Veins Upon A Leaf

I feel this type of way: this miracle bleeding, these volt-paws, this tender attraction: if but for deaths, this Almighty Sword, sentenced to sit before Eden: our casual converse, that second I met Us, this nonchalant address: as steep refusal, while rendering hopes, to act this type of way.  I tell a tale, this pithy allegory, this edification—about this golden calf, our cryptic Snake, as raised from death to purgatory; indeed, this Corvette, this atypical engine, this revving psychiatrist—while dead a slither, at elated converse, to see with passion this tale of thieves: our cultic professors, this Irish mechanic, this Danish paleontologist—that ontic psychologist, this mystery spectator, our grandfathers at one tear—to seethe our archetypes, as pure archeologists, connected through genealogies: that ancient contract, this promised daughter, our distance becoming pivotal instructions; where granny dies, this told travesty, as sensing this son by a stranger.  I feel this type of way: peering at what was missed, a bit lethal penetrating barricades, a tear dangerous behind brigs: this fuel as animosities, this must for control, those political Panthers.  It lives with access, this soul to treasure excess, this Merle Norman portrait: therewith, this Life, infatuated with Sophia, at tears this Hindu discovery: our remote tentacles, this turtle sprinting, this iguana reptile—as lizards to seas, while crawling wolves, at psychs unable to articulate a cogent sentence: this fear by lights, as idiot savants, while a swan admires this losing tyranny.  I spoke with essence, this Precious forgetfulness, at laughs a bottle of Merlot; but not for jest, as pheasants to banter, while petting a dying ferret: those gray insights, to sense deception, where, nonetheless, we excuse this typical night-scare: hereto, are scars, wherewith, are paintings, our mental catalogues.  I return to pash, or more sensations, to admire by perfected traits; while not for perfect, but gifted through diligence, at steep island affairs: this Burberry scarf, those beige moccasins, that metallic shadow: at terrible crises, a man to edges, this voice contending our Human Condition: that treacherous device, this cosmic robot, our L’Oreal concealing violence.  I feel this type of way: therefore, to stars, sipping existential monsters—at convocations, or evocations, to tears so many words: but this is gracious; or pure fictitious: sorting through hidden meanings: that gracile spine; that Monet pressure; this ninety-years-young Virgin: if but to sing, desiring sensuality, at archeries that minxes arrows: this cold winter, fluffed in quilts, seated with burgundy sins: that velvet summer, uprooted by dementia, at perils to laugh unknowingly: this gray goose, that purple begonia, that seductive glare—while rifted through trance, breaking into sky-brains, this linchpin picklock’d with vengeance: those ousted gestures, that flushing redness, this feeling that something has been re-colored: hereto this bizarre location, while models mourn, at flights those outlandish seahorses—to Love with panic, as to panic with shame, while one Loves as brains leaping at philosophies: these casual Lusts, this playful hush-hush, those wings watching as they flap—at pure irony, to see destruction, while tugged to remedy historical tragedies: this Shakespeare energy, that mythical Paradise, this field within fraught with Unicorns: our crying days, pierced by [the] unexplained, where Scrolls appear at disjointed: this vest of tyrannies, this calm ocean, that pearl-green-sea-water.  I feel this type of way: alert to soul-nails, peering at mellow-wood, thrust by this Kierkegaardian sword: this living through poverties, this swanic kidnap, those daffodils too at furies for Minor Prophets: this lake by sulfur; this cauldron by Love; this script mandating this searching through suffering: our liberated rights, where agonies form allegiances, while, nevertheless, we wrestle those screaming chains; indeed, to perils, this swanic debate, where mother puffs a cigar: if but to cities, those country affairs, while manic in Manhattan Beach: this strut down Redondo, flickering with injustice, paved as sane but ill-gotten: that furious fire, those furious dungeons, our hells as becoming familiar existences! 

While Fires Stir

We gather feathers, those myriad faces, encased in subtle fuses: this scalp to anointing(s), this soul stitched at crevices, this fissure bleeding it tomorrows: if but to essence, or crafted chaos, where mere misprints become gestures: to read substance, this ousia, our Aryan points for contemplation; as Arabic cygnets, or Danish Analysts, this mystic frenzy purported through hazel lenses: our fathers to stress, our mothers at play, this peach cobbler our swanic dream.

It was Helen’s scream, our inner Alexander(s), our Aristotle panic: this scientific vision, this bizarre persuasion, this light as seeping into realizations: our conscious selves, as self-conscious creatures, this vault of brain-passion seeping into essence: those narrow features, this place at harvest, our designs oozing with clarities—to demand nothing, as instant in time, proffering structured mazes: this soul guillotined; our hearts threshed; our minds pacing our futures. 

I need closure, as not merely events, while touching faces that spirit: that Canadian built, this Irish sipping, this shamanic narcotic—as beaming justice, while carrying infractions, as a toddler demands another slice of banana: that strawberry patience, to clean as never before, this bizarre thought-pattern: as deeply a vessel, at chants with brains, to see more while slacking with filing every cranny: that European dignity; that Jerusalem sanctity; our uneasy nervous nerves—where intestines dream, musing over Seneca, a bit too envious that life of Descartes.

I heard languages: I saw symbols: I reckoned this Latin passion—as provocation, if but a sky to envision, this fusion by milliseconds: that rabid feeling, as pure dejection, while elated a lonely island—those bold screams, those African drums, this fleeing harmonica.

It was emotion, this childlike essence, fiddling with jump-jacks: that black impala, as tense to minutes, while explosive a dream towards Ethiopia: those gray eyes, that pushy, Walker, this type of tyranny found in Sophia: if but to lives, as sought our horizon, those years to writing essays: our sound judgments, as rooted in perceptions, while coaxed through realities: our brains to Sylvia, as becoming suspicious, sensing something incredible in Sexton: that steep evaluation, at peering into molasses, while stirred with furies.

Outflow Our Minds pp. 85-86

We know adventures, and radical aunties, as for danger this welt in arithmetic: our pantomime eyes, our caricature chins, and this slithering, loyal serpent-piece: to cave at manias, our steep extensions, while pyramids bleed truest legacies: our Jewish sisters; that whelmed Zion; this foot-troop ravished in combat.  I comb existence, fevered by six-senses, at seven afloat this terminal island: if but to theories, or precious palms, or that Latin observer: but hell is furious, this dreaming adversary, to court with purpose our stealth-like mirrors—as acclaimed for violence, our Al Capone’s, this Valentine’s travesty: to cut with omegas, freezing through alphas, laughing while shooting hoops with swans: this centipede as vigil, to climb atop this skycraft, aboard for breathing steep our cabbaged space-lifts.  I love a scheme, as dreamt in brooks, to lavish an English mother: that funeral art-tare, this weed for flares, as kosher a pear this garden tragedy—where fathers perish, as lurid with vices, to perchance those extravagant dementias: our shovels to graves; our blades to blood; this dripping frenzy as pushing this small infant; indeed, those thoughts, a crib filled with smoke, this child at secondhand cocaine—those canine teeth, this vampire’s deaths, this infant cut for waters bleeding hopes: if but to perish, thrust through hearts, to extract modicum pains: those forests at treasures, this man at deserts, our camels collapsing mid-stream; where mother appears, an Angelica Cloud, weighing close to ninety pounds.  I clench fists, thrust trough penmanship(s), a tare to mopping closets: this dusty bug, that roach at Thrifty’s, this grasshopper speaking about Precious.  It dies this legacy, our torn affair, to realize this three part dynasty: to sense faces, as distorted intellect, a tear rabid for hypomanics: such steep dejections, such feelings for joys, such passions for lights too far to retreat: our baseboard monogamies, our maniac polygamous, this wrench past reaching for something respectful: our lakes bleeding, our rivers gangly, this inner eight scything its cavities: as, notwithstanding, this biblic pastor, or that mystic preacher, while combing through feminine ministers—as cut to bone, this metaphorical, this mystic upchucking nerves or less to vomit, while more to intestines, our marrow transforming by spiritual practices.  I know by anguish, this want for goodness, to slaughter with essence this person weaving disasters: by nature, this monster, where Love was want for dying in ecstasies: that film by spirits, as plastered to plaques, our faces disguised as rendering depictions; albeit, life, this furious tug-of-war, while steep in sagacious fires—this fool, our souls, to capture with lightning, our thunders to existence.  I realize such hatred, while acclaimed in silence, where reality fails to purchase love: this precious excuse, those precious confessions, this inadequate feeling—as pasted to plaster, this insecure frenzy, at distance, for hell hits: that fabulous assistance, this ravished beauty, to feel but a tender abrasion: those years to puppets, this feeling by dolls, where a glance comes with bold expectations.  I love baroque, a style as classified, to convoke a swan’s existence: this dreamy man, at scrub-oaks, a tattered soul uncloaked—to die passions, as fueled existence, striving to become unyokened: those radical priests, that frantic nun, this Buddhists Empire: as mother flees, running into dungeons, fashioned for frantic a scar—as men dine, while soon to retreat, a couple as mother with son—this voice as treacherous, this perfect day, while stepfather broke a tender arm: our hearts to dying, our fathers to crying, this field as infested.  I met a Scorpio, to ponder an Aries, while floored to deaths reasoning through this Cancer: our glamorous kef, this inner Leo, our existential Sagittarius—that cold Pisces, bleeding its essence, panicked for trembles cleaving to this Virgo: our inner outflows, this kitchen suffering, our pantries cussing: if balanced a Libra, at tears a Taurus, to retreat as dying our first kiss by graves—at terrible knowledge, escaping through Van Gogh, to part with an earlobe: as pure terrors, while claiming sanity, this vest excusing itself for treacherous deeds—as, nevertheless, holding for captive—those sins in souls, where hurt incurred by circumstances.            

