Know Flame

…as wept’d for weeping, that flowing gown, those Rihanna eyes, those duplex cries: our buildings bleeding, our oaken sap, those cypress witnesses: while rabbits giggle, as snakes are laughing, where caimans run our forests: our blood blue dyes, our cavalier cages, to walk a small environment: at mystic guts, at yogic distance, so close it churns: our remarkable greens, our tragic realities, as fused and looking pitiful: those grains, those deaths, this resurrection: at loses through years, as losers redeemed, as never to miss pure reality: this painful haven, this sorrowful mansion, those doors those rooms this plight: to ache with Love, to chance for Love, while Love adored privilege—this tyrannical atmosphere, those ambient lights, this white/purple lake-storm: at geese pitching abrasion, at squirrels pitching fantasies, where Love felt and thumped mid-motion: (our cannibal hearts, our monstrous hearts, our greedy, selfish activities—to need forgiveness, but to revisit slime, where forgiveness becomes seventy times a day: as whom could live it, as whom could sustain it, this beautiful nightmare: our ghostly fires, our tragic health, or this tongue fed hearth: at valuable rites, and feeling chilly, a loser with major power: (to adore Love, as never with insistence, while floored to mystic gravel): our indigo passion, our sapphire Churches, our jell-like ambition—to stick with glories, to imagine a pure soul, while needing to believe in morals: those travesty cries, this winning expectation, alongside deep dissatisfaction): if but to re-reason, if but to apologize, if but to divest this plethora of damnations: if but respect, as one known to frighten, as one feeling pure sludge….

I knew ambition, surging upon an instant feeling, as one deceived by inner imps: to purchase chance, to pursue Love, while erratic at clarity: this man watching, protecting inheritance, and livid subterranean scars: at willow trees, at frantic cries, or sun to fall and never arise as sullen: that black moon, this black dungeon, to imagine pure indifference—at planks demolished, at ribs re-negotiating, as re-vetting unselfish illustrations: (those eyes winking, this spirit leaking, while so good to existence: those pure violets, those mauve feelings, those raining instruments: as negotiating emotion, or debating carnivals, while threshed for damaged and feeling normal: at something perfect, to know our struggle, while too tired to pace a solid defense): those trenchant establishments, this hustle to outwit God, or this atypical feeling that nothing exists: such solipsism, such radicalized hurdles, or this Rock so deep it lives in infancies: our crazed yogis, this lonely/crowded soul, as too in touch to deny fragrances: thitherto, our clash excitement, our phlegmatic responses, our deep self-conscious cries.

…such duplicity, Love, this space with odors, those cavalier anxieties: this ocean watching, our E-Class realities, our subpar ethics: to chance as losing, to depend upon pure knowledge, while ignoring pathos: our apathetic sun-deaths, those blue moving melodies, those red inner harpoons: our fluids dripping, those caves laughing, this hypersensitive child-abandonment: at mother as if grown, at father looking to phones, if but to ring one day a year: as failing capacity, as dying with age, to learn about such those wings: our grannies inborn, our Aunts feeling existence, our therapist hiding this exhaust—as miracle psychs, while given credit, with little attachment: indeed, this deep enterprise, this intimacy as sided, where reality points towards healings: to misjudge initially, to fix certain behaviors, while examining a human number: indeed, about clearance, indeed, about Love, or so encased our brains are running rabid: this fuel gunning, this fuel to guts, or this mystic insanity: to die with God, to resurrect with God, or to experience triple deaths: this bold flower, this lovely lover, while torn and inconsistent….       

