Churning Fires

Is it words that carry meaning, or is meaning dependent upon the interpreter?

I cupped a petal; I felt a dream; I lived by ages. I cried at silence, filled with blankness, attempting to nudge nothingness; such miracle music, our systems at .8, fevered by fireflies: that Joker’s grin; those Batman ideals; our wander-night-souls. I’m filled by lusts, at passions concerned, or more to tragic flatness: that dormant rocket, to outwit glaciers, amazed a pigeon eating grass—this clump to arts, our canvas laughing, our soul-aches groaning. I gazed afar, running through meadows, at once, a terror, those mirrors: that deep horizon, to churn his life, by agonies a man fawning: that gravid glance; those delicate palm-prints; that brow sifting through confetti; as loved our hearts, that shapeless masterpiece, tickling sky-fires an opus. I read a missive, such terrific horror, at toils to discern our screams: that ballad wisdom; our simplistic confusion; our bedlight wisdom—as jotting textures, awash’d in crimson, but hectic a vision—to trace an ocean, that emoted opera, spotted as singing to wretchedness: that frigid furnace; that invisible knitting; that pillow by tears, so heavy—agog by melancholy, that welkin outcome, our punishment, our joy; this light by wisdom, our vibrant women, our inmost embers. We veiled a monsoon, captured by essence, our rapture but an image by cadence: our hamster’s fatigue; our souls as potters; our minds running, as rising, a sky-dream: as nigh delirious; or hectic nigh bliss; this ache by passions our sins—that furious woman, singing so softly, agaze’d that mischief of madness; our intimate souls, as dripping calories, while melic a storm our wars. I’m screaming silence, that small trail, that narrow passage—at tolls with self, amazed by tuition, that fiction by arts—our fictional realities, that freelance illusion—if be it a soul, steeped our academies, sectioned to picklock our souls: as embellished thunder, to extract persons, such fables igniting streams: that gloomy peace; that magnet mind; our treasures by void a touchstone: if be it for wisdom, this fulcrum by love, starry-eyed by agonies such to churn. I met a cloud, steeped in flowers, studded in fireballs—to ensoul a mirror, or to siphon a wound, carried by tragic triumphs. We laughed by grains, a raindrop to a temple, that voiceless voiceprint: our casual dance, by chance a dream, to awaken to spittle; that eerie feeling, while a bit refreshed, or heavy a daze: our symbols to garbs; our hearts to language; our passions to caution—if but a scream, to treasure by nature, this vest by arcs as soaring; where bosoms swell, our fettered fires, aflame a heart-storm;—as delicate fingers, caress a delicate scar, while enraptured through chaos. 

For Solace He Wrote

Such sainted beauty, that glorious castle, standing by convictions; our picturesque misery, confessed as love, agaze’d at souls—that chivalrous paradox, at mercy those lies, such gist as festoon melancholia. I thought this soul, as one drowning, where neither floated blue rivers. I pulled by thoughts, that inner hurdle, to have kissed that tender delusion. We die this way, tugging at tulip-caves, abreast, but sour, a rasp to merry-go-rounds; that tragic fiction, but a kernel to a mansion, our mementos screaming by mercy: as lives an omen; so crooked with time; that cadence by minds a specter; to live by cultic-caves, at tears to utter faith, but a relic afar that enigma. Such tender disdain; to have witnessed majesty; graced by nature those finishing classes: to know by spoons; or to gesture by forks; that four-course meal: that terrible classism; as needed by structure; that fleet of souls chasing—those cultic-waves, that cryptic countenance, such beauty abasing itself: those treasured parentheses; that postscript epiphany; this missive because pain is law; to outwit calmness; or to outfox Bobby; such stamina enduring but lost. It’s not for pathos, nor for ethos, as neither for logos: It’s more for freedom, as witnessed through address, as possessing that particular essence; while never to off-course, nor to rebuild, but rather that second at tears those freezer burns. Such is softness; that existential; to efface that nib of enmity; as surfing notepads, peering at eclectic words, while to jettison a childish thought; but oh for wisdom, as realized earlier—we want for childish waves: that tragic heartbeat; that flamboyant exclamation; that fumbling through sentences such love; as opposed to machines, that meditated wildfire, where both serve for purposes. I drift at stars, a stream as a soul, ever for threshed; that seashore arc, embedded but a second, returning such jaded flickers: our capricious souls, discomfited by love, as mad as poets—to winnow facts, as pursuing injustice, that touch we die to live: to prod a lion, astonished by death, to arise that treasured kiss; where love would run, by souls giving chase, to turn in agony that disappearance. I’ve cried this way, a tearless arc, as fraught by lights; to quest forever, amazed by souls, our thesis built on dementia: that stigmata; no matter his status; as remembered a bit indelicate; but sage to souls, as souls to sages, this miracle about futures: to live a heart, stationed afar, at reaches a tender wave.   

Kayaking Storms: Settled in Silence

I spoke by arcs, at winds to life, our wings snipped by thunder. I spoke of dreams, this inferior stance, peering at giants: that remote tension; that infinite anger; that hell by freezers our mercies. I disappeared, electric at music, arranged that interior activity: that soft agenda; as speckled our minds; a bit to hopes by failures; to vet such power, that cryptic rush, as afforded one last tyranny—to souls that perish, our poets practicum, our swans ingesting human nature—as cold a current, flickering a petal, seeping into casual tyranny—to ask his soul, of vicious that art, to have scolded our queen: by Churchill’s art; or such as verbiage that cries; where anger by truths becomes perfidious. I’ll chime decades, infused by dreams, seeing for swans that captive war; as torn by aches, at terrors to fly, held hostage by blackmail: that furious chorus; that hatred for men; that life as lived by spinsters. If courage breathes, those wings shall soar that test to exceed our limitations; as spoken easily, our travels to Princeton, or knitted in Westwood—while fevered a legacy, controlled by withdrawals, as riches enslave souls. (I shift a turn, abused by desires, at wars to create a perfect breakthrough; as intruding softly, by rites our king, straying as wild roots: if but her life, painted at crucial turns, we witness by firebirds).  It triggered agony, that muddy song, to flip by art our differences—as bold to lights, to see us presently, while swans absorb human behavior: that lesson taught; to do as one pleases; while to request obedience. It churns this way, peering at childhood, musing upon a portrait of Moses: that invisible image, imbued by sable eyes, our ability to depict a Hebrew; as thought to Jesus, an Israelite with blue eyes, as ignored he probably grew dreads; but more to circumstance, our topaz screams, our precious agonies—if be it that light, this closet of secrets, that need for silence; as never to mention, a soul’s disgrace, as confronted for naturalism: that steep split; that genetic blackdamp; that essence beyond human construction; while to sing by arts, that muddy grin, as some smile in approval; wherewith, are scars, buried in pride, where one is centered upon pleasures; but more to swans, as gifted to live, influenced by myriads of souls; that turn in time, to see perfections, as to unzip inclinations: that chase by seas; that want for more; that ache for justice. (I shift a churn, painting with soot, diluting with tears—that unsung tyranny, as dealing with suchness, confronted with a mirror’s tragedy: those hissing hives; that internal trickster; that smaze by deserts: that up for down; that golden calve; that bias tabernacle; as living life, to want by nature, this thing entitled to souls; as fraught to witness, that type of person, while pictured as villain); whereto, are storms, debated with softness, while desperate to see it: our kind souls, to acknowledge wrongs, while seated at therapy. It comes that time, (a group of worlds), as pitted against a poet: those gloomy questions; that daily report; that inner terror; for life is beige, or even gray, while this need for pictured perfection; but days are morbid; flesh is screaming; even this art wails for classifications; whereto, a swan screams, chiseled by wisdom, remaining silent; for this is life, that unspoken agony, measured by trust—where secrets are important, while growth is stagnant, for I can’t utter but a few words.                                        

