Skyfall

I can’t describe it, to live freely, a foreign concept; and more to flinch, to mince

words, to argue reasons. Oh to fall, and raise your heart, filled with grit. Something

lives, a secret concept, to fill this burn. I loved you sickly, to love you warmly,

a carriage of throes; and mother died, to see for smiles, a bit confused; and more

the tears, to churn love, a forgiving thought. So dig deeply, to pause the introjects,

flooded with woes. I need a drink, to hear your voice, for death is forbidden. The

earth is swept, and there you stand, a wounded vessel; and fall the clouds, to

palm the sleep, even awakened. We perish thrice, amidst destruction, filled with

pearls; and love is dark, the fleets of light, and buried in gold. Please forgive, a

drifting soul, fraught with hoists. You spoke in earnest, to challenge fate, spent

with confusion. I see for eyebrows, a need for clipping, and hidden toe nails.

Indeed—for laughs, to harness shame, a bit polarized; and father fled, without

return, a vest outworn. Was it pain, an addict’s gaze, an inner child—traumatized

fully? I ask—to help a soul, dying in degrees; but ever this life, to soar the aches,

to kayak rivers; and more the love, to know for weather, a storm in the far east.

We perish in grays, to ask for love, from dying parents; and God heard, to cleanse

a slate, where death spoke violence. The essence burns, to turn events, to love

for mother; and father cared, to carry demons, screaming in lonely rooms. So more

for self, to die for self, to morph into a human.     

Trauma Banks

There’s a war; where

there’s a positive for a negative

coursing internally, with

moments to speak of freedom.

I hear an echo, where freedom’s challenged, for want of destruction. There’s something there, shadowed in a memory bank, where trauma took root. The faces are vague. The answers are torn. Negotiation is but a fallacy. If not for X—Y wouldn’t exist—climbing a sky-ladder; where there’s a mirror, reflecting ideals, through rough terrain. The more the rants, the closer to home, to give back training wheels. The fog is but illusion, where silence beckons, to travel deeper; where caves speak, where walls crumble, where snippets give voice. The journey is mind, where help is research, to wrestle in parts. One echoes—“I know you, a feature from this life.” Something is mimicked, a damaged tissue, if not addressed. One waits, through doing good, to hear it surface. One is made privy, to a type of cycle, prone to rename trauma. There’s identity, a face to madness, found in this life. One utters—“I remember you, a feature of my youth.”

There’s something else, a feature, judging responses. One feels intense, to chant the energy, to calm in segments; where names surface, as if the flame, to remember illusions. The echo fades, where syllables spark, to pressure presence. One utters—“I was born with you, a feature of my psyche.” There’s a shift, to siphon pressure, where the war settles. Hours become new, where good is done, to strike an echo. One replies with silence, or even chants, to readdress the trauma; for there’s mind within mind—or tissue within tissue. One utters—"There’s a mind in tissue, probing a mind." The war is there, a type of trauma, a ship to struggle through storms.         

Valley Nights

We can’t explain it, although we try, a weary batch of souls. We ask forgiveness,

to repeat infractions, where some are dying.     How for this life, grounded in venom,

to blossom into a lotus!     More for thumping hearts, to feel a wave, to know for

you; and more forgiveness, to chant for clarity, a brief escape.     I died there, treated

as dogwood, and found guilty.     How for this life, afflicted with poison, a deep

offense!     I trek a mental valley, and converse with souls, but solace is bleak.     You’re

not alone, to crave alone, to die alone; for life is brimming, to flourish knowledge, to

accumulate wisdom.     I rivet a prayer, to ask for guidance, to wrestle a badger.     Often

for death, a stubborn wave, to ski through sleet.     I think for yore, a childhood scar, and

ever to hear: “What did I do wrong?”     It’s something misleading, an undermined air,

to feign ignorance, where a child perished; and then for nice, to mend for years, to grow

in anger.     I’m lost for laughs, and sipping chi, the deepest coils; and one is gray, for

fog is heavy, to chime through darkness. The fog is thick, to feel your rain, where many

play pretend.     I remember—for a certain look, as if the world is dumb.     How for this

life, stunned and stunted, to witness vicious!     I called the Ghost, to feel for hearts, a

ritual a day; and more for minutes, an altered state, to haunt within.     Its volts and

spirit, to thirst for breath, a vest of friends.     So awash a soul, my nautic mind, a

young sculptress; and not alone, to see for difference, where many vanish; indeed—from

self, to live for reckless, where all is expendable; for feelings hurt, to live for numb,

afraid of sober valleys; and death is halted, through pure evasion, where a mirror mocks

itself.    

