Clad

It once beat

so naively,

sorely inflamed,

spinning wires;

It once seated

so lowly,

drinking gravel,

filled with lies.

I’m ten blocks

north, quick to

fathom, thankful

for a

dream.

Reality flailed

a soul, fallin’

whet, alive to a

sullen cry.

I lost to never

have gone

somewhere a

storm.

It’s God’s doing,

crossed with ethics,

touching a

humble castle.

We swivet with

anticipation, drifting

through teenage

years.

I loved her as one

loves an object

—totally selfish.

We sighed when

questions hit

—so absurd. I think

back, courting a

phantom, two lines

from crying, love.

Such

fabrication,

totally moonstruck,

faced with sin.

I

hurt heart hailing a

gamble, three

shots shy of

a grand.

Something broke,

a cigarette lit,

sipping gin. 

Barely a Whit

I’m not dreaming, asearch for authenticity, feeling as tears

hush. Dearest swan, pierce sunrays, capture excellence.

Oh a furnace, a raining furnace, reaching stars, ever to

love. I was once impish, a tepid church, agaze a nightmare.

So many tears, dreaming in silence, a muse for something

genuine. If only to falter once! If only to cherish once! as

opposed to fallin’ cliff to cliff, void of a lover’s mercy. I

speak of soul, to visit soul, brimming with brilliant dreams.

I owe reality, an opus for gold, a gem for love. In truth,

I owe more than given, especially a young swan, morphing

through portals. Search a nave, a wellic center, an inner

balance. Draw a faceless body. Write a faceless dream. Be

keen to see, art for art, deeply engrained. Fail not to love,

faceless in such love, healing core to core. Mimic oak, as

sturdy as diamonds, as comforting as an armchair. I’ve

written freely, pausing for each line, musing a palm.

There’s much to give, even a koan, drifting through a

photograph. I ask a circuit to strike ember, infusing our

union. Indeed, walk gently, live heavily, wisdom first,

where play is ever recruited. In life, a fireplace is soothing,

an infinite friend, an ultimate furnace. So cherish

inheritance,

as pleasant as songbirds, seasoned with every sentence.      

Symbol Circle

We gave without giving, tiptoeing a linchpin, so close to

love. She’s mystic topaz, even turquoise dreams, rising

in chi.

I mistaken’d a symbol.

It floated within, calmly

vivid, circling midair. It was so light, morphed within

decades.

So many asters, baptized in liquids, florid in Zion. They

move gently, swaying in a breeze, similar to a lover’s

mane. She’s hectic with charms, an aqua touch, and

Jeremiah’s tears. We ponder softly, plucking dandelions,

beige within a desert, as not to alarm neighbors. I reach

in prayer, and she reaches back, casting moonstone waves.

I catch a vibration, lost within an inner choir, levitating

in spirit. Such flowing light, a dramatic tone, uneven in

texture, slowly fallin’.

Oh a night is breathing, longing darkness, exercised in

visions.

Never such wickedness, a stringless trapeze, screaming

midair. I hurry to feel, an organic touch, whispered in fey.

Oh a nightmare our shock, to witness amazement,

slipping through time. It hurts to utter love, where

amber wafts within a psyche. It devastates to read our

encounters, melting gold, exchanged for silver.

It featured as a mandala, spinning in placement, ever to

mold a fortress. Color is broken, sirens are hushed, where

fate is tailored. This our hymn, as private as vaults, as

vivid as lectures. So I greet love, chiseling ice, dearly

engraved. 

Dear Furnace

Oh furnace, our dearest flame, blaze oh furnace, blaze.

It came to me, a silent sparkle, speaking silence. I

wailed for those who hadn’t crossed a bridge, ever

our tear. A youngster morphed into adulthood,

sipping Champaign, musing a russet star. It blazed

through a galaxy, oh night it has blazed. I watched

it deep an interior, merging flames, ever to explode.

Such breathless passion, our tender rose, petals fallin’

in despair. I swept a petal, to outsoar death, casting

love to a butterfly. It weaved to wave waxing brilliance.

Oh furnace, our dearest flame, blaze oh furnace, blaze.