Kneeling by a Portico

We’re living science, encased in religion, fueled by legends; that remote feeling, those treacherous islands, our swans entrenched in moodiness: that liquid furnace; that tiny box; that cedarchest filled with antiques; to live for love, as love would hide, while perusing from tyranny: that clogged drain; those burgundy prayers; that countenance at shiver by radiance: that keen psych; that cryptic dance; that professor rushing into battles: (so many prayers, pictured as islands, roaming our cultic dreams; to harness pressures, that cold beverage, while flickering through portals). I wrote a song, as emailed to priests, where a nun sung unto glory: that beige scream, listening to Grammar, afar a scar that desert melody; to drift afar, as nigh to closeness, this kiss as eyes awakened: that beautiful queen; that torrent of emotions; that logic squeaking into dissertations: that casual backlash; that foreign night ghost; those phantoms forging addictions: if but a dream, I’ll fly forever, at mercy to carry our swans: that cagey music, that peeking insanity, that torture by arts our classic madness. (I met a dove, such beauty to flourish, while steady at un-sureties. We gazed in hearts, at such that caustic wind abashed by this turn of justice: that infant crying; that father racing; that mother while at deep sorrows—to culture by voice, this crawling seed, our grandmothers dying by aids: if but that song, that glorious interior, our women crying by fires—that locomotive, digging for reaching, that rocket by armory—if but to chance, that inner force, as conflicted to fly: that arc at motion; that treasure as singing; that orchestra as moving into cadence: that cryptic rhythm, to love by arts, flipping for flitting into furies). By far to poesy, feeling such features, perusing through Brimhall—while sipping coffee, our ashes upon tiles, that cigar a metaphor by existence: that cultic woman, by tears a gem, affected by fevers: this treasured secret, that gilt’d stigma, our wings undergoing baptisms.      

Gosh

At love so gently, by Cabbala’s arc, those swanic eyes; as torn so harshly, abashed in rivers, our deaths as caricatures: that rising yesteryear; those mahogany tulips; that daisy by temples that mane—our cried mistakes, peering at professors, dying that ache of love; as rich confusions, this line by colors, that rich inadequacy; or acidic tongues, as toxic wings, forever by caustic moons—that tragic grave, our gothic charms, that trickle of science affronting religion. Its arid futures; as desert deers; staring by kef our ante: that mystic rivalry; that damp envy; our chorus to arcs our violins. I met a fluke, abandoned to treacheries, as said fluke prayed: so casual a storm, those symbols as bolts, such pegs thrust through palms: The Mount of Olives; The Mount of Sinai; our prose rifting through Jerusalem—to summons eyes, or secern a distant love, while aching to blue shivers—that cryptic star, as enjoying laughter, but a flicker to third eyes: that mother watching; that father pacing; our grandmothers cooking stews: if but for passion, that gory love, embedded in stitches as simplicities: our casual aches; that blackened voice; those prints by fingers that brain; as deep to live, a bit infatuated, while taken courage as theologians; to walk that plank, or to render that plan, our deep abuses; that crooked atmosphere, as legends through time, abashed through deserts: that ape grinning; that woman coaching; our history as different—while sensing danger, so wild by fires, as more that reason to ascend. It comes with pains, those tragic years, bottled in mother’s voice—as deep to crumble, by arc this violence, at pictures to paint a normal life: that fabulous daughter; that beautiful wife; that son as endearing his soul; that watchful eye, to deny a spirit, while screaming at arid mirrors. We know this color, fading into failures, a bit too content with unknowingness: that beige Bugatti, racing through Africa, as symbolized through ghetto dreams; to pardon ourselves, while steep in shadows, such morbid attitudes; to love destruction, as far familiar, as opposed to flying into foreign freedoms; but more expansion, that jimpy ether, as permeating our inner sanctums: those gorgeous swans; those welkin stripes; our minds to antiquities: if but a fever, to race through arcs, our souls at storehouses—to fly so gently, embraced by harshness, singing as sung our histories.     

Dysfunctional Pirates

I broke a vessel, as to outrun time, our deserts but fantasies; to open doors, waking invisibility, this captive by dreams; afflicted by years, as never to redeem, filtering obtuse actions: that ghost to brains, those images as introjects, that casual disdain—as internal clocks, our brains on repeat, that kitchen by pork chops: adrift as born; this shifty legacy; our screams muffled by mother. We sung freedom, afflux a harpoon, believing in freedom: those cold utensils; that indebted freedom; those years at deposits—to incur madness, this wretched cycle, to reminisce those former days. It comes by terror, to love as unseen, this sun to flicker noon hours—while whales churn, so simple that agony, racing by escapes our seas: that wet feeling; that salty discharge; those beige tulips—where joys tumble, followed that sudden second, by caresses those lines to yoga. We colored fancies; a psych perused; our folders thrust by perceptions; that infallible ark, careful by virtue—those indelible imprints—to die concerns, a leaf to a rabbit—grass to a poodle: if be it this life, picturing Legos, or a tier of blocks; that frantic angst, to do as appropriate, to garner approval; as living that way, our mirrors that lie, if but to extract that terrible lie. I skinned a plum, at furry that queen, to realize they wouldn’t care; for love so wretched, as shared with myriads, while to profess that energy: (It’s not for pains, where honesty dwells, that unfortunate tragedy; but ore to sorrows, where images are sold, by insidious souls: that horrible faceprint; that fabulous sky-tear; where measures are molded for freedoms. It comes by tragedy; that need for certain privileges; while truths become a reason to alienate; so more to lies, as worlds unravel, while one stands in stillness that donkey). I’m losing texture, this flexible weed, as tender that holiness—to break by essence, those charming winds, a bit for bitter as disgruntle; so more to lying while becoming numb, fleeing from person to person—that pleaded forgiveness, in every situation, that recurring dialogue; or more to freedoms, to exclaim as freedoms, enduring that touch of alienation; as respecting life, while affording freedoms, while one’s soul remains at liberties: that lonely space or that treacherous outcome, while ostracizing accountability. I’ve sung a song, fleeing for flitting, while floating aloft an ideal: that naïve nature, where humans are freedoms, divested of consequences: this place of lies, for actions strike at causes, while feeling a touch of mud. We thought it beauty, as oh so gorgeous—that feeling of inadequacies; to give freely, that inner disdain, while afflicting flesh: that tragic excuse; that disloyal spin—entrusted by something remarkable; as living that life, as cold as glaciers, while yearning for warm waters; this thing of forgiveness, for something treacherous, this recurring theme. I’m lost a fantasy, trekking a sea-wavering-desert, at forgiveness this blighted mirror; as discolored, flipping through dolor, a poet by door-prints: that chandelier; that mahogany carpet; our racist environments; as claiming healthy, that pyre of souls, where a child of color dwells. I’m at tears, embedded in laughter, to imagine this horrid design; as speaking of dreams, to culture our young, while souls are blighted by inferiority; as knowing our places, affected by soulprints, a life of feeling small. It became a myth, this racist soul, to adore this thing she loathes: our bleeding trestles; those inner cravings; that touch of anything but color—where souls are textured, fawning for riches, while constructing a negative self-portrait; but never father, for father’s sick, as sick as truths; that cryptic arc, racing through dimensions, held accountable for poorness: this deep infection, where souls scurry, while richness dictates our inner cinemas: that morbid outlook; that legacy a mirage; this feeling to eradicate those perfected errors: to see us running, at wheels our hells, to that very thing our parents loathe. It takes for measures, this charted island, to witness to something askew: where loneliness speaks, this welkin philosophy, as opposed to dying alone. I must retreat, while pointing to dysfunction, where hell has unraveled our castles.      

Swan Arc

I try such arts, captive by Street Fighter, aware of this precious essence; that resonant music, that pianist swan, those delicate fingers; as more it was, this gentle chaos, at deepness such daftness. We treasure by souls, losing so much to win, this thing of blackness by shelters: that spoken diary; that Zenist observer; our souls flipping for flitting through cloudberries: that tender softness; as kissed our brains; this ache which dies through living; as feral fires, our ruined meadows, this thing by deep effacements: as casual ankhs, born illuminati, at raptures immortal texts; to dance by rivers, a hut upon flint, that texture to souls that ball of fire. I remember tomorrow, that printed voice, our toe-prints a Hollywood canvas: if but to flee, filled with disdain, charged by so many lies: at function a star; that rare beauty; splintered by nonsense: to ask us nothing, so bold a death, at fancies to ruin lives.

