Sad Tones

I sparked a clove, reading names in Hawaiian, fiddling irritability.  I paced, a soul at his guts, our sullen dispositions; this force by currents, this psychical warfare, as altered by miracles.  I thought about Jazz, this time in allergies, our rapture codified by soulprints—this person above, such tacit chatter, this dragonfly shadow.  I grabbed a feeling, as it became this soul, pouring pints as toiletries: this sober land, accustomed to deference, while yielding to inner horrors: our para-brains, as desert-souls, this ritualized movie our lives—as repeating footprints, our casual picnics, watching as clouds move by: this chasing second, to realize laughter, while cogitating photo-glimpses.  I know a mirror, this facial-print, unable to sketch it in acrylics: this soul on Mars, devoid of spacecrafts, returning by rescue.  I count teabags, while boiling raspberries, again, to spark another clove: “Are you alright”; this soothing sound; as met with silence: for webs are different, especially, for introverts, this casual gas-furnace—where unspoken eyes, speak familiarity, this dream that one can heal essence: that miracle voice, while flickering a lighter, abandoned to this cycle of feelings.  I thought about sugar—this concrete element, while kindling an abstract phantom: our daughter’s soul, flying by ether, alive, pondering this sad clown.  I lost respect, as once so perfect, where pride was preparing a catastrophe: that humble algae; that flippant heart-quake; or more this person too advanced to even speak spirituality.  We conquer for seconds, pausing for another clove, our weekends at sipping silence: to move with time, our buttered popcorn—with cocoa this unlikely mixture: our symbioses, or rapture’d oases, such as seconds becoming cherished memories; where partnership loves, as supportive friendship, or something unexplained by mortals.  I await a shift, as this too becomes ritualized, whereas, this day becomes proffered as newness: those similar sights; our Jobian prose; this feeling searching by differences.  I’m watching frequencies, admiring freedoms, to membrance this spider assembled neatly.  I, nevertheless, feel sullen, a dragon to his life, a man to his song; where essence is slanted, changed by mimicry skies, where ambivalence becomes this cycle: by telic concentration, to become that feeling, as we alert to avoiding that feeling—this cooing pigeon; or that silent ladybug; our palms cupping caterpillars—as somewhere in Missouri, a mere lad, too far afield: or sitting in Belgium, this yearly fantasy, as streaming our miracles.