It beckoned life, an inner key, as winsome as silence;

for silence cried, an unheard echo, piercing spirit. I

whispered a rising chant, fraught with speculation. Oh

burning furnace, give not a pledge, live not a death;

for our furnace must breathe: breathe furnace, breathe. 

Years, plus, Adult Years

We can’t ignore it, rent into complaisance, avoiding hurt.

Some honor scruples, prone to do well, ever aloof to

inward rumblings. There it breathes, a monster’s echo, a

human whetstone. Oh such therapy, a stranger’s hand,

where a monster maneuvers turmoil. Dragons appear, fully

afire, chiseling databanks. I stood in ripples, agog for

healing, embarking unknowingly. So much mystery,

compounded by issues, where to conquer one is to accept

two. Where does it end? years of complaisance, bearing

witness to crooked persons.

Our firebrand is a thunderstorm.

Shallow ponds become tsunamis, drilling psyches, warding

off confusion. I see it, as luminous as fireballs, wailing

obscenities, forbidding dreams. I yell in return, frustrated

from years of tyranny. Our infection, a youngster’s sorrow,

sympathizing with a monster.

We become so attentive.

A child turns an adult. This appeases nothing, adrift a

sanctum, where trespass is marveled as normal. What is

a future, fraught with bane, screaming for reason? I ask,

drifting circles, charged with electricity, forever

reaching rivers. 

Pollen

We can’t tell it all, ever to sing, abandoned to a life of

secrets. It’s close and far, ever near to life, digging into

souls. Love was so rare a reality, and thus, a foreign

proposition. Our minds peek and peer, pregnant with

fantasy. It was once so negative, a sign, waging war. I

color a void—images and portraits of consequence;

where never is evergreen, fraught with illusion, kissing

wishes. Oh a phantom lives, mingling mania, steeped

in malaise. We swelter through thoughts, cautious

over souls, wretched over warmth. Panic comes and

goes, elevated with fancy, dancing a fantast slant. We

can’t tell it all, ever to sing, abandoned to a life of secrets.

Its opaque diamonds, shielding treasure, whisking

through chi. Such fills a soul, a vatic soul, a loving soul.

In heart, I hold it dear, painting smaze and mirrors.  

Malaise

I don’t wish to utter it,

this thing about heaviness.

I’m

torn to measure moments,

studying milieus, quasi-

affected,

listening for me.

Upon a cusp, tottering east

to west, looking for a

settlement!

Malaise takes refuge

a temple, trespassing brooks.

Such a shadow, hovering a

countenance, immortalized

in prose.

It’s a fever’s opposite,

somewhere low, hiding from

neighbors.

I give life a gift. Such insights, screaming for freedom, ever

alive with motion. So mourn a smile, searching for sorrow,

entities working overtime. I captured glimpses of what

was sought, favored by unfavorable dialogues. Something

empyreal is living, a temblor chastising ghosts. I heard

resounding waves, printing a soul, in need of one true

voice. Love is so quilted, layered in psyches, an exotic opus.

It’s intimate with pain, ever rooted in its opposite. What is

holiness without sin, or sin without forgiveness? Life

comes in pairs, where highs compliment lows, unequal

parallels.

Silence would have destroyed us. So young, experiencing

adult complications. Our tumble containing majesty,

wrestling an opposite. It’s a mirror harboring terrors, where

a mind whispers, “Hell.” Yes. Here’s a halo, trekking a

deep abyss, as sublime as ripples in a thought. What have I

given,

sorely affected, drawing tiaras?  

Letter for Letter

We struggled letters, grass evergreen, tossing coins. Our

instant love, two weeks of fantasy, a purse lost at sea.

I retrieved such mercy, as bold as actors, as feral as

wolves. She cried to explain—painful months, aware of

mortality. It was ever us, as primal as cheetahs, as

soothing as songwaves. I tugged a skirt, fell a spell, alone

in our trepidation. Rain poured upon a roofless house;

where we loved upon blended woods. Fridays were

colored with lust; and Mondays we’re burdened with pain.