Captive In Fires pp. 83-84

We insist for goodness, broken into slithers, at quakes our arms reaching: this fire remotely, as caged those chests, to heart-sky this lethal cult: our grains bleeding, our harvest to petals, this vine such essence by nectars.  I hear in Us: our garden to plums, this tender distress-wonder: those by flame, to channel Antarctica, released into monsters awaiting cadence: that night-panic, as cursed for breath, our mourning(s) to responses: this achy swan, this mythical, Jude, our poor at poverty’s blessings: this music blighted, our symphony electric, our dance showcasing new jeans.  We scathe behavior, at telic designs, chastising our reflections: this need for goodness, as perceived by onlookers, this float as blimps our sagacious shames.  I know this lake, as pouring eternity, while felt as sharpness that explosive current: our mothers to backgammon, our nieces to carnivals, our young sons to plastic swords—at cords with life, at hula with dancers, at communion with invisibility—while ushered through grandeur, or more by grannies, as wives sift through private volcanoes: such husbands waltzing, heavy at dice, this gambol by elations: that fiery hypnoses, those wretched flowers, this hypomanic electrocution—to smile by mother, at treasures by stepfathers, our steaks with eggs as pure illusion: to die a canvas, at wars with Locke, at séances with Hobbes: therewith, this mystic confusion, our territories at communion, to utter such that word through vagueness: our scientific, our inner friends, this therapy as sifted from dramatics: our cavy mudslides, this sister’s infusion, our brothers sitting in stillness: that rabid fusion, our deacons mourning, our brains as mini-ministers—this flaming fire, this sword as harps, our harpoons thrust through our waking dreams: to ache by candor, or to grieve by evidence, while never to utter but one essence.  I think to Us, nibbling barbeque, a bit to tyranny with sodium: this man at love, this vex as soreness, our aches becoming by case-studies: this radical orchestra, this heart-credenza, our sublime seconds to hear another person’s brains; indeed, for chasing, erased from sight, while running through battlegrounds: this man cleaving, this meerkat tugging, this landmine for broken: herewith, are magical(s), stripped by mystical(s), to manage madness merely by milliseconds.  We die grayly, attempting at God’s humor, our mirrors reflecting hound-sadness: this gutted python, this elegant crocodile, this woman our souls have lied for: if but his mind, as cried our thoughts, painted for plastered—I’d live infinity, kneeling with grandma, accustomed in costumes: this friend weaving, this childhood pool, as torn apart our dipping baptisms—at wars with silence, to echo by wellic(s), this art to souls bleeding their textures.  I’m drumming tacks, as plush-velvet-carpet, this portion of nights our prison-bars: while picturesque, as oceans to explain, this pensive, floating sky-call: our steep gazes, this traumatic hue, our engines ignited through mind-books: that flipping essence, those balcony-pages, this galloping survival—where candescence sings, as pantomime-release, pierced for silence by swanic eyes: our palaces grieving, our palatial guts, this whet effulgence—as souls exhale, tugging kadupul flowers, framing pages of scripture: that slight admission, as missed by eyes, while others are ecstatic.  We come to essence, to love suddenly, as dying our Mt. Sinai: that land breathing, our knees to sands, our entrance into silence: this inner chimpanzee, as livid with violence, while seated as perfect a friend by evils: our mental apogees, combined for weeping, at joys this marvelous cadence: to strip with life, our days to return, our ecstatic fantasies: while thrust by lights, such poetic sickness—that atypical harmony: our flying castles, our born, Theresa’s, this landmine a pencil by touch—that ribbed heart, that small measurement, this land as nothing could conquer: as, notwithstanding, this vision by helpmeets, as applied this mutual affection: to cut with grass, or camel through deserts, this choir by hell’s pain-fields: at tears we chant, realizing this inner penmanship, to garner as one interferes: that steep interior, this epistemic, our cries to essence our subjective-empirical-states—as miracle madness, afire this paradise, painting swanic silhouettes.    

Jamais Vu Or Brains Returning to Existence

I blaze a cigarette, thinking, Mafia, knitted by wounds: this frantic mother, that fatidic husband, our morning communion: to dye this life, as to die this wife, our caskets outlined in sincerity: those beige dreams, as screamed our guts, sipping our itchy Scotch.  We miracle love, aborted but breathing, our destinies woven conspiracies: our uncles bleeding, our cousins heavy at traffic, our grandfathers sanding sky-clocks: to love by tendencies, as abused by realities, to cut threads while scythed through dungeons: our rabid introjects, our heuristic inquiries, our days to idiot savants—those fatal moves, as steady a daughter’s flights, at courage to attend churchlike brains: this steep calamity, as seasoned for disasters, while at forces to avoid delusional cults.  I felt gravel, Love, scraped for distorted, revolving this past existence—at tears to fly, studying Freyja, at remorse this curse as artworks: that cigar soot, that inner smaze, this chimney choking Santa Clause; therewith, this Cognac sin, this bottle grieving—that silent language.

I flipped pain, this treacherous inversion, as cut to blades: to rethread ghosts, as partial visions, to assume that dreams are omens; indeed, to psychs, this flying frenzy, our frail perceptions—as blotted by strife, this familiar cycle, as close to a thousand eyes.

We tend to fantasies, If but this sequence, If but this emotion: our tall tales, our galaxy screams, our waves ablaze peering into heart-fires: to love as dying, our renowned atmospheres, this present tug preventing fluidity’s outpour.

(…so cursed to pinches, at terrors those feelings, to want with ecstasies—this flare for passion, this literate conglomerate, our thrusts through middle-school.  I was dead a man, as merely a child, our backs to lashes: that foreign cry; that trip through Europe; our vehicles by myths: to claim with deaths, this breathing insanity, at love as purely confused: that first missive, that second shadow, that third to fourth unreality: while cleaving fireworks, our inner Independence, as something we leave to fates….)

Alright, Love…

…I delve deeper, spent into chimera, realized as falling gravity: this inner mystic, this cagey existence, this place as faces that psych: our inner theories, this outer magnetism, this inverted therapy—to know for powers, as, too, for energies, to see with faith our Precious Empires: that edge slipping, this daughter vexing, this mother with wands—our grannies flexing, our muscles bleeding, this uphill battle this dingy boulder—to love with fashion, as accustomed to dying, to enter by texture this fervent past—as pure fertility, to give us a child, to carry as nigh another soul: those morning greetings, this reading to wombs, our legacy to witness worthiness…as more full vulnerability, to have this friend, at loses to court this phantom…as steeped in deserts, at war with delusions, where beauty returned to Asian America: that wealth through deaths, as never for hate, while emotions become rabid atmospheres….

I adore swans, this welkin sentence, our mothers trying desperately: this force in souls, to cleave to wakefulness, but blunted for blunders as burrowed into oaken silence: that soul to treacheries, that soul to redemption, this place in Christ as unforgiving (Read it closely, Jude).

I feel this Earth, as souls by Curses, too embedded to evaporate: our fevered prophecies; our vatic legacies; this mystic at one with this country of cultic Americans: our oft-returns, our mercies to brains, this feeling where a child touches our cheeks.  (I laugh through memories). 

Slow Paced/Sad Joys

We have dreams, those inner arias…those churning cadenzas: those mental oceans…by grace a symphony, by treasures a lasting feeling: such magnet personalities, as rarely this wing, affected by this seeming explosion: at reeling arcs, an heirloom by focus, our daughters to stairwells.  We felt a spell, by inexorable measures, as appetites become insatiable: that proud river, those meadow brooks, this galloping towards queens—as masculinity, sudden for humble, at souls dining ecstasies: our chivalrous knights, our alibis for nonchalance, this trail vanishing through orchards.  (It’s ancient, Love, this feud through dreams, to seduce through maladies: our grits with eggs, our pastrami fries, our memories as moments: that golden turkey, that dark pink ham, our magnificent stuffing: this trove by treasures, such warmth by gazes, this fire when pondered as genetics: our paradoxical moons, our ensouled equations, our camp-flame conversations—this chocolate cake, that pumpkin pie, this French vanilla icecream; indeed, this cultic edifice, this cryptic dream, such occult-like motions: as skies change, fettered to purple adventures, our tummies filled with day-cares).  We crochet words, while fed through meanings, where Gregorian Chants echo: this truss to souls, this trust to, Love, our terrors abated by kindness: as ontic utopias, our myriad interests, where life becomes somewhat gray: this need for extinctions, this want for pleasure, this pain as losing its curse.  Its masquerades, by mirrored ideals, shadowed by insecurities: this chase for closure, as knitted perfection, to capture one unthreading destiny: our earth to shakes, our souls to quakes, our fates becoming evident education: herewith, are dreams, this crystallized swan, that Porsche’s esteem—as, too, this Bugatti texture, seated in excellence, to find this need for passion: that chasing sun, this inner nightingale, that village of mystics. 

By quixotic dreams, at tender affections, spacing through our cosmos: this voice to passions, escaping our guts, flying into orbits: such casual presence, our seconds to paradise, our pregnant elations; where skies become days, as nights become mornings, that horrid scent of raccoons: indeed, but a second, at terrible pleasures, to realize increments by age.

I address life, those myriad trysts, this semi-religious ecstasy: our quasi-raptures, our memoire confessions, our blank canvases: wherefore, those tears by lights, sudden by satori, secerning through feelings: that cause by one, or that excellent vase, by chills to render inner ghosts.

We adore bakeries, our emotions as delicacies, our dreams as formed through experience: those bedside novels, those sublime philosophers, this feeling aroused through our intestines; as beautiful creatures, persevered through fibers, this present poet at tenses with silence.

I set twilight, embedded at noonday, this atypical mesmerism: if but to taste, this liquid light, our feelings becoming participants: herewith, our torn confusions, as acting with, but not sparked from: this chasing silence, as provoking crevices, this honeysweet war-care: therefore, we paddle, those waterless canoes, seated in deep sleep—that miracle hut, this thinking frenzy, our caricatures becoming normal.

We tend to children, if sounds are sweet, while struck at those faceless reflections: this time to taste joys, this moment to reflex upon experience, while sensing this mystic undertone: those undulations, sectioned as series, suggested as realities: those musical figures, embracing our schisms, where love becomes this type by pruning: that patch of begonias, those secluded strawberries, this inner voice convicted that love resounds in every sentence.      