We live in knots, often for years, staring at confusion; and often not, for sights are

vivid, to drift a fable; and more for insights, to reason within, to grant for mercy. If

only to see it, and see for hurt, to realize pain; and not to save, but rather to guide,

to a salvific source; for whetstones grind, to sharpen edges, where leaders grow.   

We live a voice, to shower affections, and for a time as puppets; and not for anger,

but more to learn, and then for wings; else for lost, flapping wildly, a soul without a

kingdom. So know for love, to shield the heart, else a great infection; and feel for

crevices, to extract pearls, else a great infection; for it’s a penchant life, to find for    
something, where desire matches the calling; and see it clearly, a familiar motif,

where others suffer.  

Polaroid Cameras

I caught a grasshopper, deep in the fields, sipping lemonade; where too a

tricycle, for rusted dreams, a son’s childhood; and prior to knowledge,

to know of cocaine, to forge visions; where mother perished, a postal

post office, tearing fingernails. Its spider bites, and butterfly passions,

to curtail reality.  Its movies and popcorn, to pause the pace, a spaced-out

look. It’s the littlest gestures, to capture on camera, to feign for joy;

whereto—it was, a sickly calm, a city of bathing suits.     I saw for riches,

and bags of currency, and fashion magazines. We melted marshmallows,

and crumbled gram-crackers, to smear the agony. Its microwave joys, to

forfeit knowledge, to hear for comforts; but ever a maze, and pajama

tears, to listen for fights.     I left in self, a harsh reality, an altered ego;

where mother perished, to feign for gold, despite the odors. We hassled

life, and questioned love, to cut with precision; and more the crumbs, to

re-rock ‘caine, a small legacy. We roller’d for skates, a bit aggressive, for a

passive nature; where butter’s a memory, to hustle a baby-sitter, a pair of

tricked dice. Now for grief, to see for alligators, to purchase a brain;

where roots churn, to hear for phones, ringing outdoors; and mother died,

a touch of riddles, to wonder for why.  

Morning Thoughts

It’s similar to baseball, to hit a homerun, thrumming this life; and such inhibition,

a bedtime dream, walling through bedrooms. That’s wall to wall, to grip a button,

thinking of grandma. I saw a tub, filled with blood, to pull the cork. Its pencils

and

ink, and psyches and shrinks, squeezing toothpaste; where thoughts chatter, to

figure for zip-codes, a difference in behavior. I need for syrup, a woman divine,

to pause and chat; but I grip a toilet, to upchuck guts, in need of towels. It’s not

the same, to holler—“Birthday,” in need of doctors. The farmer farms, the

dreamer dreams, both a forehead of traumas. A vowel is pain, to hold for is, and

blank come sunrise. I grabbed a napkin, to sketch a number—to a perfect stranger.

We laugh and cry, for butterfly stomachs, to forget we loved. The nights are

spurts,      

the luck of seven, to touch an oval face.

            Its shampoo tears, and torn tissues, to love a pagan.     I gaze a toothbrush, 
to venture garbage, a wagon of woes; and there’s a fire-truck, and blazing sirens, to

awaken reality.     We die so harshly, the first to bicycle, and scrape a knee. The

piano blares, to skip for chants, a mixture come sundown; and more a piggybank,

a vault of dreams, to hope for millions.     Its screwdriver pains, and fajita tears, a

computer near the soul; but love is grand, to heal a scar, tossing tomatoes.   

I Feel It Wheezing

Are we dying—while living, to filter through soot?     It’s your name,

to cross a thought, to know for eyes. Its clockwork, even a cypress

tree, to plague a soul. I’m heart-bound, to see for eyes, but lightyears

away.     It’s the music, to burn immortal, a running country; and

never our eyes, and ever our souls, to cup dewdrops.     Something

stings, akin to twilight, to muse a picture. Its deep the Godhead, the

strain of widows, a sour smile. I’m empty—Love, a fragile pulse, to

know for winter—and sunset tears.     I heard a sigh, to fry the life,

as golden as fame.     Its deep an appetite, to hear a voice, to mingle

with minds; for life is gray, to flail a soul, to walk a vestibule.     I see

for unclear, to wander your heart, to hope the best; and what for love,

a strange stream, sighted as strangers?     We coil to recoil, a pail of

carnage, a woman distraught; and God heard—a dulcet voice, pleading

a river.     Its art-form, and moments shunned, to eschew a demon;

plus a second, to feel nuance, and disappear.     We love afar, streaming

bars, a musician’s dream…and more to heart, a seraph’s flight, to

feel a coal.     We die the texture, a clouded lot, to panic for embrace.