Laugh at Us: It’s Therapeutic

I simmer silence, awoke by vengeance, and raging fist to airwaves: at Love mourning, at professors swaying, at reality cursed: this audible clown, this death in daughters, while trapped in this box: to trek corners, to break silence, to remember cold-hearted green lenses: this pale horse, this hoarse voice, as screaming became silence: at torrents laughing, as born gutted, even by fishes flopping mainstream: our crooked valleys, our crooked women, our deceitful men: while jaded instincts, speak to total violence, to meet, regroup, and fix jewelry: at maniac insanities, or Trethewey giggling, or Smith somber with hopes: thereto, this lavish course, this starving calamity, those cramps and bruises: at father lying, at mother with high fives, at soulprints feeling mirrors: that solemn disgust, those pregnant cries, to imagine that love consists of total forgiveness: this slant upon wings, where one is satiated, if but that fool-hearted subversion: those broken shards, this flimsy ache, as Love was too deceitful.     …it comes from hiding, to leak into public squares, while literature is vomiting: those peaceful lies, this lie with courage, this battle to pass forth lies: if but to feel good, while feeling safe, at such as sacrifice: our damaged limbs, our damaged psychs, our laudable psychs: at therapy listening, at therapy laughing, at therapy trapped afore this mirror: those ghostly charms, this ghostly loser, this frantic winner: as green whales, or green wailings, at hazel highs: this peace as running, this fool at questions, this blight to gardens: our frantic aches, our blueberry havens, if but alone and feeling sickly: as men satiated, at love satisfied, while Love has aborted a thousand lovers: thitherto, this vindictive nature, to inform Love, where fathers broke silence: at matrimony, holding to sheer violence, if but to capture a pure soul: that other person, those dregs laughing, this ghetto violence: therewith, our guts dying, our intestines screaming, at walks with demons: that markswoman, those marksmen, if but for loony at cartoons….     …we feel, Love—as needing God’s compass, this pleasurable ideal: this perfect what we need, this perfected animal, this perfect Father: at Mother with diligence, at ghosts with dalliance, at dandies feeling quite repulsed: that particular air, those particular vibes, this typical disdain: where women gaze, as glazed by satisfaction, or lower-class ethics redeeming demons: our shattered minerals, our liquid inducements, to prove as sick and seductive: that notorious moon, while slanted and unseen, where everyone pictures an angel: this tall tale, this tall lie, those gorgeous, remarkable, unsatisfying eyes: while portraits grin, and death courts, we mystify pupils: those bleeding maniacs, this crucial dysfunction, while hoping upon a glamorous outcome: indeed, to laughs, while life is ruined, our childhood years carried for infinity: that inveterate curse, those inveterate years, while mother exonerates herself: at bold battles, at inner phantoms, or clashing with insistence: those naïve eyes, those naive beliefs, to hold for perfect something scandalous: thereat, our deranged heart-pumps, our ill-gotten rapture, or evangelicals rupturing something disclosed: at lights running, at dreams gunning, or petrified attempting to escape.     …indentify nonsense, our Oldies blazing, attempting to monopolize Miami: that dope factory, this tale about bawling, those tales void of bars: as lifted upon liquor, or running from visions, as asked that psychs dig gravel: our sworn dilemmas, our sworn cut-throats, or nights so gone as meeting Satan: those fire eyes, this fire fever, those threads needling his liver: at Love whispering, this daughter to millennia, our screams similar at intonation: so deep it disguises, so rich in Spirit, or plain pure Illuminati: to grit with action, while chewing inner jaws, at stars courting with naivety: to watch as imploding, this New Year’s wish, or to abandon something too difficult to attach: whereat, comes injustice, a vandal winning, or omens laughing: as cut for ruined, as sniffing asphalt, while stepmother pretends father’s legacy.