Thanks Giving Feelings

I’m damn near home, this lethal tenet, afraid to perish—as thought to die, while mercy skates, our psychs carrying frustration: this miracle mile, this fluffy daughter, our mothers needing forgiveness.  I’ve cried today, at thoughts a tender soul, at remorse our grandmother’s funeral.  It gets lonely, peering at existence, formed in this casual monster: that pipe falling, those coca seeds, our parents attempting to see: this rabid heart, at thunder thumps, this two hour ritual: our friends laughing, as but his soul, while finding comforts in a sad dissertation.  I hear oldies, as told kleptic, this telic message: our days to cravings, this blue-shield dynasty, this red-balm casket: our years to hundreds, courted by thousands, as aflame a subtle resonance—this life I chose, as chosen by centuries, too adrift to panic: that formal dress, those jasper tresses, that beautiful graduation.  I was cold a thought, with one grain to give, Please insist this craft by humanness—those bold textures, this tile bleeding, our glue permanently unstuck.  I rode a horse, as feeling pains, to execute as seated this vocal volt: those days to writing, as seething his guts, to fire with accuracies: therewith, a curse, this man watching, this harpoon seeping.  I’m quite reticent, but life to hells, this person seeking weaknesses—to laugh a gander, while to gander a petal, where mother felt good to exist: our frantic aunties, our manic dreams, our cousins to seeking this life: our broken brothers, our terrified sisters, our parents attempting to revoke mirrors.  (I needed love, while to fetter love, where love needed more excitement: this chase running, this goose but an egg, our tarantula(s) needing ecstasies—as but to fathers, as feeling insane, those questions on repeat: our frantic lives, our mythic swans, this ballet by tortures).  Such erumpent passions, drilling for seething, this scythe ripping into intestines: our casual guts, this free living anxiety, those holidays to table plates.  I love a fever, as distant a fever, this contradiction.  I ache a swan, as to ponder infractions, where humans are predicable: this killing presence, this radical performance, our mothers to knees screaming vengeance.  I must confess: this journey towards lightning, while, too, this canvas painted purple.     [I need more, this life by dungeons, this planet to daughters: to listen to music, to read through prose, to die as forgiven unable to accept such kindness: this wretched existence, as fluffed with perfection, to read into life feeling a tender seduction: those rabid hearts, as more his life, to fuel with ecstasies—if but to live, at grains with sickles, at terms with existence: this furious passion, a turkey a symbol, while to voyage upon our pilgrimage—seeing such glamour, those gorgeous spirits, this fluff for sharing through raptures: our curious swans, those siblings dancing, our wafting for scudding this dynasty: that Asian current, those African scars, this mulatto fleeing—as turned to thoughts, that house of pagans, this funeral concerning passions: (as once to glories, if but to sensations, while Love performed a thousand distresses)].  I’m seeing Europe, as roaming Germany, to land in Cuba: our terrible dreams, this lake so famous, this curse so enchanting—where Greece mourns, this shifting by life-forces, our women to Italy: that casual love, as so fulfilling, while captured in a mere moment.  (I adore grandmothers, to listen to grandfathers, those homes filled with grandchildren; indeed, to laugh, as thought it was complete, where children need their parents: this circuit, Love; this marvelous excursion; to realize this group practiced at, Illuminati; to rapture for ruptured, at rails bleeding, bombarded by boxes: that deep cupidity, this eager lion, where mothers desire a slow pace.  It dies that way, as to live that way, as deciding in a jiffy our components: hereto, a voice, leaking sincerities, where cygnets watch while catapulting prayers.  We love this ache, some semblance by life, this grist grounded in hearts: our mawkish outbursts, our inner screams, this frantic elation concerning melodies—that wounded knee, those Native Islands, this ship sinking near its portal: as more to life, while beckoned to sorrows, to kiss a father at pure excitements: that weeping grave; that irenic trestle; those fatidic psalms)!              

Catharses

I need to drift, panicked by possession, at flights those curious souls—as eyes bleeding, this life by boundaries, this curse a bit too alive.  I need to feel, as one lost, flipping over quicksand: this planet by graves, this promised paradise, this cordial volt.  [I see dreams, this chaotic soul, peering at insistent beauty: this slave to nights, this lawyer layered, this cut thrust through rituals: our fantastic grievance—as chased a magpie, as exploding colors—that tender swan, this last name, our reigns but coursed to fleeing: that beige light, that mahogany green, or earth to science our turquoise existence].  It feels right, this midday mourning, as glad for ruins—those jasper dregs, those bakery priests, this chemist psych—as days passed, leering into self, to notice perchance this non-fixture—as a tear alone, or courage’d to persist, while nervous a lonely crush: this flighty soul, as groveling sediments, bathing in alligator crevices—to wrestle with granny, this sighted bias, while to imagine that many may heal.  (We search by wounds, fragile but a vision, at terrible exposure: those gravid rights, as lost to nights, where perpetrators plead for clemencies).  I feel immortal, this mesto existence, too sad for company: to see a swan, laughing at nothing, a group egging this permanence: our casual cries, this misery bleeding, this woman watching—as grieved a fool, as enlove a fool, as proud this excursion by fools: oh to laugh, if but that second, our days to analyzing our aloof portals: that inner magician, this sphinx called, Time, this remorseful, head-forward, relentless omen: to capture by glance, but banded a ring, while wrung as nearly dry: this mystic majesty, this cagey luxury, our nights to mental fens: if but to perish, this shallow cistern, this wellic anniversary—where names rove earth, as curses return with interests, as Precious stares as catching a glimpse; indeed, to lights, as left to life, while lonely a pleading thought; herewith, are Asians, and Africans, and European ponds—this leaking atmosphere, this ravishing rain, our sorrows combing through spiritual mane.  [Im hesitant, to speak that grain, this treacherous feeling: this searching through mud, if but to ruin existence, this place they adore: our eyes missing—this lark by nights, settling by invisible nightingales: that curious fever, that achy island, this coming across as a smidgen zealous—as cried our minutes, fiddling by seconds, as but to imagine an hour: those cold feelings, as never to hearts, an unstudied scientist: as must to brains, this chess-sky, this immortal searching.           

We Adore Our Swan

Its fickle this dance, as, too, melancholic, to have loved unknowingly—that old cliché, as never riddled, until conundrums are lost: our sweaty fingers, our livid minds, this granny her hands tied.  I casual affairs, at love with aesthetics, peering at this woman’s ribcage: our remote tendencies, this Jesus legacy, our Christ by terrors.  I’ve more to love, adored by glances, this rebel but a pure outcast: our thoughts bleeding, this swan screaming, our spectators waving charms: if but to live, this precious swan, I’d exist as a better father: this curse as abandoned, this cut as leaking, our synaptic-gaps broken.  I sought a gift, to hear by fire, this psych as trickling heaven: if but to clocks, our mothers as patience, this dance to ballet poetry.  I heard prayers, this furious contradiction, while steeped in zenic meditations: as fathers mourn, concerned with virginity, while too afar to reach permanent arks: this Jerusalem birth, this Africa curse, this European curiosity—to travel Rome, as Latinas cry, while love stands a chiseled sacrifice.  I adore by love, this feeling as presence, this rupture as pure emotion—where Batman cried, as Superman fell, this legacy nibbling kryptonite—as but to fail, while perfected our rites, a tare disgusted by Daffy Duck.  It was life, this newborn seed, that night to terrors by ecstasy: this merlot, this vat of beer, this eighth of chronic; as deeply distressed, while unwilling to forgive, as struck that second by clarity—while easy to love, a complaisant gremlin, or more to accept an accepting soul.  I’m hearing music, roaming this land, at private rituals; while not a seed, to impart this rosary, hung upon sky-cliffs: that fabulous loss, that magnetic capture, those years to Universities: as given Bugs Bunny, this lethal affair, our dreams before Super Woman.  I love this swan, as achy a heartbeat, our drums thrumming through accordions.  (Let me share, Love—this vile creature, at terrible illusions; moreover, a compassionate soul, loving for sinning to have this Cross: those gray gardenias, those purple daisies, this tomb decorated by intestinal mind-caves: this gentle essence, this perfect tulip, this furniture bleeding those false impressions: to meet through sorrows, a figure transformed, to imagine those pure results: indeed, to shivers, this mythic lantern, this green forgiveness; nonetheless, it felt for Xanadu, or a fabulous Palace, or more this irregular Paradise—to love with passions, as dying elation, while that best friend tore existence: this mystical castle, this inner Theresa, our thoughts courted by Siena—that magical art, this Gertrude legacy, this Mechtild birth—as times reversed, while arcs soared, this pagan extravagance).  I love by life, this swanic Greene, to become as Machiavelli—our mental Dante(s), this remarkable Camus, or more this zenic Confucius—as blank but witty, or witty that canvas, to paint a daughter’s inheritance.  I ache those pains, laughing for affectations, to pull a friend from beneath mud: this crafty secret, these gestalt brains, this favor found afar our Jung—as bleeding Maslow, or featured in Rogers, while skating through Fromm—as more a man, forgiven through wars, this place awaiting our contact—those miracle lenses, floating through hells, while eating Spaghetti with meat balls.  (I tale through Smith, as falling through Brimhall, accustomed to relating to Sophia—as pictured in Frost, or casual a light through Percy, this romantic endeavor: where Wolfe bled, as Emily projected, this place in Dead Poets—to love regardless, as gripping faith, our mothers sprinkled with angel’s dusts: if but to love, this Roadrunner passion, this sensei adventure—to cut by kung fu, our radical Hindus, this plethora of mind-creativities—where father laughs, as flooded with pains, to grip a Corona passing through thoughts.  We die, hunting, peering at deer-eyes, a tear reluctant: this fevered fool, loving for vexation, a man accustomed to thinking revelations: our panicked hearts, our deepest revelries, this thought too advanced for closure—as never competitive, but ever resentful, while it’s hard to admonish our reflections: those burning eyes, that sylph in satin, this minx but a second as courted: if but to die, as listening to swans, I’d freeze in harmony).             