I envy such, a banquet’s outburst, to claim for love; and more

rejection, and blood and brine, the hearth of death.     

Dangerous Woman

We love for this love, a prison called paradise, even a touchdown.

We scream for death, the increment of orgasms, to forfeit reason.

We beg this ache, to fingertip a womb, to love a nymph; where rain

is grand, an unlocked kernel, to unravel emotions. We struggle

upstream, for tender a climax, as fulgent as sunbeams. Her aura—

a spectacle of women, to feature a concert; where a snapshot—

triggers tears, to swoosh to love. We live in gray, to sculpt a paradox,

even a conduit of pressures. We would for normal, to censure

normal, a pristine laugh. Such is ballads, for ripples of souls,

sipping holy water. Oh to baptize, to seal a soul, for syrup’s nectar.

She dances elixir, a window of pain, confound to known; where

life is keyboards, even a thunderstorm. We sing a maestro, to

marble tablets, to grip for patience. She smiles a nightmare, worthy

of praise, to telegraph God. In for triumph, to cup a tear, a thirst

immortal; for magic drips, through a mystic gaze, to dine in

Westwood. She’s Aphrodite, even Athena, running barefoot. We

clip for nails, to manicure love, a lagoon of petals. Oh for earth, an

unearthly woman, for jealous a star; for hold for dice, to comfort

Cleopatra, to shower Cupid.                  

Venom’s Love

It’s a shattered breastbone, and reigning terror, to utter your name.

Souls are flooded with silt…and subsurface algae…to coddle a

nightmare.     There’s undertow, and algorithms, to tour the high

seas…and mothers are mourning, where children vomit…to

cough up gremlins.     We awaken to serpents…to hear them hissing…

and epiphanies rapture thoughts.     We hold to hatred, like newborn

sons…screeching through voiceprints. We splay love…and hope for

love…where love is sacrificed.     Indeed.     Cherish the soul

you love…as not to kill—the soul you love!     Who gives love…for

a vest of death…crying for no reason?      To look…is to perish…

where a voice is screaming, “Love.”     Its froward waves, and

bleeding moons, to hold to death…and why to hate…when eyes

awaken…to know for wrong!     We vanish…fully scarred…seeking

a surgeon…for hearts are strewn…shattered in parts…in need of

surgery.     Oh mend the times…to reverse the times…to a place of

trust; for hell has spoken, an internal language, where culprits laugh.

     It’s a choir, to heal a soul, fallin’ into liturgy…and raindrops fall,

     to purge the venom…where many return.  

The Spirit in Us

Liguria eyes, for Italy’s soul, and misunderstood. I thought for Germany, and Dutch eyebrows, to camp in France. Its butterfly smiles, and ladybug hugs, a face of living. We whirl a station, to swoon a heartthrob, the zest of waves. It’s more for subtle, a cannon love, for canon rites. We myth a legacy, and cringe a heartbeat, to ponder the ifs. I disappear, where energy rises, to portrait beauty. We die so often, and live so often, probing Africa; and never a thought, but more an instinct, the friction of thoughts. I wanted love, and sickly for deep, to realize justice. I wrote to Gertrude, and hassled Mechtild, to pause at Genevieve; and such the grief, to ponder Porete, to drift through Norwich; and art to Kempe, to study Catherine, flooding a mystic river. I love you—our pleasure, for grayish minds; and float for Judah, a sewn elation, to drift to Spain; for life is moments, wrapped in Greece, to perish the richest soils; but time is failing, for mystic tribes, to drift through Egypt; and medieval gems, to live in fey, to type a platform.     I soon return, to filter the ifs, to know for never; for such is travesty, a series of eyes, and passing judgment; for this is life, to look for down, a giraffe for closets; and all the more, to cause for guilt, as sick as pneumonia.     I think the Congo, to see for tragic, a tale of cultures; and burgundy eyes, to wail for truth, to conjure Ethiopia.     It’s Smith to see a puzzle, and Traci to bend a mystic, standing through Hayes; and all for legends, to see us through, to pretend against thoughts; where Jamaica is love, for blowing circles, to feel Nigeria; for days are love, to drift a name, found through a status quo.      