Rummaged Utilities

Initially, we’re cautious, and then gentle, or even dismissive: such cosmic eyes, such radiant wisdom, at combat with sensitivities: those clamping needs, our heart-cliff desires, at rages with our needs: if but to wingspan, and still about humans, those degrees for justice!     I sung about love, I recruited intuition, I laughed and jested and sought closure: those miraculous syllables, or that miraculous imagery, while sewn to something mythical: our casual days, our combative days, at wars and scars and balance: by graces, by works, by both—if but to insist, if but to dance, if but thrumming gentility: such are cries, searching for immortality, if but that first glance—as containing music, as adrift upon chemistry, while many tussle against familiarity: our cold sunshine, our gelid sun, or peanuts roasting upon an open fire: those inner agendas, those intricate maps, and then, we shower, Love.     I button feelings, I knit emotion, I crochet intensity: such solemn gravity, such insulating eyes, such rainbow glossaries: our chance to sing, about mental genetics, about shoebill gazes: that inner person, as prevalent in Jazz, our blossom our Blues: to shun violence, but remaining visceral, at lakes pitching pebbles: our powerful minds, as becoming a cliché, while many are revisiting something tacit: those planetary dreams, our muffled wishes, our tortured souls: at gentle insistence, at gentle alibis, while tugging for Love appears disinterested: if but our guts, as slung into battle, where victory overwhelms our sanity: those tiny limbs, those bright eyes, or that first word: indeed, to sentiments, as a gentle observer, attempting to incorporate science.     …memory fades me, but spirit enters me, reminiscent of fond images: our trembling ribs, our cages unlatched, our thermometers haywire: at symphony silence, while palming a rose, and feeding koi fish: those internal thoughts, as never given oxygen, while running amuck that internal castle: those mental mansions, that terrifying vestibule, while ghosts rummage our cedarchests: such crumbling cookies, such cold cocoa, such to too much sodium—as souls drift, needing something reasonable, while our house if whelmed by instruments: those sure feelings, as needing one existence, while time invades our islands: such swooshing sandpaper, such blueprinted miseries, or such ammunition if studied gently: therewith, our internal dice, similar with spaces, at grace or fiction….     …we chime with essence, we watch and feel emotion, we stutter when startled: at gray horizons, at colorful tunes, or rummaging cartoon pillows: as more than life, or more than fading, while touching a failing façade: our souls to swaying, our armor chipped away, or seconds to capturing an enigmatic glimpse: our sullen bodies, our sullen secrets, our deep insecurities: to share this rain, to invest in garlic, this person maintaining our worries: at vampire instincts, or German prose, either/or, going through rattling shakes: such as dignified, such as struggling integrity, or such as so together demons are storming: therewith, our soul-felt eyes, our remarkable pinpoint feelings, as threshed for unsung and singing….     It was hellish heights, and radical bars, or something with likeness: our moving orchestra, as planted upon Venice Beach, our sun, those daisies, our exhaustion: to maneuver softly, to breathe gently, at something steady to exist: our poetess songbird, our alleys cleansed, at antiquated, rustic emotion: those wafers with coffee, those teas with grapes, and our souls as clairvoyant: those rapturous seasons, so filled but loony, so insync but missing: at passionate carnivals, and mocked by clowns, while something intricate has taken place: those temperate muses, those other muses, as a man is tugged dearly: thitherto, this realized behavior, this bag of utensils, or this scar of happenstance: to move her mind, to jimmy something sacred, while responsible not to offend privacy: those inner portraits, as plastered upon brains, where Love is quite incredible.        

Table Utensils

…such captive essence, such aerodynamics, while digesting sunshine: as running souls, attempting at something regular, where pigeons cry: those melting joys, our welting hearts, at fire gates: our moving winds, those whispering winds, while galloping to winds: such peach eyes, those cultured genetics, such high cheekbones: if but to conflict, while leaping into dynasties, our Juliet terrors: by gray moonrise, wishing upon hope, or devastated by fears: our vacuum thunder, our empty existence, or such by person to engage our souls: at gripping claws, distorted by needs, where miracles are calibrated….     I wanted marvelous—such instant forgiveness, and everso selfish: to disregard rain, or to dismiss influence, our collars carrying little meaning: to need by you, to Jesus by you, while you are unaware: integrity lost, credibility shattered, embarrassment painting murals: or yonder those eyes, those magnetic furs, whishing upon gates: our chemic souls, ever developing, and ever tugging: our resting movements, our mirrored stories, where life explodes particles: while filling basins, or bathing in ponds, and so near to tasting survival: those tragic rivers, our tragic circumstance, those tragic stars: if but through dreams, such passive tentativeness, such musical portraits.

…our pensive, whisking thoughts; our tales unsold; our passion unvetted—as men gunning, as souls churning, while violins are imploding: our dear piano, our ancient harps, our women tugged by inner movies: this land by fantasy, this particular film, while needing its barricade: such by secrets, to maneuver through childhood fiction, while fulfilling dreams: our radiant souls, containing existence, and prodded by nativity: our aching shoulder blades, partially at rest, awakening to inventive cries: such marvelous water, our dear baptism, our New Born exhilaration: to have justice, while ignoring conscience, our nights longing into winter….