Intimate Intuition

I sense us, while deep our lagoon, our bowls scuba-diving: such by passion, or electrical larks, our riverbed songbirds: that fabulous cry, this becoming composure, our mates murmuring through dreams; notwithstanding, this ski-resort, while petals fall, this calling sunrise: to relate with life, as beauty dissipates, while never a facial gesture.  I parasail visions, stippled in black tar, a tear forgotten as love blossoms: those acrid winds, our wildness fens, those glens evaporating: nevertheless, this detrimental kiss, harnessed as passion, forgiven for tainted ambitions: at Caesar’s Palace, mimicking behaviors, studied through physiognomies: this cheetah vex, running for sprinting, leaping a thousand hurdles—at games for years, pulling resistance, at angst a daughter can’t see: our immortal purples, our cyan flirtations, those coquettish sable eyes—as whispers by graves, or cemetery séances, while aborted as accidental—that lavish high, seated in guarana, living through chaos this chimerical pash: those dreams screaming, that radiance laughing, those scars as soothed with sap: our living for dying, at treasures to exist, this animal musing upon luxuries: this fevered purpose, to imagine greatness, our pedestals too sky-born for human affections: as laughed our lives, or died our tears, this mirror shifting as sights evolve: nevertheless, this chaste creature, this wild minion, this religious sacrifice—to replenish at dawn, while revved by midday, to exist as embroidered concrete: this temperate soul, accustomed to brains, at mercies pleading existence: our zenic lights, our mystic oceans, our yogic excitements—where whales tarry, as not a sound, lifting our small canoes.  We trek tracks, battling solicitudes, at stumbles this lioness county: those violet grapes, those sun-drop lemons, this palm of loquats—as shifting perceptions, this human enterprise, at tears through iridescent meadows: this valley by guillotines, our citrus cantaloupes, those orchards so graceful our Garnier body wash: if but existence, to utter but energies, fumbling for wrestling too mesmerized to breathe.  I intuit purposes, this detached legacy, our palms bleeding: to have this life, filled with existence, our crush upon sorrows: as terrified warriors, battling through tremors, our secern-ments afoul our ecstasies—as charged with beliefs, this stake of thieves, to slake with diamonds our fires: if but to grow, through opalescent caves, while furnished with deeper truths: our burnished philosophies, our reaching expansions, this chemical to polish our heart-brains: if but resistance, this charming adversary, our thoughts to cloud-berries; nonetheless, our intermittent realities, seemingly unscathed, at harvest this spiritual scythes: moreover, a dream, as filled with woodblocks, our childhood tears at puzzles: as lost innocence, so young dropping glass, our religions imbuing our faiths.  I sense a giant, this remorseful laughter, that type of nervous chuckle—as stumbled by paths, leaping for ambrosia, studied by reflexive intuition: this limousine, or burgundy magpie, this HBO special—as losing pressure, while able to speak, but cautious about descriptions: that private grin, this ghostly tunnel, those months in Louisiana: as fretted ventures, or ancient tombstones, while relaxed enough to ignore treason; for time moves, as tornadoes shift, while one is blessed to refocus attentions: as living forever, in mere a millisecond, outwitted by sheer disgraces; thereto, this arc, as never for closure, while it roams to and fro as it chooses: this electric pulse, this beating heart, our sky-thrones descending afar; furthermore, this valid passion, this value by equations, such esoteric algebra: to intuit by feelings, this steep concentration, where presence utters a mirror: those collar rites, those nunic realities, this tug-dispensation at riddles a fever; therewith, this micro-light, this particle by sensations, this interrelated synaptic-gap—thereby, this cabinet, as filled with boxes, each chair afforded a trestle: this atypical cleanness, this censored source, this mental elaboration—as pure consensus, by rabid energy: whereat, stands life, this group sensing through pillars, as such, permitting spiritual trespass.  

Picture Rockets by Touch

Its cold mornings, gesticulating, our windows rattling:  Its presence, this curse, fraught by blessings: Its life, this miracle in us, this controversial attraction: at wonders, to wander that frame, too fetching for faint hearts.  I rev adolescence, gleaning for perfections, extinct at several directions: I ache crimson, by frustrated angst, a tear tepid disrupting traits: this ravished soul, loving by vanity, cagey concerning allure: this picturesque garden, those deceptive ferns, our fens to flights enchanted by seconds: to study rightness, to hold for closure, to imagine this static affair: our concrete hopes, by an abstract colony, painting for remoteness—as acclaimed in thoughts, this inner excellence, while wrestling with shattered dreams.     (I posit essence, this aesthetic masterpiece, albeit, vile, as sinking into sullenness: our radical admissions, this fresco illusion, a body so kleptic resisting ownership.  I adore mystics: I shadow yogis: I ponder this gray nuance—where thoughts are ramped, where fears manifest, this ‘thing’ about trusting humans with our brains: this steep incline, those magical feathers, those foreign eyes: our thoughts flustered, our women sinking, this warfare becoming our existence: those footlights, those palm-prints, those fingers at piano in a stranger’s cabinets.  I wanted affections, as needing acceptance, to realize an ostrich finds comforts: this acrobatic, this misprinted gnome, this misleading personification; for Love seems raw, a lover by deaths, to yank for tugging while biting deeply: our casual fantasies, as pulled to works, this petal ushering in romantic inclinations.  I rinse daily, at shower-time a dulcet voice, reaching for symbolic melodies: to have us closer, divorcing our names, while debating misnomers—as cut to soul, or souls for cut, to conjure by needs this radiant utopia).     I had this love, as bought through phantasms, this electric phantom: those protruding hips, those sweaty muscles, those petite arms; insofar, a dream, while seeking Ethiopia, to dine a second that Korean mystic: those inner kimonos, this vexing European, our challenges to support Africa: those thoughts rabid, our emotions controversial, this feeling as extravagant a stranger.  I pour affections, to remote our controllers, while voiced as one that’s passive-aggressive—to deepen by truths, this parental relationship, rapid at fire this deep aberration: that subtle attitude, as met with nonchalance, while expected that all issues are subject for debate: this cheap respect, if thought thoroughly, where one is free to do close to anything: as, nonetheless, this feral attraction, while purposed for losing sanity: that beige skirt, adorning chiseled calves, revealing elegant knees; indeed, this man to romance, as opposed to crudeness, while conditioning a woman to perfect unto resentments: this thin bridge, sparking cigars, while quieting merlot; while, moreover, Love is paranoid, inspected at each clock, where ticking(s) have become torments.  I imagine ping-pong, by liquor shots, while immersed within: that edgy soul, sipping for ravishing, exuding pure passion: that woman laughing, while subdued internally, to awaken while regrouping: that frightening task, where affectation loves, this exempt soul proving humanity; where brains explore, this flood of ‘transmitters, our women immersed unto glowing by configuration: this holy encounter, our hearts beating, this exchange of universal volts: thrusting for yanking, as gentle incipience, to peak at a rate close to heart-attacks; furthermore, this poetess ticking, this moment evolving, this rapture sinking: wherewith, are abrasions, our Junoesque motifs, this particular theme revolving other persons—at adoration for decades, to purchase a cheetah pup, while playing danger petting a baby cub: this deep transmission, this feeling by excellence, as, nevertheless, we wrestle with failed relations: this beating kettle, this drumming guitar, our harps resounding to destruction—where essence becomes vice, as vice becomes security, while pantomime emotions explode. 

Adore Rain Dragons

We need raincoats, or phantom brains, to escape indoctrination: this anchor grounded, our shaking for pulling, to become lonely creatures: this turquoise rose, our pragmatic souls, while cold this season but love.  I jazz through pain, peering at agonies, this mother too embedded his aches: or life for deaths, this granny screaming, this mother mourning her firstborn.  I laugh in silence, reckoned a threat, as too many files speak to mini-geniuses: by broken glasses, reaching for prisms, our cobblestones speaking to daughters: this furious mystic, this distant psych, our inner images distorting actual realities: if time to swords, than arts to brains, this psych a fever thrust by spears.  I see rhinestones, this eclectic nuance, our purpose as driven into mud: this marshy land, those trying patience, to escape this constant doubt: our orientation, this maestro affair, our clarinets blazing this final resurrection.  It’s demented eyes, or fluorescent bodies, as appeals to thrust for dear life: our beautiful psychotics, our seconds to psychoses, this vaccine as shifting our realities: this mental calligraphy, that picture in prisons, this man seated feeling his wife’s heart: if but to secrets, as harnessed by religion, to settle for nothing less than scientific Elijah(s): our nibbling licorice, our banana breads, this flurry of nectar considered blood—to live our Eucharist, batting our eyelashes, becoming this Louisiana possession: our rabid explanations, this battle with faith, this kicking with powers evolved through Greene: our thought-filled restrooms, our brain-hung psychics, our sensei intuitions—these grand epiphanies, as settled with doubts, to love by measure this internal voice.  I chase as falling, those kung fu eyes, our extraordinary psychologists—where angst rules, while deciphering between shifts, settling dreams seated at cabernets—this furious backlash, this unanimous say-good, while flavored as esoteric(s).  [I must confess, this passion for dementia, while peering at evocative sky-doves: this campfire yellow, this distant spider, this coming to terms—as but a riddle, webbed to anxieties, inveigled by this mental picture].  I converse with Love, listening to news prints, our musical covenants: as but fabrications, attempting to fathom studies, this man a feeling close to flying: that ocean-curse, those mystic vibes, our religions protecting aberrations: to come to Africa, by roaming through Ethiopia, favored for living in London: our alien existence, this morning hangover, this woman too proud to confess attraction.  I laugh as pained, a bit between hinges, fumbling though scientific mythical(s): our Bukowski boldness, our Trethewey steadiness, this sunlight explosion—as coming to grieve, this late night run, to sudden upon an inner vision-quest; where pianos play alone, as magazines speak isolation, while models become these hyper signposts.  I ache that feeling, to soar like magic, while grounded in few persons: those ideals bleeding, as pitching perfection, at private heights, [that treasure born through dying].  We listen for phones, these subtle characteristics, each trait analyzed as demented; as, nevertheless, this enfolded chaos, where spectators wish to become this island of madness: those inner breakings, this powerful museum, this typical atypical poetic song: as such, this marvelous soul, so content with ethics, while furious concerning human elements.  We live opera, this deep grievance, as such, this life giving fortune—where mothers laugh, while dying love, or more to feel as if this man is destiny: this blank courage, this false threat, this person lashing out for struck with inadequacies.  I knew poison, to reckon existence, as to meet this fabulous soul-supporter: therewith, this hectic gripe, as demanding closure, while wounds stand open bleeding in agonies.  It shouldn’t be, as it should to be, those weeds defining our existence: to love by stealth, as received by needs, this Ghost moving as bleeding in sacrifices: to adore images, as never to know this person, our lusts demanding absoluteness: as never that smile, cut to burdens, this guitar screaming our passions—to live as gleeful, while to perish existence, where patience becomes this typical excruciation.       