I met a vest, enthused with fancies, driven by charge a remote life: that wretched song, made perfect through pains, as one constructing symbols. I drew a swan, tugging midnight hours, flipping for flitting through dreams: that mystic ache; that purple ink; those indelible wounds. I could to love, as never this cache, as exclaiming love: as born again, filled with hate, or forgetting those wretched years; or more to perfect, this terrible person, at woes to commend saints. I’ll give us wings, associated with spirits, while charmed to know their names. I’ll cleanse a reservoir, to excavate a petroglyph, while stippling mercy: that rich excitement, by anger such folly, addressed as different that treasure; where mothers writhe, pleading for understanding, oblivious to their behavior. It comes with pains, this eloquent disaster, attempting to erase our traumas: those troubled thoughts; that deep affliction; as witnessed a friend’s nucleus.

I heard a planet, invested in souls, while Love is at balconies: that cultic dream; to have so much; a group of souls permeated with spirit: that soft song; that soft endeavor; that indelible iron: if be it this life, cleaving to ghosts, as sent that second of rapture: as spoken softly; in a world of arrogance; where said softness is perceived as weakness. I’ve died that lot, as born to struggle, while others reap rewards; but this is music, as inheriting riches, that catapulting heart; as more a diamond, to invest in scriptures, while sewed into gardens: that troubled heritage; those remarkable cymbals; attempting to side with beauty despite such ugliness: this charm we live; this arm we seek; as aware to inner violins: that casual light; that frantic glare; our arcs at war.    

Women Have Multiple Souls

By sweetest nectar, those burgundy eyes such fevered addictions: sitting with grandma, a man’s mother, petting a petit kitten; those captive waves, our runs through forests, to realize that creeping death; while shadowed treacheries, offsetting by kindness, a woman a stranger your twin; to find us at rapture, our mothers brewing coffee, or smoking afore a young infant; those aching bellies, that baby kicking, as wreaking havoc that torture—as such sweetness, those hormonal agonies, sectioned by lives as prophecies: that tragic sky; our dungeons by cloudberries; that hell as raked such sweet nectar: our aunties’ haven, a plant to meadows, a deer to deserts—while nights are cultured, affected such tyranny, our gates pleading contagions: to gird his waist, a fist full of sackcloth, our grandmother perished: that rich affection; those turquoise curtains; that diamond swooping through dungeons—as kissing softly, that confirmation, while fevered by sensory—that ache he sighed, those brazen walls, that ill-gotten lucre; as dancing by travesties, scrambling by pits, this destiny by our sickest rivers! We churn to family, that mafia sequence, unshod by glory: that silken cloth; that treacherous tempo; that agent peering at pictures—where hell was cadence, to know by name, a swan is swimming; that infatuation, bragging about mother, shivering by dormant storms: that torrent fight, that force to hit hearts, while at once a tinge to panic—as cultured havoc, or tragic mathematics, our tyranny adjusted by algorithms; to chance that life, that fasting woman, our arms radiating lightning: that deep koan; that mystical horizon; our mother’s return—as so long to graves, our clocks ticking, our introjects as treacherous; to bend a psych—just one last fever, knocking for wrenching those doors: that shifting fire, our grandma’s son, as more a convention—to sing such irony, our arcs dripping skies, as earth fevers or earth’s extensions, pleading for falling, that lake of coyotes—to nigh a soul, that rush of wolves, to protect a sol—where minds treasure, that trying thisness, while abandoned to nowness or that shadow, breaking into plurals, our deepest sickness; to perish cymbals, our spirits threshed, our fathers by legends. I met mother, this stranger’s eyes, but a thimble to unsighted catastrophes: that melancholia, peering at complexions, as terrified as before: those tragic thoughts; that deep addiction; that wretched beauty—to enter such countenance, that random love, as returned because he stuck around. We die this way, surfing by Sufis, our gestures born of fires: if though his mind, this chime of winds such tropic chaos: our buried motives, as wanting for sexy, this treasure as desired by vultures—as given that lot, so proud a treasure, if but to melancholy, that fool to rebuild us. I heard mother, those welkin foibles our characters by gales a travesty: peering at pictures; seeping into consciousness, alive by forces screaming for destruction: that inclination; a playful coffin; our whispers to sanity.       

Fatal Attractions/Tragic Feelings

Letters are burning; pictures are melting; a cedarchest is set to flames: there’s broken glass, a fist to windows, a bolder to fiberglass: our carpet is wailing, lovers are sighing—so close to perish that crooked charm; as music falters, our symphony mourns, our children tremble beneath covers: its hell our nights, fumbling to breathe, adjusted by fine ideas: that chiseled agony, as gray as memories, this place in time but a moment: to share by hearts, coming to conclusions, abused one last art—to tremors that curse, at love as beasts, our furry explosive as climax. We chance those deaths, a couch of secrets, a loveseat as witness—irregular arms, at flights to terror, so precious as beautiful our love: those knitted allusions; our segue rhythms; that steep stigmatism—to alarm angels, that faint appearance, jogging for running our treadmills grieving—to bounce his heart, this scheme of stanzas, our tones but verses—to curse infinity, dying a puddle of tears, our satin memories—at birth a tension, our fathers mourning, as mother so cunning—to wonder departure, a ballad at funerals, our children feeling abandoned: to see such truths, our laughter by stigmas, that agile melancholy; but ours to live, as complicated persons, so steep in psychologies: that rounded chaos; that terrible promise; our farce to appease angst: that psychotic soul; so distant a leaf; able by silence to cause discomfort—as it must for danger, this vest of feelings, otherwise, I’m to peer at self—that deep inadequacy, that need by pliable wings, our curse as imprinting mental boards.  I loved a song; it sang of glory; it nursed our egos—as hell appeared, screaming pluralities, forced to appraise that internal pendulum—as feeling trapped, while reaching for insanity, if perchance to become famous: this unspoken nuisance; that charming sociopath; our mirrors pleading every theory: that locomotive; that rare enchantress; our eyes as ears as feigning deafness—to curse our souls, while forced to comport. 

  (We danced like villains. We admired treacheries. We forgot our mirrors…this terror by grays, as never that bold, where sex disguised treason…that musical escapade, so gentle a storm, while feeling uneasy…as time beckons, those bleeding dots, while fury lurches into madness: that cadence as drums; that crypt evacuated; our surgeries mending our tuxedos: if but to perish, this colorful cadenza, that mystical aria—as born to breathe, so heavy at shirts, our tenets clashing with societies…as grace tugs, this beaming countenance, seeping into morbid psychologies: that beige moon; those turquoise bells; that burgundy liquor—as died her soul, as lived his mind, where two merged as becoming oblivious: this song he won; this art she craves; those pelicans feeding on patios. It comes to mercy; our children smiling; our souls demented—as cursed forever, attracted to lights, cloaked in oaks by poetries).  I resisted a feeling, fleeing for flying, at terrors that treacherous soul; as others suffer, while shame stipples, to know we never met her: that driving force; as born to ethics; while refusing to trespass a tender heart: that crimson towel, as grips our brains, filled with furious fires: that patient love; that temper modified; those wings breeding wings; instead, to deaths, this innocent ignorance, while abusing passions. I would to laugh, as immature dearly, while flooded with melancholy: that deep scar, while supported dearly, where minds agree with treachery; but love is gentle, an immoveable fortune this photic, feral imagination; where serenity dwells, a bit temperamental, so ravished by trust: if but to land, that trauma to perish, that strumming that mourning hummingbird: to fly afloat, that genius art, that fearless loyalty; where souls flourish, that tender sorrow, agaze by such reach.            