A Spider called his Name

Can you help me; a blind fool, spinning through weblocks? I’m something

stubborn, to read it, and apply tactics. I’m more for honest, to lie for device,

a moment of closure; and soon return, to boiling waves, a grave of live

hearts. Can you help me, to dig a path, to cause for clear? Was it thwart, a

young genius, to fathom not? I skip a brain, to probe a teacher, alive a

slant. We have it, a need to feel, to praise the trauma. I must confess: I

wouldn’t change it: a life for mine; for mother dug—to sculpt a tear, to push

for prose. I love her more, something to core, a spiritual war. How to love it,

a vest of scars, to search for clear? We must to see, the growth of strain,

painted in a psyche; and more the vicious, to give beyond, the deepest value.

I said in haste, afraid to lie, to cut a soul; but more for truth, a rounded myth,

to bend tornados. I have for child, to live a life, a torn addiction; and know

for not, the full extent, to cater to a soul. It’s much to fawn, to live attentively,

to please an addict. I read the book, for angry as hell, to see my life. I mourn

a child, to love a child, wild with disdain; and not to change, to meet a stranger,

fawning and attentive; and what to give, for grounded in, a cougar to a bear.

The war is death, in several facets, peering and dying; for mother’s hurt,

and father’s brick, a sea of sickness. Can you help, a blind fool, lost in words? 

Evocative Woman

I want for something lose—to speak of lovers, united in love. I want for us,

to hell with others, smothered in love. The pash carries, to argue harshly,

and fall asleep angry; but never you, and bulbous eyes, as brown as khakis.

We’ve died so often, to never lie, accustomed to grief; and never us—

forever us—bleeding to live. Is it more a style, to challenge love, the beat

of yogis? I passion art, to hear for prose, the deepest literature; and more

the gray, to want for love, and nestle love. I ponder conundrums, to love

your soul, as pale as surprise; and torn asunder, to kiss your womb, where

others tread. I pass a douche, and pamper a heart, to love all night. We

die gently, to move to death, a flood of orgasms. I speak to you, to know

for women, to filter evasiveness; for sighs are cries, a purple style, to

cringe for love; and yes to ponder, to feel for love, to take me gently; and

rough is lust, to take me there, to wait my readiness. I love you afar, to

touch for close, a bit restrained; and all the more, a velvet queen, dying

softly; for joy is many, enlove and plural, scorned within; and death our

souls, to hold a sylph, even a minx. You perish left, to conjure for right,

a month of tears; and never to lie, a woman of morals, and nearly spent. I

whisper joys, and grip for life, afraid to lose; and more overt, to ask for

life, to hell for subtle. I walk it deafly, to hear for words, a bee in bee hive.   

Reservoir

Do I deserve it, a taste of hell, for loving her more? Is it death by honor,

to claim a sterling, the last days of lions? I fret and disappear, filled with

spirit, a heart to burn. Was it us for shopping sprees, and rich foods,

and trinket jewelry. It’s now for groves, and mental mazes, staring at

beauty. Is she growing, to perish softly, a young woman? Are the boys

crazy, adrift with angst, to touch for love? and what is it, eternal hate, to

scrape the gods, to pledge to darkness? I laugh gently, accustomed to war,

to pause for yesteryear. It’s a glass of wine, plus horderves, to puff

cigars. It’s deep in studies, to wrestle a voice, to know for glory. I

hated hurt, to grow for wild, stationed in limbo; but more the Asians,

and more the Whites, to soar the Africans. Is it love, bent in reverse, to

hurt for truths? I see for days, an apparition, scratching a palm. We

paint for secrets, to chant for closure, afraid of mirrors; but look within,

to see it skate, to ollie a river. We carry pain, the grains of joy, afraid

to see. It’s more for perfect, and silent charms, to be admired; but life

is gems, and plus the sorrow, debating positions. It’s not to hide, to

feign the lights, to hope he doesn’t ask. I watch for termites, a small

destruction, to tear a psyche. We spent for waves, to love for weeks, a

desert at the ocean; and more the grays, to live it fiction, afraid of

questions; for it crumbles softly, a tour for lying, and crying in a den.

The lions laugh, to see us morn, wailing in silence; but more to love,

a myth confession, to tell a story; for a swan—is watching, to mimic

styles, a child for futures. It’s not to take, but rather to mold, a gimmick

to a squirrel.  