Ghost Fire

By cultic love, thrust into wilderness, abandoned to occults—this livid light, our souls to darkness, as inheritance-roots: this esoteric, amazed a heart-kick, to settle for losing: that grave bleeding, our palms to soil, this hunger to cherish—as perished his name, this sullied scoundrel, flipping through yogic spheres: this debased existence, about love his neck, as hurdles floral into dimensions: by Jesus rain, telic through maya, this Buddhist mortuary.  We felt for slain, unfastened souls, made privy to orchestras: that wellic dramatist, that ancient blueberry, this gilt’d sword: our brains to sky-searches, our hearts as subjects, this warmth as rendered our captured séance: those portals to screams, this lava river, our swans debated at full length: this frightened feeling, staring at psychotic brains, as never existed a woman so gentle: that mobile trance, this merging universe, this hectic resentment for losing his ghosts: this maverick dream, this eclectic cemetery, out theosophies running through bedroom mirrors: indeed, our apocalypse, this outer tickling, this push by shoulders—this morbid man, that tremendous smile, this sanctuary by apparitions—to goose through lights, shackled to chaos, our ceilings dripping sulfur; such ignescence, or ravishing ecstasies, to fall through psychiatric patterns: that reaching nun, as lost to his forest, disguised, attempting this ‘normal’ existence: notwithstanding, this calling, that boisterous soul, this imaginary voiceprint.  We tilt dimensions, to lilt inventions, realizing it merely requires revving: this gorgeous daughter, our suspicious mothers, at hells attempting to carry Yahweh—this blank stare, this trembling undulation, that one ghost striking for treacheries: our livid minds, as catering dementias, while at lengths to admit there was motion: that lonely hallway, that mental vestibule, this tale for hours told by purgatory; while weeping at trees, this symbolic image, while chills frustrate this current passion: this likeness distorted, this woman too brave, this man a bit behind on smarts; as crooked leverage, this brook soaring, our days at Bethlehem.  Such radiant prints, this psalmic soul, this palmic spirit: those leery priests, that intrepid pastor, this mystic as computing an entrance: that yogi dancing, that Sufi soaring, those brains to years reading Hinduism: this thought by cadence, this room melting, our wiccans speeding through tornadoes—as more than conquers, our grandmothers’ box, this push through dungeons swallowing keys.  We typed a curse, at love by remorse, searching islands for spiritual vaccines: this steep confusion, this inner mathematics, that cryptic exposure: nonetheless, this silent vexation, this inner dynamic, our dreams tugging at our eyes: that spirit hovering, as pushing us to pillows, to sit with ease rebuking psychic manifestations: that metaphysic, that scientific, this measure by religiosity—to see with patience, this Mason by screams, to endeavor as running through prisms.  We thunderbolt, as hectic as time, lost in a few features: this man to cults, or established religions, while digging for dying those dreads to sky-fires: those endless signs, this dreaded abyss, our moments to resuscitate: moreover, a dream, this shivering spirit, those violent movements: as possessed her mind, this living poltergeist, this inhalant spell—as pills for sacrifice, this coven by women, this cult by men: if but to touch, as hushed a scar, this writer seeping into mother: that brilliant machine, as pushing for treasuries, where life was angelic torture: to peer at Mary, or to forgive Magdalene, with minds scoping this telepathic horizon: our psychic physics, our phrenic essence, this ache through touch so embedded as carpets—that goth enchantment, this furious reservoir, our souls threshed in Africa—as seated near oceans, tugging a lion’s tooth, abandoned to those days of silence: this motion as catapulted, that mystic Zenist, this tangible invisibility: to know for names, reaching for cadence, if but to explain to an infant swan: our fathers’ legacies, our grandfathers’ brains, this method by exaggeration, [as igniting a flurry of ghostly particles]: furthermore, this inner skeptic, while doubting experience, placing our campfires in (parentheses).

Journal Enterprise pp. 67-68

Night has fallen; this man to brains; this feeling for precious palms—as grieved a nightmare, this flippant ghost, our Jewish roots.  I feel unsung, hiding from passions, wherefrom, this liquid curse: those gorgeous veins, as sweat shivers, by waves before trimmers ignite flames: that beige Lamborghini, those jasmine highlights, this furious fever as frantic our heart-pulses.  I see for pleasures, laughing at bedrooms, hectic a beat this treble voiceprint: to love while deluded, or deluded for laughing, pulling for gravity’s texture: this crying hex, such affectation, to emote as winning: this chagrin soul-cave, our depressed underlines, as suspended in fairytales.  It’s been months, at wrestles this thought, while convicted that one rarely rules—this casual succession, this castle upon high, this queen running from paparazzi.  I die to love us, an inner centerpiece, scribing upon a cedarchest: this vacant us, this mental poetry, our whiffs to composing sestinas: if but by curses, our gray dusky skies, this man forbidden from islands—as thought for cuteness, or treasured for strengths, this soul about steep contradictions: our theologians, by crooked ethicists, rolling through a swamp of alligators.  I saw a face, not much to brains, for life was beauty: those aesthetic women, those mirrored ceilings, this soul by much too early—as now to senses, as feeling his motions, to court with passions unbeknownst to ghosts: this livid insight, as easy strokes, to come to conquer a bit for leagues: this fabulous Latin, that gorgeous Ethiopian, that Amish runaway—as traveling trains, a pack but wolves, released for tortured at playing violins.  We met by reasons, a man afore his mirror, a woman distrusting his glow—as knowing contours, that subtle light, to become so calm as to exist pure distresses.  I thought to kingdoms, as laughed by gravity, a man to his dreams; or better by visions, to cut a slice for Love, while threshed peering at wealth: that last heist, those golden coins, this inner safe; as, moreover, this silky sorrow, a bit to maniacs, while secluded by sexual satiation: those acid brown eyes; our violet hopes; those aqua feelings—where detriment becomes life, feigning as if, to become more than that deception: our psyche battleships, as inner ventriloquists, such as marooned heart-shakes—that wicked cry, as held to disdain, to see for curses this immortal legacy—our bleeding palms, our French wine, this German sylph: if but to graduate, at mafia elbows, to bate as winded that long forest: our colorful scruples, our uneven love, to sense with silence an emerging tear: this silent woman; this missed-the-mark, Love; this riddle steaming before me: this man running, for leaping, our hurdles by cemeteries—that inner clash, this arrhythmic séance, our mothers, our love, dear for God.  I can’t escape it, as never he should, to die laughing at structures: this false pretense, as required dearly, loving for needing while captured a father’s curse: this immortal woman; this soundproof head-storm, if but one last drink.  I must to chuckle, a soldier as an odd number, drizzling for falling into crayons: this deviation, as eyes swim, this woman too precious for deers: that Beyoncè grin, or Queenly eyes, by treasures to study physiognomy.  I was at love, as cursed to fail, our memories upon a mantelpiece—those nestling screams, this Captain Crunch, our dinners nearly complete—as another day, pining for sinning, reduced to pulling away: this edgy soul, as livid with truths, while merely a sophisticated ferret; indeed, to measures, peering at beauty, by memory these spiritual militias.  I’m lost to fixing, while found in ruins, those years to dregs—to find with life, those universals, while sensing subtle nuances: this capital mother, that lost repute, an entire city grieving her guts; but love was ripples, this furious cage, our days as numbered this month: as, hitherto, to have ruined passions, laughing for shivering, those mornings to plucking eyelashes: this moving muscle, as crafted with neon, or exposed as fluorescence.  I loved a fable; I died to gamble; I shot tenor a thousand suns: this casual recession, as inner regression, while morbid a taste peering at another’s dreams: our sleepy shadows, those escaping words, this feeling as, Rather he would: as locomotives, plucking lemons, harvesting apricots: that cyan blouse, ruined in laughter, our suits dripping sap; indeed to luxuries, while spent a curse, forbade by circumstances: those mystic eagles, our mystic Jesus, as sipping for nibbling this sacred body—to flee with love, at leaps through winds, at hearts to awaken. 

