. If only to live it; and only to feel it. Indeed, sanity

Is challenged, and comfort is trespassed, and everybody’s

Spinning.

A candle flickers the deepest gaze. I walk into a

Soul and realize a feature, and mercy remembers me. I cry

Her name, and she pardons my angst, for faith is a fortress.

But a fall is ever a rise; and many watch and contemplate

A walking miracle. And how do we love a torpedo?

I ask—to hear a voice, secluded in the city. And I honor your

Grit, and the death of your fear. So feel and be felt, and drift

Despite a dread; for the trenches beckon; and we trek and

Fly and kneel and pray—and life again is rapid grey. 

Admiration

We search life, heavily curious, and tiptoeing coals of ice.

But some are equipped, storming into summer, expressing

both weal and woe. I envy such giants: able to love and

die with ease. They glow in spring, and bundle through

winter—a living philosophy. And so many series, flushed

with style, a brainstorm of dispositions. Where to hold

life, earth to palm, a mind of constellations. I ponder such

pain and courage and mimic in passing such ability.

Indeed, clumps of grass and beavers flood a garden, and

such stars reseal the damage, and live again but a moment.

Teach me such talent: years of cultivation, and seasons of

academia; that I may float and fly and flee a fear, where

readily understood is vice and veil; for such art and root, a

fusion of love; that soul and vox may soar and venture. 

Don’t Change

Tell me, love: Was it magic, a genuine outburst, followed by

a need to knead and mold a captured soul? We flowered and

petals wilted and something graphic melted a sky. I was so

robotic, and so enchanted, and love was structured, and love

was science. So many physiological moments, where an

aftermath was a cigar and gin on the rocks, even a high five.

Love wasn’t so sacred, an invention, even a response to

stimulation, and the company of beauty. How to grip something

elusive? It must have been the company; or such a bond, where

chemistry induces neurotransmitters. Indeed, was it ever the

same: a midnight laugh; a tiny joint; even kama sutra. I ask—

afraid it is the same: a new touch; a bulky laugh; even a richer

love. Is this like fate: to strip a moon; to write remembrance;

even to conjure up images of a not too shy seductress.   

Mozart Favorites

A concerto is on repeat, gazing into a night, speaking through

a piano. I’m adrift in keys, pondering a young swan. She

dreams in strings, piercing grey, alive in pastel colors. Hear

a wind, my heart, where an orchestra dances in G Minor.

Such Allegra, a work of Mozart, streaming a synaptic gap.

Are you there, my soul: laughing, and swinging upon a porch?

I imagine a number of favorites, tiptoeing upon images, even

symbols of E-flat. So fly a Latin classic, and mend a broken

stitch, only to crochet a quilt. Yes, my darling: a cello is both

soft and torn: echoes of a heart; and there you write, mining

rubies, and testing gold. I welcome such youth, where heaven

is ever an alert violin—and stars become drums, aloft an

earthquake. So sketch a face, and soar in prose, only to

crescendo in rhyme; for girth is talent, a cymbal for each day,

where perfection is the details.