Lev (heart)

I heard for rivers, to rake for this life, to gather for leaves. I spoke for delicate,

to sharpen senses, to move towards aggressive; indeed, to find for consciousness;

and dams broke, in place of fiberglass, a voice through a soul. We pamper

listless, to give for liquor, a shattered vest; and rough to ride, a healing dream,

filled with tomorrow. Maybe in fairness, we harp the strong, and coddle the infant;

for such is essence, to yearn for kindness, where firmness beckons. I’m soon to

drift, to envision mother, as aggressive as wolves, as keen as motives.      I fall

further, a picture of father, an intimate stranger; and must we witness, the oldest

con, where a son was born? How for silence; and how for love; and must it is; and

must it was!     I write to structure, a sightless wave, where such is nuance.     Its seed for seed,

to nurture roots, to sew infinity; and mother cried, the midst of rants, pushing for brilliance;

and daughter’s watch, a wealth of wills, welcomed with woes.     I sigh a fever, to plead to

grit, affected in gray areas; for life is pain, to conjure for joy, a torn paradox; where a

woman spoke, to ask the abstract, a reality deep; and God came, to push a fortress, where

shojis fell, and a mirror appeared to itself.     I remember this rain, the shame of fighting back,

speaking to a vacuum.     I sip to find it, a moment in a session, where lines blurred—

for sighted evidence.     We spoke it not, for much to fear, to see it once; and different

I was, to soar through mystics, even teachers.     It’s now for memory, and grandma’s

pain, to harness a kingdom; and yes for God, a midnight trance, a body for mourning! 

“Don’t forget the Sweet Potatoes”

He’s young, salivating for cornbread, sipping fruit juice. Life is warm, a day for

seasons, mashing potatoes. The winds are harsh, absent of global warming, picking

through broccoli and rice. Stuffing is stuffed with onions, celery, and a host of

meats and ingredients. “Fix the cranberry salad; check the turkey; and start the

green beans.” He’s in awe, to witness three generations, feuding over recipes.

Caroling flickers gently, tearing a marshmallow, and grounding gram-crackers.

“Get some ice;” where gin needs a friend, if not three or four. Voices change, filled

with love, to layer macaroni. He laughed unknowingly, to stir a chuckle, where a

thought slipped out. “Pass the cornflakes, the pecans, and cinnamon.” The family

filled with mirth, quoting Scriptures, and arguing points. He watched in awe,

appointed to pies, and a mixture of honey-dos. Aromas waft for blocks, where dogs

barked, and squirrels came nigh. He sliced mushrooms, cried over onions, and

prepared to stuff peppers. To hear laughter, where days were stripped, enflamed

with joy; and new ambrosia, a different task, nearly full. There were Creole dishes,

wild rice, and the riches gravy. “Watch the cat; and feed the parrot, else he’ll

rage.” Less for Brussels, and more for corn, a table of passions. He led in prayer,

to speak the soul, to praise for love. Three generations, reaching and laughing, filled

with fey and spirits. The turkey was succulent, the ham for perfect, and pies for

rich. He thought of love, passing pears, and snuck a sip.  

Hi Love! VII

You’re an axis, filtered through diamonds, a marquise emerald.

Read the calligraphy, to paint demons on walls, and more for similes.

We ride a pendulum, a swan as sculptress, the love of parents. I

thought for fables, a grand entrance, to condone this folly. You’re

far too wise, a whetstone mind, grinding arguments; but more for

difficult, a want for growth, as penchant as fatherhood. Know for

love, as opposed to chasm, dancing upon heartstrings. We were young,

a symbol come pain, striving for something better. The ember fell,

where expletives soar roots, to alter a loving texture. We want for

perfect, as imperfect beings, afraid to face conflict. I fault us so, a

venture taboo, the wound of cities; and how to picture, a lot so cruel,

as steep as pits; but know for love, to slice a soul, for carrying sin.

It’s deep in Job, the family’s cobwebs, an opus come tomorrow; and

hydrant prayers, to flood a swan, the strength of mother's. You’re

soon to see, a tinge of rain, as mnemonic as experience; but more to

joy, the fane of promise, screeching beneath energy. I love you found,

a torn design, to thirst a universe; for heart is law, to feel a soul,

aflame a daughter’s empire. 

Greetings!