Determined to Knit through Hopes

I was bitter, as born to dregs, confused by blackness; this story by pains, this addict as mother, that absentee father; to peer at insanity, our existential, repeating fallacies; that grave indifference, seated in angers, aloof to intimacies. I grogged a feeling, as always something, hacking at that pink elephant: our room(s) cold; that stench of vileness; that trenchant blackmail; to live a monster, too weak to witness, at tears our ghetto women: that furious acuteness, searching for loopholes, at terrors those tendencies to victimize. We threaded sorrows, those tall tales, our grandmothers sickly—if taught his mind, that cryptic text, pursuant that bias academy; to learn about Greeks, that center of existence, as accused of slowness—that welkin scar, forbidden to joys, as to wonder about monsters: that agile psyche; those circumspect theories; that cadence as grit that imbalance; seated at loquats; raiding for lemonade; our shirts terrorized by pomegranates: if but to culture, agaze by Muslims, while mother stanched through existence: that bell for church, our christic text, this fire by arts that Ghost; to feel sickly, a rag for buffing, those fables knotting his guts; as returning silence, filtered by sorrows, such hell encased in smoky eyes: that private galaxy, accustomed to homes, such persons too gone for reason; this thing of swamis, that myth of samurais, our spirits dripping callousness: that Bugatti swagger; our bluebird dreams; our failure to pursue such disciplines: our ghetto disciples; that preaching at corners; our realities murdering Bugs Bunny: while deep at slumber; too scolded for reality; awake enough to see plurals; that cased affection, our collars mourning, our minds exploited; that core religion, a necktie as a mask, at tears to gravel those foreign cultures. Our hearts infested; our neighbors dying; our nights featured in screams: those flashing sirens; those alley murders; our terrors as masterpieces: if but to live, shaken by facts, as opposed to such numbness—this venture of thieves, our winds so harsh, at travels to see those other persons: those casual eyes; that fluid disposition; that naïve openness; as more to fiction, our fatal return, peering at those abysmal beauties: our grandparents cooking; our mothers at sobriety; our ghettoes as loud silence; as sewn to piety, that flipping of tongues, if but a second to heartbeats. It shifts at turns, this shapeless form, while knitted to something vulnerable: that newborn child; that teenage mother; that father at hells that prison; while treated as abstracts that war on welfare, that basin of tragedies; to curve his mind, our collage of hopes, or more that positive nuance—to seep into justice, at aches that concentration, at music that film of escapes—where science churns, this notion of cities, too young to have but dreams: that inner weapon; that privy chamber; seated by fate amidst fires: those souls to wisdom; that inkpad of visions; that inverted chaos; as seeking closure, to realize a sequence, those fettered conditions; where minds perish, or soar through heights, while adrift upon zephyrs: that tragic glory; that mystic exposure; our determined souls.       

Circular Reason Presumed as Truisms

It’s a violent room, our décor as vicious, a body mirror of ghosts; that haunted dream, that shifting house, those burgundy bullets; as sifted guts, that welkin tear, that feeling arising; to know our hearts, that gothic music, our Grecian inquiries: if but for terrors, this horrible stream, this myth by communion; to touch her eyes, surprised by love, so gentle our torments: that mystic concrete; those talkative mimes; that urge at souls a kite; to feel so strange, at war a group of naysayers, where never for wrong their thoughts. It becomes pain, that need to flee, if but that art of sanity; as music churns, while souls flame, those deserts by tongues our miseries. I felt afflatus, this swan by tricycles, pitching marbles: that soft approach; that bowl of cornflakes; that trove of trinkets; as awakened to violence, those pipes by stoves, our mothers with fly-eyes; to die so gravely, that misbehavior, as a wall gave wings; to hate his life, as beige as sand-planks, as broken as pillars: this woman grieving, as always grieving, as always angry; to find with purpose, that steep resistance, while pacing through earthquakes—this mind as golden, seeking for freedoms, afraid of reflections; (but speak of beauties—that turquoise ship, that hour of satiation, our bodies becoming mirrors): if but to perish, in arms aflame, our undulations as violent; that intimate anger, our stolen souls, our needs that unconditional obedience: if guiding by storms, while wrecked by lights, to want for them our sameness; this vicious ploy, an unbearable yoke, (or more a false claim); where souls cherish, this art of wisdom, to peer at a child becoming a woman: those green olives, that purple moon, that reddish brown sun—as falling forever, while rising eternal, this garth filled with psychs; to have those visions, as seated in angers, as sifting oblivion—that cruel odor, that line of misprints, that slant bestowed by treason; for normal dies, while abnormal lives, to have met a billion people—where theirs was shattered, while ours intact, this legend supported by courts. It becomes a mission, a city of perfect persons, as our mirrors would never lie! This chase of doves, too wise to see, too bold to retreat—while palming evidence, those mystique islands, but captive for hunches; that cold excursion, that circuit of intimacy, as our puzzles become so jagged—that inner lance, as tearing intestines, to fall apart by devotion; but more to swans, to un-coddle simplicity, to flee that process of thoughts; for life is more sensations, driven by inner worlds, a series of soulprints: that cryptic sound, that steep cadenza, those luminous angels—whereto, are visions, ablaze activities, to find this tinge of unrest: that vehicle of storms; that mental tsunami; our hearts as boomerangs. I know a song, as shared by trillions, our mirrors seldom for truths; as painful lives, agaze by misreads, formed through this measured beast: if life to love, according to reality, we use our imaginations: that thunder of volts, to imagine love, while faced with realities: this chase of powers, to reckon our positions, at woes our surging conditions; this force of life, as associated crookedness, where one remains indebted: that deep wisdom, to adore this chase, at love an image; indeed, to flee, as Paul’s return, journeying this New York Jerusalem; or losing Los Angeles, while pitted in Chicago, avoiding those planets of self-rightness—as speaking that way, associated with truths, while vetted by mirrors—this contradiction, for theirs is suspect, while ours are accurate: this circular loop, as needing by rubrics, this activity by scales: that inner mandolin, that emotional web, where something remains true; this science of winning, as living wrongness, playing this game of chess; where souls wail, that longing music, at tears to sing.       

Spotted a Rainbow Tomorrow

Oh for wisdom, that sky-born ache, encrypted by root-grains—to live a dream, at terrors to soar, groaning in spirit as driven: that existential; those probing features; that mirror’s recognition; to abide a star, at ventures through phantoms, a bit maladjusted: those purple eyes; that defunct anger; that tottering from charms to repulsions: if be it those winds, trekking those beige alleys, our carpets plush with diamonds: that grin we perish, that sallow rose, that internal gardenia—as mystic rites, vibrating at sky-drums, oblivious that second of cessation: that mental pause, as born to lights, infatuated by mercy. We tread swamps, our keels by parts, but a fleck to our puzzles: that lux as light, permeated through Aum, at sessions with mirrors—that deep concern, peering at mysteries, a bit pardoned by déjàvu: our brass as bass; our wreck as finished; our spirits insidious flames; to culture life, a swan as genius, our mothers as stitching currents—this falling by arts, our prompt for succession, such zeal leaking outwardly; wherewith, that affect, this rhythm by flux, this day as symbolic rebirth: that joyous love; those thoughtful gifts; that touch of cadence—as deep our souls, this pith of fires, rapt by treasures that seize by lights. We venture our rising, wafting gently, panting with deers: those tragic antlers; that royal gait; our veils as graves to luxuries; whereto, are spells, this latch unraveled, traveling by motion an outer koan: that mystic music; that broken wholeness; our minds as flogged by mirrors: if life is cordial, our myths as jewels, as realizing this devoted sobbing; that fabulous power, as thinking through tears, to reach by hearts a whelming furnace: that surging force; our Father’s ardor; that serum by emotions: to fly so warmly, this deep esoteric, such plucking of tulips; where love screams, this practice of silence, that orphic passion. We drift agaze, a flicker to blue fire, an asylum of poets: if grays are vague, we surmise steeply, falling for crunching, gripping our guts: this place of violence, as deeply unphysical, tiptoeing this nub of existence: (to greet a swan, by core a gem, affected by thoughts our passions: that medical voiceprint; that claret daisy; those reddish eyes: if but to see, this welkin vision, as natives to deserts; while fully to souls, our brooks at ripples, whereat, that puddle of ghosts). It flames this way, to coil through thoughts, our toils cemented in luxuries: to swoon gently, at prayers a drumbeat, at tears a violin.             