I Know I Shouldn’t

But hell to feelings, as we must escape them, such crystal scarifications: that mobile thought, as rabid concentration, to desire likeminded debates: this woman as pure, notwithstanding, bars, fleeing to presence aloft a mahogany settee: this music bleeding, our brains as lethal, our fantasies making reservations—as lives our souls, our spacial complications, at fawning memories.  I shift a notion, to conjure welts, this friend playing pretend—as never for riches, while ever for powers, our daughters as purifications.  Its rubric roses, inclined features, our nostalgic brains: if but to perish, as if we lived, I’d return, pleading for forty acres.  Its flowery opalescence, and inner opuses, this devious concerto: to have this second, as freedom’s guillotine, our inwards becoming outcasts.  I know a feeling, seeking this whirlwind, our pools pitted in bacteria: that vacuum heart, that turquoise sky, our feelings splayed as demented our souls.  I’m jasper dreams, to fiddle with toes, at sudden, a nose bleed: this faithful onyx, pitching obscenities, tugging for yanking abroad an inner dimension.  [You descry rhythms, confined in panic, while studied as an object of curiosity: our indelible scars, sifted through angels, our sidereal passions: where Love was art, this flamed-infatuation, while screaming, Those dreams are for fools.  Our wretchedness, as terse apathies, or reticent jewels: to comfort with helium, or smother with sulfur, this kiss as reaching its terminal.  We must escape, this inescapable life, falling for stretching beyond limits: our gravid skies, our lurid hearts, this collision smashing out doubts: to have that feeling, as raffled for divinity, this sweet adoring ransom].  I sweven inventions, courted by presence, to realize we torture as not for satisfaction—but more a curse to examine this essence, flamed for killed remembering this precious swan: our cold glaciers; our mid-ocean ridge, this frenzy to have something that might lose its texture; indeed, for honesty, as ruined a legacy, this demon but a silent horizon: this inner thole, as suffering begins, while fevered a feeling as felt dementia: our needs to wist, this ancient rift, by passions clashing with internal philosophies.  I sought a Sensei, as submissive violence, outdone ravished by undoing(s): this mental kung fu, or emotional taekwondo, seated for arising in tai chi—as nonplus adventures, sectioned as Zen, this livid, radical fantast: those cured eyes, as dying, nonetheless, where it felt good to receive admirations: this feeling-phantom, our souls’ apparitions, this marble Cross—insomuch as life, to want beyond measure, while to praise resistance: this human title, so good for badness, while becoming this malignant episode: our restless voltage, this gallery by Christ, this remorseful padlock.  I must address it, our hands filled by blood, our legacies splintered for nearly ruined—this second for tea, this glass teapot, our palms laughing while dying tears: this welkin favor, as acute to breathing, but a pictureless rapture.  I could as resilience; this shouldn’t mentality, while remembering something lived as elusive: this daily gamble, this sunshine nectar, this keystone veil.  (I took to silence, this animalistic mourning, while plagued by a sad countenance: this rescue fever, as demanding eternity, as foreign to love a promiscuous essence: this thin soul, at terrible raptures, our Magdalene friends: as, hitherto, such dusky skies, a man infatuated by a second: this shifty soul, at love for spirits, while flung into revolving mirrors: this bodily sketch, this furious muse, our minds at cadence: as much regret, finding while demented, to avail but small comforts—this grandiose lion, while distressed by notches, a peg a day snatched from of crises: this wonderful soul, this windfall electricity, this vision as more by contrasts: to admire resilience, at love this millennia, while broken for discarded, at terrible admiration—this fuel dripping, this princess living, our days to pure nonchalance.  It could be life, or deaths to vast degrees, this irremovable kernel: to flicker with time, our mystic infusions, this instrumental-mallet-scar.          

Beliefs upon Thoughts

I love us, as endless swords, to hells with passions: this shimmering gavel, our electric heists, this velvet insanity; where dreams are livid, this shoveling chaos, our remote islands: if but to capture, that feral essence, our palms nailed to extravagance.  [It was ghoulish sights, and tyrannical plights, this manic geared through fantasy: our rigorous torture, to see with lights, abased, devoid of estrogen.  I beckoned life, this rigid Pope, afore a serious riddle: if but to cadence, as rapid as automatics, to catch for falling into cantos: this morbid resistance, this challenged existence, to welcome at wakes this finale: our broken violins, this screaming violence, this touch to sanity as crossing its wires: wherewith, this insidious capture, while rapture’d capacities, to enter, at once, seeking censorship].  I ache a trombone, as never for found, an artifact possessing sheer curiosity: this flavored ghost, at travesties with queens, this clandestine séance—where thoughts grovel, as sinners perish, to realize inner subjective-ness: this howling goose, this raven goddess, our worlds by deaths claiming romanticism.  [I must advance, this thought as, Form, our realities determined by our beliefs: this space by insights, this steep intuition, to capture our mirrors as reflections of our inheritance: this Buddhist swan, this Christian dove, this yogi exposed to pure panic: while cleaving to precepts, as bases for abstracts, our universes a product of captured thoughts.  [I sense silence, this world made perfect, our resistance to interrogations; for truths are evident, for they must be true, else, reflection becomes endless].     (It’s space-time arts, this pool of bacteria, as controlled divinity: those wakeful eyes, this pot of caffeine, our cigars burning listlessly—or cathartic trauma, for too much reaching, afield this tyranny of mind-showers; where love sprinkles, as shattered to bone, this rabid collision; as tales of insanity, our evil inclinations, this series of odd events; where rhythm favored—this man of dreams, despite this soul at territories; to compass life, or flit to waft, outstretched while flying: this miracle hymn, as tragic potential, to love for fragments this vying feeling: those fretful thoughts, as wither those tones, or silence for decades peering at realities: this facial twitch, our hairline agendas, this man speeding for chasing yellow lights: to rebuke with time, this burning lament, a tear disconcerted concerning evolution; as, notwithstanding, this feverish appetite, as reasons to open our future coffins: this gust of abandonment, to sit in awe, such by rambling windows: our tattered hearts, as illustrious screams, if but to possess this gem by eternities: this wishing by wells, as Love’s embedded, relentless to forgetting such intimate séances: as more he’d perish, dying for living, while Love appears bitterly fragile).     I cut as dying, this spider’d anxiety, running by structured feelings: this deep emission, to explode essence, by nature a Hindu art: or metaphysics, straddled by epistemology, to find sheer resistance through human doubts: this violet sky, our lavender grass, this in-wood interior: that spacial frontier, this galaxy to random acts, while more to credit human conceptions—as born to emotion, where tradition trumps scripture, this favor to hearts claiming existence; where luggage stinks, afloat driftwood, as ashes trickle upon flush carpeting: where something was kept, as something was gained, to reason as benefiting by resistance: our numbing naps, by wanton disregard, while cleaving to something that flares fires.     It becomes distance, where danger is perceived, an entire relationship founded upon straw: by dauntless smugness, or sheer social-poison, to catch us laughing at treacheries: this soul with feelings, longing for his kingdom, to arrive a product of misperceptions: to prithee forgiveness, while staring forward, where most tolerate our treasured poets: this vocal rill, as tugging for truths, where complaisance becomes by order a law: that steep trombone, to rattle blood, while feeling shipwrecked…as losing lights, or such by pain, to enter one last womb.                     

Petal for Petal Adorning Existence

I see greens, as a flamingo of onions, this sullied lullaby.  I see cattle, branded by searching, at wits this delicate swan.  I hear smiles, those resonant brains, as leapt a heart’s accordion: this filter astray, as chased by rabbits, to flourish a kiss as kept apart: this flying mystic, this wafting aroma, those flowerers sealed at deaths.  I tasted salt, this bleeding perfume, this mythic enchantress: those flailing arms, this mental liturgy, those years to feeling restricted—as driven flies, or baited crocodiles, this light too vicious to sustain.  I casual life, admiring gems, at cantankerous clashes: this inner man, this outer soul, while fleeing to a nearby parish.  [I must address it, this uncanny feeling, while accustomed to friendships: this lurid painting, that fresco ceiling, those African accessories—as chiseled within, this benign grin, as malignant enchantment: this furious daisy, as charmed by powers, to lift as spoken an axe to chains: our romantic standby; this alligator’s teeth; this desert flight as fly-good affliction: to pace a cave, encased in fire, while glaciers pour through rabid lava].     We desire more, this art by trees, this flowing undergrowth: those grains by sands, our essence by spirits, this indomitable force ushered internally: those sprinting leaves, this autumn rain, our innocence reaching immortality: to fly as chosen, leaping generations, our religious insights supported by science occultisms: if but this churn, at strengths with lions, our ferocious appetites becoming sensibilities: as wildness to apes, or sophisms to redemption, this feral dingo becoming a protestant priest: while never forgiven, thrust into communities, where contentions become grounds for irrational thoughts.  [I must address it, this gentle feline, occasioned for paradoxical existence: as being essence, dwelt afar, our clarinets dragging rationality—this flight of ghouls, affected by scriptures, standing up-knitted those maverick lagoons: this man running, this daughter at raptures, our mothers seemingly missing crucial realities: where silence stings, as dreams dissipate, while said essence yearns to liberate].     Its turquoise passions, or jade liquids, our Bentley empires—while mother ponders, sitting in stillness, shared with friends: this man at challenges, his life to weights, this culturally indebted sacrifice: as rarely loved, or loved by triumph, skating for leaping chased through deserts: our daughters’ hearts, our fathers’ worries, our passive agreements; for life by deaths, or deaths by life, this kettle blaring its knell; by freezers bleeding, leaking oils, while catfish are gutted.     [I felt a smile, this ritual as private, our passive dementias: whereas, with tulips, this brief existence, our tingling heartaches.  I felt fire, this old admission, while tugged for digging.  I heard whispers, so far within, this binocular psych; thereto, are restraints, these formidable standards, while reaching for normality: this un-normal seed, pleading his atmosphere, at wars by evidence; as ever a shadow, tremendous with silence, a bit passive concerning this like of existence: that forest’s trail: those iron rails: this madness as resistant tales: to courage existence, while blinded this life, at furious characteristics: this reaching for perfection, encased in old habits, a fool’s paradise.     [I must address it, as if it didn’t live, this spiritual dominion: our inner parakeets; our meerkat thoughts; this war between families: as internal rifts, bleeding sanities, this innocence as losing its toughness; to casual life, as acquiring debt, a woman by several suitors, while each a burning bridge.  We bat an eye, to hear but evidence, our souls as self-acclaimed: this inner theory, that outer therapy, this mental psychologist: with knowing for goodness, as refusing tolerance, to afflict while rented as humans: we speak by Nevers, indebted by treasures, at wars our arteries’ memories: this cold guitar; that warm piano; our fixation with accusing our reflections: that inner forgiveness, as crucial to existence, our epicurean debates].     I learned, Utility, as mere a beginner, struggling with needing possession: those absolutes, as foreign kingdoms, nevertheless, as sheer excitement: where addiction alters, our exercised rights, electric a fire for swans.                                             