My dearest swan—a bit laid back, for a bit intense. So see for stars, crumbled in papers,

to reopen love. The earth is torn, for religious parts, a group of fireworks. I challenge

essence, to pull a diamond, for a bit earnest. We feel in shades, to rapture souls, a

well of inks; and every inkling, for hidden dreams, to take for center stage. I thought

for Shakespeare, a grand event, to settle for Frost; and Maya screams, to tug at

arts, and pushing forward. Its utopic a fane, to see you swim, to sprinkle chlorine; for

lakes are muddy, and words are itchy, to direct in favors. So more to silence, a room

of ghosts, held for temples. We speak it greyly, to agitate thoughts, to touch a kernel;

for we trek caves, and read petroglyphs, culling secrets; and breath is union, to strike

the unbreath, and still for breath. It’s oxymoronic—at prima facie, but more a paradox:

to go so deeply, as to lose count, and unlock satori. I extend vision, to pump a heart,

streaming through cosmos. You’re wise—my love, spinning for speaking, alive in

conversations; and ever for souls, to pet a turtle—with kind words. I hear for mothers,

to utter a voice, in such for tones; and such to die, to watch us grow, and unleash life.

Its wonder for miracle, and miracle a vase—filled with dreams. Be not amazed, but

ever amazed, as strong as flexibility; for new a thought, to bend the old, where teachers

sigh. It’s ever the mind, and ever the soul, driving activities; and ever for heart, to ache

through feelings, to nurture emotions. So dare to freedom, where gems appear, an

poodles murmur.  

Hindsight Binoculars

He went to rehab, to thirst for nothing, to indulge years of sobriety. It took

a glimpse, a tiny swig, to float through twilight. The soul watched, to

partake of debauchery, flailed inside. He wrote with message, a bit tangy,

to sting a cobra. He pulled back, for three months dry, romanticizing life.

Oh the dregs, for ghetto dreams, plus for heartaches. We see it blankly,

a seasoned scar, to mature with love; for such is paradox, never to do to

others, that done to self. The channels churn, to brave introjects, aloof to

déjà vu; for times are silent, to speak a sub-current, to listen intently;

else to crash, adrift the streets, to love a stranger; where lev is broken, to

scorn a breath, for childhood pains. He raced a dungeon, to mirror scars,

for painted fantasy. He saw for beauty, a new world, featured in vagueness.

His portrait morphed, to polish dreams, to possess a legacy. Oh the music,

using liquor, as animated as cartoons; but not for happy, for such a let

down, as brittle as resistance. The seconds would mock, to reap a heart,

as full as a concept; but not for muddy, but ever for texture, gazing at

pearls. He knew from distance, the ache of closeness, for unqualified; but

ever gray, a flame for souls, striving for reasons; but never could, to find

for answers, to tiptoe philosophy. He fell a nightmare, to witness it

crumble, a false world of structure; where earth appeared, embodied in

love, for reaching forward. The bond broke, for different a soul, to

calculate tomorrow; for rain morphs, an attic storm, to whisper grays.     

Introjects

To find peace is a humbling task, where introjects wail.

They’re a phase from life, a page scribbled in a memory bank, where hurt seeped

through; and all for hell, this vicious voice, known for segues. There’s

scarred insights, a bruised ego, a time long deceased. There’s little of need

to argue; but rather, a need to excavate: to forgive its root. The challenge

is calmness: to respond for release, in a serene stillness. The memory bank is to be

questioned: this voice, this absence of reason, for cold belligerence. The

tides fall, distressing progress, angered with joy. One calls it demonic, but

merely metaphor, a feature of adolescence. “Then why does the voice

change?”—for it possesses intelligence, through an innate nature, where

the original voice has lost its impact; and thus, through its creative rants,

one may realize that its drawing on innate knowledge, for it too possesses

a memory bank, rooted in its agency. “Why does it say unique things?”—because

it has evolved, through the experiences and education of the agent in question.

The further evolved the agent becomes: the further resolved the agent becomes:

the more frequent the assaults. This memory bank is frustrated when it receives

little recognition. The memory bank aims to distract the agent, to uproot

beliefs that keep the unsaid agent grounded. Everything becomes a threat to

the memory bank, where clarity and healing are taking place. “Why does it

persist?”—because there is as if scarred tissue in the memories of the agent.

One ignores the memory bank to witness an assault. One responds to the

memory bank out of frustration. This becomes a battle of assaults that are

unfruitful. So one attempts to reason with said memory bank, which, at times,

proves as a benefit. “What should one do?” Study; engage in therapy; remind

the self that healing is taking place; and in many cases, to simply say, “It shall pass.”