Blue Fire

So far away, pitted in silence, at turns, those false impressions; a bit wayward, glaring at niceties, at wonders that hidden terror; as churning analyses, or burning essence, staring at something amiss; to flower gravely, as buried breathing, speaking anon that inner reign. I’m troubled at lights, to share that burden, attempting at faces to fathom: that dark night; that furious dream; those grounds designed for war; while singing justice, rift by justice, wandering a sea of motives; to dance so grayly, at chance this vase of dreams, to imagine you kindle love: that blue veil, those mahogany draperies, that balcony an outer brain: if cried so gently, our patience to curdle, at souls those visions. I drift through storms, this fane at flickers, destroyed by something peaceful—as challenged our lives, cutting through contradiction, agaze by recurring themes—while trekking ravines, to carve a passion, so deep our raft of horrors: that soul kneeling; that heart by lance that calling; our impressions held hostage. It’s cold by tomorrow, alive by tension, as so close to exploit weakness—that fallen rain, adjusting to puddles, peering at treasures; while chanced his life, a unit by chi, gripping a chunk of anxieties: that clumsy feeling, as seeking clarity, to fumble by arts that jacket—where songs are sullen, our theories as morbid, our dusky skies as cruel. I remember tomorrow, to sigh a cigar, peering at a pond of frogs—to imagine that life, so simply a fly, at leaps by leaves cleaving to seconds—that locket’s curse, this craving by rites, as martyrs by conviction: that taboo rune; that groggy sunlight; those groans as black art; to advance this ache, so dry but empty, purposed by mother’s impressions—as sung our stars, that russet inflection, as livid as father’s screams. We live that way, at mentions our courses, our glasses flushed with truths; as empty flutes, or full lutes, this ash a pious miracle; to search religion, this raspy force, at tears, that manifestation. I’ve sighted Sinai, engraved in tablets, our souls immortalized—to chance by feelings, this mental wrestling, fleeing as flying into songbirds; as fierce as metals, as lethal as irons, by curse this force of blessings: that drifting misery, as kissed a dove, afloat that wild oak—where souls filter, that rich scar, afar a dream.         

Dyed A Tear

I thought to voice, as heard an introject, fluttering for a swan. I dyed a tear, in crimson waves, at arts our grandparents. I sewed a vision, at sights a cygnet, so far those delusions. I forgave a princess, at search that castle, while felt that Buddhist’s glare: if torn those nights, fevered as a villain, The base things of this universe; as crawling passions, a gremlin to a queen, a psychopath to a psych; to dream eternal, eyes spewing mercy, while venom drips his sockets. I charmed a serpent, this pastor’s fire, where demons caught a fever: that treasured tale, an addict secluded, as one to capture such strengths: that bleeding Ghost, that wrist from walls, this grail as dungeons—to muse as dying, our muscles as grieving, at terns a mental spasm. It’s cold by summer; while warm by nightfall; our swan by womanhood; as born asunder, while love pleads, at wars that cryptic design: our indelible graves, frequent by breaths, our terrors a notion surreal: if art is treacherous, I’ll live such treachery, as falling through ether: that deep imprint; that passionate quake; or more your heart growing fevers; to live eternal, an idyllic intuition, even for dellic skies; as spoken a dream, to irrigate flame, seated by flawless laughter; indeed, by furry, this chase of feathers, that sudden inrush. I walked a brain, filled with purpose, this catch as tense a storm: to thunder a name; to bleed confusion; at shifts this ache as comfort—that terrible explosion, fleeing our wilderness, at pace to capture a desert: that inner symbol, that heart-sky undulation, those horrors by bliss. It came by tales, those baby teal eyes, as fevered in dragons—where pain was dreamlike, this kiss by furnace, our effulgent splinters—to cry such justice, a bit sold to Genesis, a bit bold in Romans—as knowing feelings, raised by cultists, at treasures that occultist’s mind: if brought to planets, our genes to apes, our dreams to temptations—as more a chimney, this chipping at soot, so reticent unto freedoms; that torn goodbye, that warm fervor, those aches by fires our courage. We live this way, an outer mantra, fleeing by wilderness: that christic gaze; that hell-splendor; that pearl piercing veneer: if but a shadow, as linked to fantasts, while earshot a phantom—to whisper about love, while steeped in love, a bit abased by love. It’s contradiction, envisioned as paradox, our moon bawling by wisdom: that fatal churn, as giving life, this pillar by grace our mother’s farce: if died that night, to rise that morning, our reward a cup of riches—as fueled by masks, running this mirror, our images gnawing at shadows—to cry forever, as rinsed by evening, to relish in contradictions: that kitten’s purr; that puppy’s yelp; that sandal too sacred at straps—as more this winter, our laughing emotions, processed as sorrow—to live forever, immortalized in stones—upon a wish that blanket; as turned his lights, a stream of terrors, peering at jacinth eyes: if thought his mind, that crooked churn, our love would perish.    

Segues As Persons

We argue at times, this thing of wrangling, where two acquiesce: that determined poet; that driven psychologist; that angst by awareness…to die gently, or awaken gravely, favored by phantoms; where moods shift, that alienation, that multiple person. I trek a mirror, this obtuse garden, at wonders of a soul; that deep detachment, if but survival, as maintaining loyalties: those sky-doves; that mental ferret; those tentacles cleaving reality: as more an ostrich, at heart an elephant, at soul a sphinx—to die such grace, peering at contours, a bit nonchalant; that inner cycle, as lusting luster, as more a somber soul. There’s magic amidst, our inner psychologies, our outer psychiatry—if be it our dreams, roaming attic valleys, seeping into cedarchests—at core a memory, to ponder such peaches, at terrors about nectar: that second in time, as filled with pelicans—that lavish flight, while sipping teas, a kettle as a simile: that sleeping vision, as mortal segue, this man chasing confusions: if but to perish, peering at beauty, adrift his location; this social art, steeped in theologies, to see it at every turn: that argumentation; a thesis by nature; a dissertation as royal—that creeping gaze, that wild kiss, that terrific sensation: if must we live, amused by arts, perusing Rembrandt’s. I sang a song, (more for presence than song), rapt in phantasmagorias: that wide eyed soul; that mystic umbrella; that umbra with such power: that infatuation; at tears to reap us; while too resolved to maintain us: but beauty is intricate; that rich influence; where souls alter souls. It could be legends, that literary excursion, while filled this insatiate curse—to flit or scud, but more a pantomime voice; where passions percolate, as eyes instigate, as never to tire from musing; that middle world, as merely a gesture, but taken so seriously: that emerging force; that welkin ideal; that idyllic chase—to sing with death, this call to life, as flipping in motion that dream. It should be love; as love would perish; where affections peter-out: by chance a chameleon; but what of acting; we become familiar;—so driven forever, to become resentful, to chase a floating flower; this deep enchantment, as so ironic, where love fevers; but oh to love, this furry within, while knitting paragraphs. (It comes by grace, this inner aria, that mental cadenza—as far to souls, engraved in feelings, while appeased by illusions; that furious fall, as so enriched, to achieve by pains our beauty: that tempo aching; that treble beating; that cadence as soaring; while found a lake, as filled with geese, plus, a distant swan; as birth was boisterous, while conditions tragic, where wings broke bars to flee: that need for adventure, that life without drugs, this furry that couldn’t breathe; for souls crave, that deep ecstasy, once exposed to that deepness; this cryptic fear, as laws shift, while hearts want servitude—this creepy realness, despite infractions, while souls writhe in agonies—to churn such sweetness, or die such islands, gripping a silent pillow: that turn we bled; that ache we sing; as born to be apart).   