I Felt a Smile

I know your smile, with life this smile, ailed for haunted as smiles; this luxurious sorrow, pelted by dreams, as casual as sunlight.  I ache your heart, as silent constrictions, our paths paved for battleships; this intricate smile, as harmonious bliss, while purposed a saber’s tooth.  Its hearts to waves, as caves to brains, pondering exclusive vaults: such privileged literature, such chaotic warfare, those smiles by sun-tears.  We laugh by feelings, aching by tendencies, at mirrors disguised while bathing in shivers; this ghostly trench, our murky brainstorms, this woman as fractions of herself: to capture with time, those candid lights, our interlocked palms.  I hear that smile, but particles of this land, swimming through muddy skies—that lost coyote, seated in trimmers, enough to nigh steadily: that agonizing grin, those lines to elation, our deaths prone to resurrections.  I felt this laugh, seeping into justice, pleading its dissatisfaction—where children cringed, as sliced by reality, to exist through this tenfold feeling.  I fed a squirrel and died to sins and cried for love; this twirl at roses, by washed reigns, to palace with life a soaring smile: those wishless trefoils, as casting blessings, to fire with science this faint beginning: our enrooted selves, this endless baseline, our fundamental differences—as claiming adult feelings, while conditioned by adolescence, this war for lilies splayed as particles.  I see your smile, as segregated silence, to sit as a mere portrait: those acrylic eyes, those protruding veins, this concupiscent gaze—if but to live, smiling sincerely, that ravishing wind at heart-skies.   I remember smallness, or concrete lamps, seated in mother’s den.  I remember laughter, as sudden a miracle, such by snores to realize aliveness; as cats lathe, this clawing of furniture, our declawed ambitions.  I sense a smile, this lavish portrait, as studied at surfaces: that stormy cave, that genuine chuckle, this space returning to its childhood: such violet cloud-work, by religious science, reading, Dialectics: this outer mental, embroidered in faces, as but an entrance this life: those steep trances, as musical museums, this pain for matching puzzles.  I know your smile, so gentle to kittens, while suspicious about unstated agendas: that infant toy-box, that green reptile, that rug chasing its corners—as mother soars, peering at velvet horizons, at once, a moonish smile; albeit, this life, cuddled by realities, thrust through by characteristics: this trait in men, as founded cultures, while amazed by sustaining breaths; as, notwithstanding, this precious smile, reamed for ironed, this faceless voice-storm.  I see pictures, this array of friendships, this rapture seasoned with love: that streaming passion; those lasting successes; this brain at tethers a mere stranger—as born at light, engulfed by darkness, at love this paradoxical smile.               

Air Voice

It stands as, Love, by opera wings, gazing upon jasper glitter: this terrible passion, as laughing at mirrors, a soul too gone our seventh quarter: this hankering agenda, at Love by frustration, such by shattering dire conventions: this wheezing frenzy, agaze’d by sun-fevers, this primrose ecstasy—to ache as dreaming, this vision within acorns, to unmask by terminal tensions: this face elated, as chased through meadows, our wolves as delicate: by cedar roots, or pine odors, such to flesh as supporting its last death—this palm extended, such as wrists so perfect, by moonlight, bestial sensations.  I die to dreams, romantic as songbirds, that picturesque mind—as livid a madman, this thing to clearances, by breath our palates musing gourmet: that lion afar, afire a threshing, our flames so driven so deadly—as broken with sickles, living as afflicted, but a wish those tears to mornings: such casual sin, as captured at trespasses, leery about Dante’s kingdom.  It lives a possession, to ache vehemently, to cry an infant’s graces: those tresses by echoes, or graves by resurrections, such as living through shanghais voltages: that curious soul, those bubbling eyes, this irremovable black sword—as levied through life, or lowered to gravel, pleading for writhing in sheer matrimonies—that fragrant mist, those ocean cries, our sky-speckled alibis: if but for torture, I’d oblige, if but for torturous savannahs—those cheetahs sprinting, our fairest eagles, our meerkats carving frantically—by honor this Love, as celestial cages, those tides to sprinkles as trans-splendid allegories—where days were glory, as but a second for millennia, at breath our sheets struggling for paradise: our cold oasis, our seconds to rebirths, this outward inversion—as jasmine lilies, or white pearls, our toes barreling into tan mud.  I have this longing, while scratching this sticker, fueled by eternal dreams: if but as perfect, if but extravagance, if but your soul tugging our skies: that crazed alibi, those enslaved treasuries, this right as given to presume destiny: as but mahoganies, or off-our-centers, by cores traveling towards detriments—as but a feature, laughing our feelings, as spacial as planetariums: our giraffe hindsight, this leopard’s strength, as given too much becoming that seer with visions.  (Sails are flapping, this life as chosen, sitting such stillness to move: that furious Love, as predicted in manuscripts, our eternal voltage: this dream by motion, as ruined in time, our minds willing existence: this faraway Love, this moonlit feeling, this want to chase as best it may give: our casual hearts, this yachting soul, to see with deaths this chase as living: our mad dreams, our pursuits to feel, this bowel of existence: to curse with time, our eyes bigger than vacuums, our revisions depended upon earlier drafts: that achy heart-thresh; those testy footprints; running for adrift debating that hint of elation.  We exist languishing, our rustic city lives, our deepest anxieties; as felt a magnet, at sheer resistance, to realize this chase: as never for lightning, this misfortunate soul, but more to skiing familiar slopes: or life to Love, that remarkable star, at essence this visual imprint: as flowerers blooming, or skies raining, this beauty to dance through mire—as sheer perfection, that inner fantasia, this Love conjured by adolescence).  I need its source, to negotiate its worth, as dug for trenches our brilliant minds.  I spoke to chauffer(s), I agonized queens, if but this village narrowed down to genetics: those remote islands, those cavelike pits, these wildlife roots: our Tarzan souls, our superhuman strengths, this vacuum at centers our faceless, Love: if but to sing, or thrust into chess, to seize with armor this vehicle as nameless: this body of feelings; this sky-craft of emotions; this atypical wingspan: to know for clearance, rummaging a pirate’s treasuries, while searching high-planes: that tiny ant, as fueled with wisdom, those headless horsemen: as more this vest, to besiege this fortress, reading valiantly those memoirs by God; for Love is free, this freedom to souls, while standing afar effecting reactions: that intense fire, that sudden tidal-wave, this deep sleep while searching for data: as born through darkness, as such is darkness, this trillion dollar air-voice. 

Inclusive Numbness

We crawled quickly, to totter gently, to run through villages: such bewildered souls, struck by thunder, our incipient selfish love; as molded parts, or broken dreams, prior that belt by lives—as coveting deaths, this bellic chi, this irreducible cage—while, thereto, this edge by sanities, this wedge by glories, our hedges reduced to asylums: such comfort to brains, to forfeit forgiveness, while tyrannical those lethal heart-tests: that casual nonchalance, that proud disposition, whereto, another sees carelessness:—that thin line, that velvet oath, this oaken ruler—as ruled by dreams, that fading sycophant, that emerging warrior.  We cloak embarrassments, weeping our numbness, admiring novelty: this meeting by madness, as irked near submission, where whales sing but isolation—by cold mirrors, as never a glance, while inducing sheer ecstasy: or forests grackles, or desert ferrets, anything but our dreams.  It took guidance, to lather scars, as emerging a palm filled with compasses: this scream she sold, our scolded metals, as such performance perchance for cocaine.  We could to laugh, if hell was funny, where irrevocable pride haunted its very deaths—this achy rib, our coiled kiln, this furnace as returning to executions—those conceited flowers, staring in amazement, frozen but a glance a day: as unbound, we sung, thereto, those soprano skies—filled with flights, this mental concerto, swearing by surveillance—those cryptic women, as thought that art, where others spoke of simplicity: that courage dripping, our moods shifting, those bars to dreams at full appraisals.  We exist as strangers, this universal chase, scathing absolute science: that tiny turtle, wiggling to sea, as only a few escape—those years to flagons, that need for evidence, that forfeited dream: as told him anything, his senses tingling, but never an inquiry for color.

I’m chasing waves, and penetrating façades, heart-deep in seaquakes: this purple loquat, adrift by twilight, a bit leery about folklore—those beige chandeliers, that see-through gin, his essence split and auctioned to those lurid jackals: this place as churning, our cadence as osmosis, while others have died given but guts and glory: our soaring amore, this cloud-born phoenix, this ache discerning its likeness: as gloomy mirrors, or proud sky-dreams, at touch but life given to seeds: our nibs hidden; our inlets squeaking; our ten year battles against self—that edgy soul, those watery mystics, this hectic snow fury.  I’m chasing dreams, sunlit to vanish, polished by spectators: that banished anthem, our cosmic mimicries, this rustic land filled with eagles: if but to brag, this long felt drilling, as purposed to believe in more than agreements: or lost to anchors, as never a mirror, while relying on sinning against self.

Our fairest women, our chided women, our women as seeing but a fraction of roses; this slaked soul, to disappear laughing, as never a thought to treachery: we season love, as forced within, this bridge leading to glory: that inner life-bird, those songstresses, this chasing for running while fueled by faith—at flights this journey, that daily battle, to rattle pure passion: this light moving, our probing consciousness, this voice as adrift fiery with injustice: as knitting a banner, or holding his flag, renowned for living our American dream: this flailing self, this inner nursery, by lights an inverted curse.  We claim religion, as captures our glances, rolling for falling negotiating hells: this mystic at large, this soul to wolves, our bellicose dreams.       