I loved her, as tough as roots; and I kissed her, as warm

as passion. We struggled portraits, for college was back in

session. Promises became life, while twelve months

formed a fortress. Time would disconnect bonds, where

love anew sparked a reverend. Tears washed debris,

studded in a horse’s mane. We spoke gently of choices,

hard to understand, musing treasured letters.        

Drumbeats

Our nightsong is mourning exquisite drumbeats. I relax,

drifting through upsurge, deathless in our vows. I love

you as music creates tempo, and mystics mold zeal. A

sentence has featured signs. I hold you in silence,

feeling aftershocks. Oh to savor love, the richest love, an

ever love. It stipples a soul, stronger than dalliance, and

weaker than eternity. I love you, courageous for this

love, so lean on me. Your name, tattooed upon hemispheres,

clearing darkness. Our texture is noonday strings, where

hearts palpitate, longing midnight sighs. A seashore mourns

such drumbeats, for tomorrow features broken dreams. I

drained a pen, less than a thousand lines, rehearsing your

name. I then lit a candle, felt a flicker, teasing old memories.

You stand veiled in sea blue, dissipating night, peeking as

so to unveil; albeit, I see you plainly, hidden in sunrays.      

Reaching

Oh Lord. She’s treading a tightrope, dancing with mania,

nearly a superstar. I’ve seen her thrice, fraught with

diamonds, tug-a-warring a dark force. I was close to see,

where she closed a book, eyes beaming glory. Her shelf

filled with poet-scholars, prose, even old rituals. She spoke

of such in passing, where marijuana charms, awoke a

nerve. We’re so detached, surfing surface screens, awake

and scattering at dawn. She’s addictive, sudden to

disappear, where scholars ponder a novel. She’s a Center

Piece, a touch of maze, struggling through selfhood.

I felt her, a pensive songbird, ever fulgent for hugs. Her

perform wafts upon a tie: What is such whetstone love?

Such splendor and crimson tears, captured in Polaroid.

She’s a gemstone, dreamlike, ever artistic, stargazing.

Such is trouble, to love an unreachable—the same as said

love.

Thought to Mirror & Mirror to Thought

It was so easy, love: to see us moving, living life, and dialing

ghosts. So many signs spoke this love, as ageless as water.

I picked a word, my love, so unfamiliar: does water spoil? I’m

so young, an Isley fan, nibbling trail mix. I often feel old,

witnessing winds spark a spirit. I listen to a silent pose,

thrown into fantasy, where humans possess special powers.

I love an unseen, spotted in events, mirror to mirror, and face

to face. I see it in gestures, feel it in myth, and live it in waves.

Such contention: love is forever. We often feel different,

wrestling thoughts, and pinning mirrors. Indeed, I speak in

code, to spark affection, to feel the living. Such is interior, a

broad canvas, as boundless as the skies of love. I’m somewhat

dreamy, filled with coffee, attempting to muse a light hand.

What is this mischief, consuming richness, the vaguest

beauty? It’s both freedom and limitation, aging with nature.

Feather in a Wind

We’re wrestling with an ego, searching

for closure. It

featured

somewhere in our teens. How could we

know:

young to

science, unfamiliar, even

walking backwards?

I met her stamping minds,

but couldn’t quite

see her. I was

bold in an introduction,

distant from an old

occupation.

She wanted to tell,

laughing in silence, absent to a future.

I

saw it, but spoke little of prophecy.

She now knows a story,

threaded in faith.

I hope all isn’t taken to heart.

I live a few regrets, sometimes dusty

in spirit, speaking in a

low tone. I soon feel something yogic,

nudging us forward.

I join in, one of many;

but this is our life.

Watch us make right, page to page,

ushered

by friends and

family.

A journey is motion, ever to climb, to

dance a

melody. Some say empty is full, life is

gray,

even pain is joy.

I add to it: Spirit is comic, where

humans

stand a helm.  

Journey

A recluse has entered a desert, ever to trek, from town to

town. I pause, look at grass, and pet a puppy. A little boy

is laughing, and saying, “Mother, who is he?” But a

journey has just begun, forest to forest, headed for concrete

grounds. A bus is nearby, eye-soaring and blessed. This is

our life, a dozen plans, and so unfamiliar. I heard it when

he yelled, “Jesus is coming.” I then walked a freeway bridge,

headed for Century City. A friend passed a cigar, babies

yanked at pants, and something unseen was stared upon.