Reigning Thunder: Tender Touch

Taken to hearts, by zealous woes, this feature an energy;—that winning dejection, our cities contagious, our instincts by sudden joys; to smile by mirrors, or die by thunder, or live by resurrection—that captive ache, that beautiful sail-craft, if but for soreness that tender summer—as torn to outsoar, rapid at an artificer, our wax melting softly—to ponder Descartes, seated at a furnace, steady at ink those ghosts: if but to fly, filming such eyes, at such guilt that folly—as more contentions, to wail his story, if hearts are empathetic; but more to swans, agaze through mischief, a tear for a turtle—as deep affection, our palms aching, that fiery stigmata: as souls churn, our music to spirits, our aches to Sophia—as more a gift, sifted at harmonies, wobbling through existence: that metaphysical, or obtuse justice, feeling that deep concentration; whereto, are secrets, to mesh through activities, this flight as esoteric; to thrum a heart-cymbal, or die a sky-flute, at tears to feel such agonies; wherewith, are instincts, flooded practitioners, at intuitions as a fire; or steep a scar, at hopes for candor, as opposed to a two year catastrophe: that rendered hell, as filled with lusts, a pair oblivious to dying; as more to love, such foresight to withdraw, our illusions as given lights—that feral grin, to seize for seconds, as disheartened love: this lute of liars; that inference as pure; our thoughts to someone genuine: if be it for grace: if be it for deaths: if be it for existence—this pearl of passions, tragic for credence, musing upon antidotes—while conflicted in parts, afflicted with arts, as singing something terrible. We come to flames, this flicker by trumpets, aware of a gentle tug; to wonder of compositions, flipping through Family Guy, perusing our tender egos—if but to see, this feeling of ascension, if but those turquoise dreams; (as seconds shift, to drill our arcs, flavored by deep resistance; those morbid fires, at years to pains, flitting through gentle catapults: if but her mind, as often breeds, I’ll perish a butter-seed): it comes to sorrows, our immortal trinkets, this brooch by brains our energies—that tender chorus, that keepsake relic, such tropes as forbidden; while hell was home, as heaven was foreign, those tall tales told by sufferers: if but our sanctum, this furious contraption, such hypnotic pleasures—while singing amore, or a candent simile, at tears an idyllic volt: (so soft for justice; as never our caress; while years morph into magic).   

Young Swan (A Bit Morbid)

We inherit this life, steeped in curiosity, locating unpleasant truths: this morbid mind, fleeing through darkness, at tears, over ideals; those grand perceptions, wanting more than pities, or more than pleasantries; as sleeping silence, a sandal as witness, a world inverted—adrift a portal, an inner canopy, while they mock such distance: as self-sufficient; budding with strengths; a bit appalled by life;—to take position, as one qualified, this method of Socrates.  Death was jingling love, where souls pardoned love, this desolate distress: that morbid mind, edging towards ignorance, as one sighted as bitter: this art of control; that slow decay; at sacrifice, or even deaths, that others smile. It’s dusky, Love; this vestibule of misreads, afforded a palm of dust: this morbid mind; a mere iconoclast; or better, this foolish idealist. We die this heart, outlined in differences, striving through majesties; to growl tears, or even to roar love, asking that mirrors reflect truths; but this is madness, this gray perfection, this relative convention; as dying forever, or living our truths, at hurts to confess self-depreciation; where patience dwindles, or perceptions morph, where one becomes a gadfly; so more to beauties, as more to solipsism, or more this antiquity for thoughts. We become callous; this hebetation; affected by ruins—our confused faces, tripping through thoughts, while pointing at others. It happens this way; a level of insanity; where others are oblivious to wrongs perceived; so live as spoken, deep in conversation, as to debate our terms; or utter silence, to incur a tumor, while secrets remain. I know days are coming, where love shall prevail, as opposed to so many worlds: those acacia blossoms; our plunder into science; our fuel as peace through dreams—this message as arts, this candle to flicker, at hearts to see a similar flicker; as born to majesty, dressed in cedars, at joys to that degree—this furious endeavor, while touching tenacity, at needs to listen.  Our yokes are rooted; our vex by design; our epitomes by epiphanies; to sing our song, while strewing our seeds, at souls awaiting fruition; to soar with grace, as wrestled humility, our ventures shared. I see a swan; this inner falcon; this destiny to outsoar—as mystic at heart, or Buddhist by rites, living a christic reality. We sing this way, this art of prophecy, inferring through experience: those shifting realities, to have lived fortunes, aware, acute, but zealous; as so infused, esteemed through manners, as one worthy of trust: this furious reign; incumbent upon souls; while often retracted; so fly young swan, to dream young swan, as a courageous young swan.    

Unravel Freedoms, (Our Airborne Souls)

I swelter divinity, as torn in knots, this version of a good person; to inspect doves, flipping for flapping, a coup of sadness—while peering outwards, a shadow to caves, exclaiming, This is reality. We know impression, this invisible force, admiring attributes; to die such passion, as crawling such distance, our sun dripping inks—that colorful grace, as met a flame, to unlock his dungeon—that glorious glow, infused by persons, as tapping into his God: this venture of soulquakes; this skeleton-nightmare; this patience that cleaves to cloud-beams—as cultured disorder, at sky-treasures, aloof to salience. I heard silence, this screeching loudness, that inner cacophony—as torn in knots, a purpose through sessions, a fist filled with pills: our young tears, to have forgiven so much, by activities to breathe: if only those lights, scribbled as cessations, our lives blotted by remedies: if only our deepness, this hellish divinity, while scrambled our intuitions. It records grace, our jagged entrails, this mirror-lightning; as zenic causes, to pause by Aum, or some version that nature—while torn to justice, alive by daughters, this glory despite its tragedy—as music deconstructs, as niceness becomes terrible, as analyzed that type of sameness: so bold our nights; so cold our warmth; as too conscious for falderal: that fresco-sky; our inmost anxieties; our nightlights of unrest; to courage this life, a phantom as a gusset, such devotion to fall this floor-bed. I’m still a phoenix, such claims for strengths, nearly torn apart; to utter that love, if but our benefits, relishing in one’s deaths; as more to greatness, our shoulders slumped, at wonders our minds’ activities: that frightened shadow; that pensive daze; those memories causing beads of sweat: if ever that light, such passion as poison, our nectars damn-torn-formless; while seconds to grayness, watching his eyes, to shift that turn; for deep that rite, infused with mother, as gravid our swivet-fortunes: our murals grieving; our image as impeccable; as others are crawling through dung—this place of hurts, that cygnet he saw, such sweltering divinity—to cause our lives, a heart at mistakes, so full, explosive, a fire—if lived those days, as crazed as asylums, peering at fulgent nonsense: this space we cleave, while deep analyses, pretending we see humans—as mere spectacle, snow covered dung, a sanctum by chance of pain—to utter, Madness, that cause for unrest, as lived his music; this instinct dying, this phoenix rising, after so many mishaps; accused of misery, a token as soul, racing towards complexion—to know his life, as soaring through Mecca, or at tears this inner Cabbala. We live at aches, a lyric to souls, excused by mere grayness: this flying dream, our hearted confetti, that saga by skies a fire; to have that mind, at wretched silence, such grace that silence; as scribbling love, while sighted dejectedly, at wars to unravel moments of lemonade: our mothers' wrists, or that faucet of water, as more a bag of sugar; to meet such terror, abroad a storm, internal an arc; where addicts sprout, a village of personalities, assuming normalities; if more to perish, an inner professor, attempting to outwit images.          