I See Life

Be it wings, or fantastical flights, sewn into beautiful webs; therewith, was love, or dramatical arts, or silent symphonies; to hear dynasties, caged in sewers, such justice balanced as unforgiving: our training-wheels, sketched as angelic minds, a bit controversial—our lives…to remember yonic pre-births, or skylark observations, so hell-torn by graces that queen: if empty by life, or full by deaths, groveling for rapt’d or rapt’d for groveling: such delicate trauma, such cherub advice, by aches to hear it before it raptures—this inner page, this mental journey—our faces so delicate to chastity: our weekly lagoons, as mystic cave-prints, this pulling current distorted its waves—those far cries, as echoed hearts, to flux by souls our skies to sands.  (To relive times, unborn a sinner, this lit literature—to beckon minds, too steep to untie, too threaded to reknit; as fire invades, where trenches cascade, while born a silent fever—that rafter by pains, those beams looming, by wealth such poverty becomes extra-ordinary—this anti-thesis, or a flurry of blank cries, needing for living while living for needing—that miracle dream, so graphic a failure, by days to life driven as barely focused: this dreamy soul, in-but-lost to sub-consciousness, where arts slaughter rationalities: those visions to lives; this envisioned perfectness; those childlike advancements—as witnessed currents, so vocal a gesture, so righteous as souls—to feel clearances, or marvel internally, this treacherous overcast—as more but souls, feeling through thoughts, while it felt good to rule).  We exist acacias, as undergrowth studies, bending grammatical rules—as lured creatures, our wakeful anxieties, fueled by purpose our social contracts: to picture for worlds, such dramatic love, to know with time such character—as wishing our lives, our forests inheritance, this life so cultured by pieces…as rare as whispers, or ecstatic pauses, to lunge into life this ageless dream: that powerful mind, at moments to graces, our spines flooded with butterflies—as courage’d fantasies, through plaid existence, this pleading for rainbow horizons—as lives our minds, this mobile adventure, so close to everything it lives—while skating silence, our lambs as haunted by wolves, to find by instincts that others are wiser this life: therewith, this cultic mercy, as given to reflections, where aches portal nightmares.  (I dreamt of flowers, hours into surgery, too young to fully fathom our Nanny: this mafia woman, this arch by angels, this phantom with secrets; as lost to life, so rich with cadence, by transforming hopelessness into dreams.  I had a friend, our deep conversations, while filmed as demented: those craving thoughts, this otiose life, this village paved with psychs—as therapeutic, or capitalistic, to write a myriad of essays.  (I’d die a soul, if but a seed, where days are gloomy: those privy thoughts, those grand epiphanies, this woman at tears to loathe his being.  It felt for rain, to adore as unseen, dealing with negative receptors: that lavish style, those dice to brains, that electric seven as delivered: this Chevy Impala, those diamonds for forgiveness, this alienation by realizing this im-mountable mountain—where love is sweet, while captured in chains, to meet a person at restraints: that daily glory, our morning waffles, that edgy debate provoking lights: to come to justice, as sheer a vessel, delving into juvenescence—that creepy sign, those eerie lights, this fly a bit concerned with his face; where love is granted, as never but love, to come to aches as scraped from windshields).  I ache a life, as mere a gnat, straining to crawl that eye of a needle: this granny instinct, our fathers to mercy, this bent as suggested while floored to fires; therewith, a voice, as seething analyses, while prone to select a positive trait: this woman altering, while bending perceptions, at turns becoming human: this tender feeling, our palms to thunder, if but to relax while feeling ecstatic: this churning machinery, our mental mechanics, this feeling that science has missed it objectives.  [I’ll love for essence, as beating eternity, to flux with passion this last death: our liquid soot, our cranberry smaze, our days to relying while feeling smelted].                             

Data Base

We scorch dungeons, this pyre of hay, streaming tragic cantaloupes—those fevered eyes, as composed a nightmare, at cares for a baby girl: those torching pegs, forbidden but bidden, at tears this merry-sorrow: that cultic girth, those marble gems, that cagey advice.  We tender a fire, as but hypnoses, glaring through mini-planets: those captive orbs, so enchanted that life, a bit weathered this pain—those eucalyptuses, that cypress ottoman, this catalogue by dungeons: that fatal gong, through energy-thoughts, as such to reach his arc.  Its casual love, as dramatic love, while manuscripts dictate out stage-life: with playing by snails, or symbolic nails, healing our neighbor’s ails: that Crystal Lake, those rhinestone heart-blades, our daughters as monuments; where time is law, this ten year battle, while believing for newness: our thetic prose, our snotty responses, our inner forgiveness—as lost to lands, or peering at landscapes, a wish upon a petal—to tug an ear, this otic pistol, while succumbing as needing that feeling.  I’m found gravid, this noetic kinship, struggling a dungeon: that fair reply; this addict’s headache; this thirst for Chardonnay: if but to blindness, as caged his essence, at tyranny this woman’s blessings—as platonic fiber, while gnawing grass, to tug with life a tender steel.  I’m seeing numen, this twinkling totem, this timeless dungeon; therewith, a dream, as infused a person, to question our sources: our relating parts, this positive stress, this negative gift: to choose his life, as rabid a star, as frantic a swan.  I loved a twinge, to pursue a vision, while furniture sat still—this weathered soul, as pure a gem, to curse with life giving essence: this woven us, as pure delight, to miss our resonance: as never would, or ever should, while pleading destiny’s sanity: our electric pianos, our mental symphonies, our pleasures at seeing others smile.  I’m wringing sponges, this trickle to brains, at faces a cultic leopard: that feyic quilt, this mystic feeling, to jettison a pail of beliefs; heretofore, this lavish sensation, at tears that nun’s thoughts, while frantic to behave.  It comes to dungeons, as fleeing for flying, at prairie fruits—that place I dwell, as hiding in neurons, our pistons rapid ‘transmitters—to course with time, our years our graves, to stand while pleased a tribunal.  We lilt this life, proud to have lived, while shaken to have existence: this gilt’d swan, that attic mystic, those outstripping professionals: if but for wrung, dripping into washers, our tunics stripped for healings: that mind, Love, as cultured in parts, to live as stressing pluralities—this inner ascension, that Iris mentality, this sonic sound wave—thitherto, this built self, as at love, but terrified: to carry a feeling, as alive that thought, while vacillating in agonies.  I met with dungeons, this space in ruth, to rill a fortune: this brain’s aches; that need for medicine, while typing out therapy: our meals to moments; our wills revolting impulses; as virginity only once a lifespan.  It lived us, this mental repertoire, our garret dances: as pure ballet, or but a glance to shift, this unending trial—to come to life, as proud by existence, at membrance those loves to sins: our signs glaring, our weeping glory, this crypt decorated in triumphs: if but to live, such gravid splendor, our days at Troy.  (I thought to us, as slapping my thigh, while alive such resonance: this inner cadence, those cryptic rules, this furtive suggestiveness: where fair is beauty, this wrenching hawk, as never a thought: to fully explain: I know but a soul, this flushed inner being: I know but a feeling, as absent by judges, that false claim by love: as different a seed, but most a loss, while to ponder a favorite meal: those long stems; those fragrant oils; those preferred perfumes: as rapid magic, intense those brains, as unrelenting engrams; thitherto, this spirit-cleek, as relentless science, at mirrors coaching this invisible man: so life to stealth, as born within, as, therein, a dream; or love to flowers, as passing our gardens, tilling by sickle, as broken with wholeness: our dungeons).          

Unending Proofs

It could be magic, this probing tone, those zealot ants: this mile to miracles, this maddening shift, our antlers kneeling anxieties—to tear with love, such agonizing elation, while years become scientific—wherewith, those qualifications, that burgundy Bentley, our dreams to cinemas: as lurking shadows, our inner wits, our minds tugging with hearts.  It could be lovely, or more wellic, a bed full of memories: those geese to passions, our neighboring lagoons, our naming of squirrels.  This mansion inside, plush, a thousand rooms, our cellars but aging wines: that rhinestone lion, that thousand dollar blender, this settee its inner compartments: thereto, our perfect shrubberies, this maze to our forests, that sudden disruption!  It could to life, a rasp to our edges, fully engulfed: where voices are music, as music is augmentation, while augmentation becomes excitement: those white butterflies; that unreal disposition; this wrestling by literatures: if but to panic, while retreating brains, to come to senses thrust into wilderness.  It was evening our kef or morning our libation, becoming with passion quite religious.  It was death our worries, those lascivious months, our vatic spell: to roam as wildebeests, our deserts our groaning, our laughs at destruction.  It could be visions, our watery canvas, debating our color-wheel—those splendid islands, those rapturous pains, living as appointed therapists: those highways afar, that city pine tree, those inches towards healing: as old incisions, becoming mental liturgies, our needs to voice as songbirds.  It could be love, our eyes that narrow gate, while weaving, thus, our quilts: our sound oaths; our paragliding hearts; our jazzy discourses—as would our lives, those visits to shrines, this art by roses.

Day II

I saw a dream, this casual spin, sinning for holy adrift—those rocky lakes, that sylvan ark, those coppice charms—while etched afar, this invisible hand, our days at visions by mid-tears—that erratic chest-fork, those sporadic itches, by welts to cages as fled for frying: this achy life, that achy friend, those waves cutting for nonsense.  I said a dream, as if for perfect, as one ever enchanted: this living again, whelmed by sickness, our guts vomiting love—that ancient mystery, this six month sin, as ever our rebirths.  I thought a feeling, as effervescent sunshine, our bodies so naked as newborns: this rounded axe, sawing for closure, our hats to breezy oceans—that far island, simmering in brains, our midnight meditations.  I took to running, as clashed our excitements, everso to flying: that inner band-aid; those mental treasuries; this impatient clamping—as driven a soul, to feel as living, raptures as puffs of smoke—for love is wounded, so broken a dream, as panic a subtle thought; to perish breathing, as but attributes, this intangible weather-coat.  I saw a dream, so tall a scream, so short a stream: those gray lesions, infused with wisdom, plucking at green blades; where passion engulfs, this walk so stern, a frog awaiting its princess: those steep aches, that symbolic nursery, this planting as arising but a petal upon a system—those stranded eyes, that kidnapped soul, this music too afar to touch.  I’m gripping lutes, fiddling with guts, our brains afloat with essence: too see falderal, as sensing life, to plead for a new reservoir: something beyond flying, something without capture, something in this soul prone to worship: that loser winning, that ache dissipating, this tern at busy palms—to avoid this curse, as casual sin, while ambivalent concerning whatness: this fancy penmanship, as centuries of sadness, while giving this feeling about existence: such mystic expectancy, as ritual rapture, to finally breathe again: this seeing while retreating, as inner pianos, agaze’d, while at steep images: this furious living, while healthy a dream, to settle an unending proof.