We smiled for the years, akin to St. Paul, feeling winds and

sunshine. We parted ways, headed for the phones, but lines

were busy. It’s no longer me, Lord: I’ve lived and died only

to live some more. But I ask a favor: an unsaid favor; and a

spirit utters what a soul can’t. I’m thankful, seat to seat,

and plaque to plaque. I told a friend the nights are warm,

and summer is two months away. We sipped a glass in

celebration, and soon departed.  

To See & Feel

I imagine a stern temper, to melt for love, somewhat mean

and calm. There you stand, longing increase, aiding a

nation: so deep, so strong, and cultured. A soul is sharply

annoyed, filtering through politics, a true humanitarian.

I see you at a market, a basket full of wit and champagnes.

I pause to speak, to ask such a silly question, merely to

hear a voice. “Indeed, that’s on aisle seven.” Such a meet

and greet, unlike others, and so brief—to collect so much.

I compare it to fifteen seconds with psychs. Indeed, I’m

lacking much. But life is perception, unlike breath, full of

non-existence. I feel you fingering breezy winds, walking

a chant, pondering something bitter. There’s surely a

method, a hidden magic, leaping as we cross paths. So I

feature form, found in prose, as open as silence. But love

is life, a gentle disposition, flowered upon seismic souls.  

Handkerchief

Moods shift through a personality, names come to mind,

war becomes a measurement. How to flee reflection,

particles of nightmares, even a force within? I ask, found

in a forest, freely matching lies. Never has he spoken

truth, confined within, splitting hairs. I’m back and forth

this daymare, filled with temperament, steady to believe.

Indeed I see it, fully evasive, whispering to a chosen

world. At some point we fly with wind, for it travels

freely; and at some point we take a knee, enlove with

something rare. I ask to hear a torn reply, warring for Truth.

It’s a difficult task, shadowed by forces, struggling through

emotions. It was once so beautiful, even pristine, hampered

by weeds and thorns. So I’m wild for freedom, unity, and

peace. Else the quest, slow to perish, vapor and veils.

Indeed, give us life, in such abundance, a tear to cloth.    

When It’s Chaotic

Goodness must be among us, for darkness is at war, and

Spirit is heavy on a throttle. I can’t help but pause,

stepping

out the

margins,

mingling with a center. I baffle not myself,

for our worlds are different;

but the core, its root,

searches for happiness. I, therefore, reach for a message,

read

a fable, and welcome such differences.

There’s strife miles afar, lost for objectivity, moved by

confusion.

Thus, energy fluctuates, the sprout of several spouts. So

where

has order gone? she surfs a current, nudging thoughts,

working

between humans.

I’m overtime, seeking results, pulled by mini-planets; for

there’s a force, of great significance, posing resistance—

and

thankful for resilience.

Something bruised, sits—to ponder justice, rising at risk,

reminiscent of oldies and blues.

I read a signature and felt

a ghost, staring through my penmanship. What is this

mischief,

meeting difficult deadlines,

nearly dry and alert?

It’s a wealth of spirit, an inner guarantee, and two cups

of coffee. 

Measurements & Doorsills

I puff a cigar, pace a rug, staring at such blemishes. The

goal was a cure, something cultic, a story to share. But

love was secret, firewood kindling an impending storm.

We forget breakfast, fast into a world, often pain and joy.

It was once so sweet and turned a soul.

Such luster, a painted virgin, to watch as a Sun falls. Our

courage, fuel, and voice.

We left the streets for a mansion, a room in a Kingdom,

face the mystic.

From dirt to flesh, and thug to monk, the world is

walking prayers. I feel the violence, affecting a young son,

running from the gateways. We shatter brackets and bad

habits, reading Aristotle. And Plato is strong with ideals,

blending into Christianity.

We sizzle in spirit, speaking in signs, clearing up the vague

waters. This is our world, cast to love, nutty about

wrongdoing.

I close, a fist full of grass, staring at garden ants.