Softness

Never this love, while dejected this love, at music so shy this love: that torrent torture; that cryptic feeling; something according to brains. I’d fly an echo, or stitch a cloud, to nurture said love: if all would perish, our dearest incision, fumbling through motions; as terror-softness, that epic tear, as remembered a mere gesture; to catch us by tragedy, a few broken verbs, at love such essence so green: that captive impression, allergic to love, pining, at furry to capture love. I watched it bloom, lost this maze of activities, seated, gripping his guts: that white noise; that mystic grin; those hallways at cause as reaching—this mischief as cried, or tragic softness, this kiss by aches a mirage—to die intently, as living a smile, effused through volt-beats—this cultic drum, as unraveled his life, calling for crawling voiceprints; that telic soulquake, that terrible hope-fusion, as eyes sit so desolate.  I heard delusion, to channel psychoses, as never that feeling; to converse by waves, at tears to touch flesh, at tests this inner artificer: if music as softness, than tragic tone-quakes, or ours this sky-soul—while suffering burns, churning by symphony, this bawling unto a glorious vision; as torn to magic, this black richness, or essence he couldn’t speak; as treading thin currents, this arc as lost, that rhythm as infectious; where Love vomits, filled with chi, dangling by petals. I envision pollen, this methodical sneeze, while pining for Kleenex: that torrent symbol, as more imagination, while haunted by jasmine stars: this place we live; as contagious dearly; our minds as excavated—this charm we stole, that distance we stood, our waves abandoned; as something we thought, this living vine, our reed as spiky: while more is love, this poetic distracted, this structure as reaching—that Celtic folktale, that inner manifesto, this heart-drum fleeing from love: if but a second, while grieving terrors, abashed by love.

I return to love, this glorious affection, while rooted upon clouds: that furious key-storm, while hectic our night-gaze, flipping for tossing while losing rest; that mental opera, that steep cadenza, our credenzas fleshed by music—that fire we live, accustomed to heart-quakes, peering at soulprints: that sky-fever, affected by ether, at tears it had to perish: this voice of mystics; this art of tragedies; ours enmeshed in beauties—as reaching jasper, fettled by love, awakened by love.     

It’s Ironic, Love: (Swan Heart)

They see us mourning; they see us dying. I’m confused about love—this gray endeavor, this matter of tomorrow, this finicky feather. But more too passion, electrified by tears, falling that space;  at mischief madness, speaking telepathy, as fashioned demented—this like of wolves, our grandparents churning, our motives a bit morbid. I see a swan; I feel a soul; I’m hearted by three—this song of coyotes, such force as driven, kicking through zenic woes—as cried a mystic, this telic grace, flipping through feline claws. (Is that a swan, adrift a portal, rising as mourning as so simultaneous!); this dream of souls, our mothers at wars, our fathers inebriated—to cast a spell, those innocent eyes, forbidden from sadness: as running forever; or growing into nonchalance; where others are experiencing feelings: this space they left us, as furious brains, a bit to inversions; where spiders web us, while lizards lick us, as more this pit through Satan’s eyes—as turned our sparrows, filtered by sagas, alive our beating skies: that drum to fall; that fear to rise; our hopes shifted by ambitions; for What is truth?—this thing of fools, that woman guided! (It gets this way, this art for wisdom, that glorious sky-fruit): as torn blue rivers; or beige terror-domes; chiseled by anchor that eagle’s dreams; to confide in wings, a swan as driven—this serious temperament: forsaken oldness, ever at newness, while called to abolish something dear: this foolish self; this child’s parachute; those seconds adrift indecisions; as more circumspect, floating through meerkats, peering through their concentration: that casual request, where epiphanies swarm, at tears to realize that person. It comes by force, this inner delusion, as essential to growth—that treasured spurt, racing with cheetahs, as calm as owls; as this is life, a bit alchemic—trespassing to transform: this wave through rain; as charged through brooks; that shiver as ghosts alighting from hearts: indeed, for love; indeed, from pain; indeed, from joys. (I admonish a soul, as ever as grounded, where a phoenix breathes: those days of men; those cries of daughters; this need to focus early—as is that light, to feel this wealth, embedded in temples). 

It’s a casual dream, as opted, “Just to live”—where things are a bit haphazard: this devious feather; those cunning waves; that tendency to utter pleasantries: if but that life, courted through deceptions, a glutton for pleasures—while needed to breathe, this inner compass, gripping with passion that inner diamond; as read our souls, that mystic gravity, assigned to flying. 

Feel Us through Features

It’s been some time, at zenic practices, fueled as alive wavering through feelings: that inner presence, to have met a yogi, sentenced to differentiation. We love unknowingly, this bittersweet war, infested with locusts—where life is powers, this realm we pash, seated at mahogany trestles: inking diaries, fiddling a pomegranate, peeling a nectarine—as one invented, by so many arms, at mercy this grace to Yahweh. I remember distance, aloof to color, plus, a bit circumspect: this furious temper, a bit camouflaged, scraping sky-blueness—as more a woman, adorned by mishaps, as refined in our soul’s furnace; but less to attributes, as more to mystery, this relentless magic; where arts crawl, to capture a glimpse, as waning through tyranny. I’ve adjusted slowly, at war with feelings, as to imagine a conversation: two tyros speaking mystically; or more a denial, to dishearten light, while carrying sorrow’s softness; that dream to love, as flickering through soot, amazed by desert smog: that cryptic voice, as cryptic thumps, as a bit flustered. It becomes chaotic, this thing of concentration, as is centered in intentions: that too close planet, pushing through hemispheres, at moments, a tile towards zealous; to flee as flying, as returning to mirrors, as pitted at our center-point. I’m back to life—those years abroad, fettled by ambition—while seated deathly, peering at visions, etching this running image: as nigh afar, probed by secret yearnings, at course with several souls: that bodhi atmosphere; that super-intuition; those scales released through intestines; that arch we travel, adrift a beige moon, at favors but a bit moody—if be it life, as treasured this realm, melding for melting into mirrors. I do confess—this churn of passions, at rainbows infested with beauty; to see us as deadly, confined to barriers, while wrestling humility: this wealth of arts, as digging through minds, alert to mischief properties: that revving engine; that tyrant cycle; those lows for highs as rocket-ships; as digging deeper, to remember an image, while sadness wafted a near distance: that cultic music, afforded one dream, while to perish through negligence. (It becomes a river, shifting at churns, too enlightened for otherwise; as reading life, at forces for correlations, while realizing something breathes—as breeding canines, or a telic feline, where riddles become obsolete: that casual intensity, while seated at eternity, our opera tiptoeing brains; to linger by choice, if but to fools, where conditions dictate intensities—as deep within, this natural sin, fleeing into gravity).   

Brain Waves Afore Oceans

It becomes a dream, this telepathic portal, as threshed intensity: that miracle effusion, to fettle our hearts—those ripples singing opera; to love through brains, to feel such pressure, while steeped in fantasy; as paused his life, that genus of music, that genre of spirits. I’m catching visions, as said to activities, as a brain expresses itself: that gentle turmoil; our inner grandparents; those seconds of insights—to stumble that sentence, as purely amazed, about as frantic as a caged ferret; where time is pendulum, frightened of mirrors, gazing by glances—that weather to rooms, those aches to dungeons, behaving so close to outbursts: that feral feeling, that tragic diary, those feelings released while returning; this cycle of souls, as affected for escapes, while seated at omega—that alpha of fires, this cadence of flames, a bit too beige to forfeit. (I’ll remember tomorrow, sectioned by an etcher-sketcher, falling into triangles): that mischief of minds, to have that soul, to garnish some type of terror—that teal perspective, as taupe meditations, crawling as heightened about satori: that mental light, to know your flame, to admire your flame. I’m driven nights, speaking forbidden mirrors, accustomed to forbidden mirrors; where Love is watching, weighing those sentences, while flipping a series of pages—to find his heart, as scattered to gardens, where pigeons nibble knowledge: our knotted sols, so crossed as midnights, flailing through desert cities—as mystic symbols, a thump as presence, sifting through inner diaries; to find that word, as to find that person, while afar that target; where souls are lambent, held hostage by self, realizing such is tragic: that filter by pain, while reaching a fantasy, at tears to believe, this is living: that mint cigar; that raspberry tea; those loquat dreams; to know of deaths, seated at mistakes, at wars to erase you. (It comes by justice; those years at thoughts; as nothing can be said); this inner cacophony, this outer telepathy, our woes as fuels igniting a magnum opus; where swans vanish, pursuing their visions, chasing by charms, The Magic: that cultic essence; that mountain atop a cloud; that favor to remember tomorrow; as lived our brains, knitted through concentration, a bit frantic about life. If but to graph us, sailing through seas, shifting a hundred mile volt—where souls pause, at sudden a thought, attempting to differentiate thoughts—as secerning lights, or flickering tumbleweed, where eyes have become plural: that captive heart, that fluid arc—our tears to jubilee.     