In addition, a six to eight syllable mantra helps to purify the conscious.    

Hologram

Evermore beige eyes     to surprise a life     streaming through soul-falls.

I love you like fusions, through welts concerned, featured in teardrops.

     You’re painted in holograms, a teal apparition, to meet me come

dreams. We nibble apricots, to fawn through words, necking on a

comforter.     I awaken, to witness a shadow, running to a vision. Be it

a muse, an aqua gem, to gait through kingdoms; for you’re a legend,

the lev of poets, connected through increments. We travel graces, spent

in transcension, climbing particles. I found a death, surging within, a

picture of a maiden; and ever this mind; for never this oath; alive the

deepest kef.     We panic—to greet a hologram, a field of music—

walking

              our dreams.

     We danced in grey, a cultic storm, to wrestle illusions; for jamais vu,

to see you breathe, a pair of lungs; and life alone, to hear déjà vu,

screeching mirrors…forever this love, healed in therapy, to cancel a

hologram…and ever so cryptic…even a myth…to search agoras; for life

and waves—the waves of light—stressing an image.     We punctured

air, a sight for loss, pulling at shattered dreams.  

Sighted Stars

Send not Gad the Prophet with three options; for the seasons churn, storming

through winters.

I died an empire, semi-aloof, cringing for tov (good).     I knew for lev (heart), shooting through canons, even a gray sky.      You give so much, and die such grief, shielding a self; and others—to die a lecture, and training papers, pulled through every thread.     I love us like rain: to know for grains: to grow through turmoil.     Its vajrayana (thunderbolt path), centered in flames, to perish for answers; for rites are motions, striving through dhyana (meditation), for gold a first professor.     If only to merge, if once again, as through mystic kinship; for it lived, where something died, ever to resurrect.     I know for love, a never could be, to soar through ritual; and was it soul, to awaken prayer, stressing on a sapa (sofa)?     I ask—to swirl for answers, graphed in a mystery.     I see through seconds, an asur (forbidden) wisdom, embodied in a life; and oh for raying eyes, a satchel in a mystic; for words are subtle, to read for gesture, a mixture unborn.

I come to you, asearch for kef, stranded at a garden; and thought it not, where a voice summons, as cold as intervention; but more compassion, to ‘suade for righteous, a night for shivers.     I keep a swan, nestled in lev, to stream a beating drum; for life is turned, a reality grim, and at times quite lovely.     What for paradox, to love a shiksa (a gentile woman), a metaphor for opposites.     We fever through hyssop, engulfing medicine, for something’s askew; where tears shed, the dread of Valentine’s, a simile for despair.     I love us like breath, endemic of life, gnawing on the white host; for more the Eucharist, to break for boulders, striking up pyramids; and trekking prana (energy), to thirst her eyes, writing a first paper.     Such is yama (self-control), to yearn for satsang (good company), knitting shraddha (faith).     I finish in kamayati (love), quasi-filled, drilling through tornados. 

Reason’s Ghosts

Have you seen me: distorted deeply, as sane as infant cougars?

Something for suns, through childhood scars, a torn adult. The

winds are chilly, for foolish acts, to lose but life. There’s an

ache, a harpooned heart, chanting: Forgiveness; where walls

are crashing, a salute to Berlin, to usher quixotic thoughts; but

rivers rage, against Buddhists’ minds, to perish a swan; to

which we swim, drenched through deserts, mourning fathers;

to which we perish, a slate so filthy: thorns, briers, scars.

What to give, an aching soul, slanted towards hatred? We start

with self, a grand illumination, to emit sunlight rays; whereto

a contagion, if hopes be blessed, to test angst’ reflection; for

words are bending, to feature emotions, dying where she smiles.

Oh for princess, churning through wires, for gripping rage.

Hold not for poison, but rather joys, a wrist of diamonds; for

pain for crucial, to inflame chaos, staring at a stranger; for long

lives liquor, a distorted image, afraid for sober. The years hath

blighted souls, fallin’ through mirrors, inflamed come mindstuff.

We filter for wild, an eye for an eye, but destined to live. The

theaters filled, with likeness of trauma, to watch our lives.

There’s for travesty, a tragic tale, where swans string violins; to

which a world, too set aflame, to churn a vague feeling; but

know for bars, where perfect died, to opt for humanity.