Our Swan Knows Our Voice

How to get there, floating through rooms, accustomed to rooms: this mental box; that smothered feeling; that instinct but defensive; (to avoid life, a game of blocks, twisted for colors as one force): those tragic eyes; that inner funeral; that decoration; (as father’s skin, mother's brow, this wave of independence). I raked a wound, tugging its scab, bleeding into our future: that intricate swan; that defiant love; our reason to perish by sky-drops; (this inner vest, that seashore of thoughts, that welkin disposition). I utter differences; this legend of time; as to remember our nature. It comes by journey, as utilized souls, peering at human mysteries; to vanish with pride, upon that inner train, this process of textures; as living forever, a dream to a portrait, a vessel but our lives: (plucking bluegrass; palming pomegranates; as more to nurture an inner gift): that ship as waiting; that cinema as emerging; those wounds as dancing. It becomes an art, to trot by telepathy, while others worry of this gesture—those shadows that mimic, at gestures so file, while peering into secrets: (this strict leisure, as becoming a business, while baptizing smothered emotions—to see that face, filled with mercy, as accused of becoming aloof): to sing by patience, to diagnose an ache, to become by strength a soul. We speak of love, as oh to utter for love, while so removed from actual love: this government by actions; this type of polity; this music made popular through private intensions;—as more to truths, we have for interests, this method as means to an end—as dying in parts, where ships are sailing, to turnaround through telepathy—that channeled art, requiring concentration, (but waves of a swan); as, too, a sister, floating for flying, a member of our conventicle(s): that cherished heartbeat; that reluctant chastisement; that fury for solidarity; to chant by paradox, to stream as scientists, to review a claim by evidence: that locomotive; that splendor by tears; that recording of heart-symbols. I died to see it—flushed with agonies, to have misrepresented life—this incumbent journey, your words in print, to become a soulquake—or even a voiceprint, palming ashes, reading into legends: to conjure a feeling, to feel a feature, to compose by arts that fire: our intricate fevers, as confused by processes, to have earned this inner aching. I adore our notes, as defying gravity, a pail of peaches floating upwards: this song he sung; while finding favors; pointing at inward sacrifices. It must be life, as to have lived this life, as churns a product of life; (to have as was, this art that is, while flitting into a flowered future): that casual observance, as shifted our hearts, this budlike conviction: as souls galore, as a vehicle of lights, perusing Deuteronomy 6.     

Stillness as Voice

We knit by crafts, patient those tiny squares, our grandma’s wisdom; while tears crochet, our puppy’s growl, antagonized by cloth: our breaths as signs; our agreements dependent upon winds; our tales to souls as driven.  (I’m but a lad, seated near a table, this beam of light; to hear that voice, addressed as see-through, but a cave of petroglyphs—that cruel tug, that caring agony, this feature emerging: about those turns, that sweaty face, that exchange of glances).  She built a garden, those ripe tomatoes—those orange peppers. I saw resilience; that flowered spirit, this expansion a human being; to debug lettuce, this desire for cleanness, this biblical separation; to quote his life, this feast of literature, as too, this hole seated within personality: that glare, that twitch, that palm, that gesture, those snails, those eyes.  (I’m an adolescent, aware of too much, sworn to secrecies; those smothered emotions, as grooming a monster, as conflicted with temperament: that heart, that glory, an underground system, a series of confirmations).  I met a feeling, racing through fields of wheat, a palm colored by pomegranates; again, that voice, by middle his name, this ink forming symbols.  (I’m a young soul, this bold confidence, this boisterous laugh; as freed from islands, racing for jewels, our necks teasing guillotines. If but that heart, unfettered from chaos, prior to dungeons; to hear that voice, as wailed those truths, while steeped in magic boxes: that small kitten, so wild but frightened, a present for grandma).  We sat at embers, surrounded by sands, a tomb as a tent. I wouldn’t sleep, a tale as hidden, as to pass a test—this clump of grass, as fevered to live, too young to recall details; but lives an image, as gray as postmortem—that bibliography, outlining perspectives, deepened by clarity.  (We’ve sewn a mask, this family of spirits, while judging our silence; that inner notebook, steady with imbalances, while favored our perspectives: this dying life, that agonized woman, those few interactions; as dying to comport, if but for acceptance, as denied this full freedom; to disappear, as called to limbo, this ornament of sorrows).  I’m but a soul, seated for twenty minutes, acknowledged as different: such quiet grace; such quiet pain; such compassionate distance: at tears, a paradox; as witnessed, a sitting with; while birds are chirping mother’s silence.           

Paths are Paved in Childhood (One Reaches for Replicas)

We cadge our freedoms, a sloth at a barnacle, awaiting our metamorphosis—seeing into eyes, that haunting reality, but teased by flitting beauty: at errors our agendas; something so easy; while depreciating souls; as never to pause, reaching forever, running through humans; at search for gentilities, to harvest that soul, while knitting sabotage.  There was energy, this low reservoir, filled with bestiality. There were tears, as scribbled by pains, as forged through deception; while feeling a rescue, this self-illusion, where said occurrence knitted sabotage.  I’ll retreat.

I waver through meadows, racing on bikes, pausing to float a kite: such childhood madness, that infant tyro, to become a monster: that torn psychology, to see it as perfections, this adult racing towards kindness—as lived his life, a fist full of bars, a mind three tomes thick. If be it love, to placate pain, I’ll endorse such therapy; but dreams are opaque, while stars are so distant, as is, it was, it shall be; this latent charm, at tears to let go, but this is life: this Latin scripture; this French dialectic; that series of sagas speaking tongues; to invade justice, faced at a guillotine, headlong into a dissertation—if but his life, peering at daughters, attempting to feel every sentence—this deep scar, this hapless muse, as one pulled so far aback. It becomes senseless, those compositions, conditioned to a corner for writers; but it cannot live, while humans soar, or I must be mistaken: this hellish pit, searching for guileless deeds, while a vulture beams with brilliance; this age old dilemma, as far-reaching as Sirach, as devastated as Moses—that trenchant oasis, to fawn with such purpose, as wanting something as opposites. I’ll steal a glance, at wonders such beauty, accused of becoming sightless: those tears they utter; those rumors received; that doubt of redemption; for holding to death, is more exciting than glory, as not a sentence imbibed—as faucet to drain, or rain to earth, our effluent destinies; as reading a psych, to pause through seeing, where pain struck a nerve—as becoming angered, for sights despise wanting, while courage leads to liberation: that vicious canine; those treacherous hoses; that club beating Billy brainless. If but to live, to surpass such images, where terrors redeem a select few: that crawling wit, that woman dying, our eyes oblivious to grandpa: that friendly pain; that restrained laugh; those moments, that death, playing pretend: such caprice, as ignored deeply, as one believes in deception. I’m unspoken, this tacit fool, but a burgeon in college—racing that mini-bike, afloat with kites, staring at this miraculous future: those treacherous valves; that remarkable engine; this social transmission; as torn to witness, this hatred from love, an addict, a game, we all die. I’ll play a part, as to come alive, then hell unites with heaven a dragon: this curious rescue, to watch it morph, that breach pitted in souls; to ponder Clinton, a legacy lost, that barefaced infraction—as seen in parts, despite a fortress, where they murdered Jesus. I cry this heart, as one distinctive, reaching for black-sheep status—where others replace mirrors, to see as sameness, while screaming like maniacs: this place of pressures; this valve unclogged; while too much power destroys. I must to wonder, of what he knows, peering at that genus; to assuage such treachery, two bills, plus, a sandwich, where hell is rooted in genetics: this casual chaos, our swan as established, while our brains shift through radiators: that flippant style; that demonic ambrosia; that salient deception; as flipping his life, while nonchalant, as feeling nothing: that space in souls, bitter for hagridden, adjusting for more deception.