I disappear at times—traveling landscapes, or mazing through thoughts: to image a face, to trespass a field, to empower feelings: such silent screams, such reckless images, such dear enchantment: as filled with intimacies, or filled with dry hopes, while reasoning through a given season: as souls return, from whence they came, our memories crying for loses.

I return at times, peering at fond eyes, walking into wistful memories: as founded by fiction, but, nonetheless, sentimental, while leering at complication: those miracle mazes, our gutty language, at torn frustration: to want with intensity, something vetted through experience, while giving clearance to sensations: such marvelous feelings, such channeled alligators, such caiman genetics: those Christ lizards, those wooden corners, or snowy winds: at rehearsed apologies, at sufficient apologetics, or at mirrors debating our feelings: those chiseled trestles, our island brains, or those bouts with self-esteem: insofar, a battle, leaning upon dismay, to reach near something inventive: our midnight dust, our dusky skies, while nibbling popcorn.

I saw porcelain, I saw mahogany, I’ve died a green passion: this life with cages, informed but resistant, where honesty has its benefits: such liquid metal, such quilted emotion, while seated upon balloons: to float at random, to breathe-in helium, to renegotiate soulprints: our salvaged passion, our glaring complication, invested in something rewarding: that interior caress, those interior whispers, while re-knitting and rethinking reality: our women to fuels, our souls to dynasties, our knotted guts to soaring: to remodel emotion, to rebuild a feeling, to refurbish a nightcall.         

Palming Garter Snakes

…those richer habits, those torn regrets, something special, something unique: our raging eyes, our inner noises, such mental animation: this cartoon world, our cartoon lullabies, our afternoon meal-shakes: pondering baby wolves, or petting mental cubs, or taming an interior bear: such mirror gossip, aligned with spiders, and swatting webs: at miracle emotion, considering such volcanoes, perceived but un-believed: those cheery tears, those cheery yelps, to have intimate disaster: those films flickering, those hearts raving, at casual star-glances: if but our lives, this scratch and sniff, at liquid or substance: those marathon cries, those marathon eyes, giddy over Claudette: this mythical creature, and rightfully so, in this world filled with wolverines: thereabout, those speaking leaves, our deciduous passion, our laughing islands….

I met Superwoman, I watched Batman, I reminisced feeling justice: those interior wells, those interior lakes, to siphon soon more reality: our deep windbreakers, our souls floating away, our channels increasing intensity: such rubescent roses, to purchase meaning, by something so significant: at appropriate music, at air-sockets, or electrical padlocks: to pick gently, to unwrap sentiments, to get so close it aches: that inner coach, our wafting Agnes, our members haywire: thereto, those small gestures, as building a castle, and trespassing sandstorms.

…we get sad, simply through arts, our interior taking its presence: such deep resistance, such vintage emotion, while tried and treasuries: our narrated existence, this mystery reading our behaviors, while altering based upon our reactions: such Freewill, such exoneration, whereby, we need something excellent: such high intelligence, such irrefutable diligence, at tears condemning our wits: our perfect souls, at an imperfect assembly, while ruined without proper notion: at fair deliverance, or gila-conflicts, while running and needing ownership….

…at blackhead irritants, picking our memories, feuding our dreams: those distant reptiles, those evolving feelings, to plan something excruciating: our welted existence, our beauties with joy, our toads streaming our veins: at mythical reality, or holding to Promise, at something quite resistance: as just for tyranny, at pitted value, our volume increasing with aches: such pressure with creativity, such power with loses, or pure logos with rain: if but by breath, if but by alterations, if but by something resting dormant…..

…we starve feelings, we suppress appetites, and long into our royal skies: such leaflet screams, or radical passion, ambushed by tarantulas: those sad songs, fulfilling comforts, our droopy eyes: this faith walk, hampered by humans, where claims speak to religiosity: we chuckle sorrow, we dance with joys, we absorb indecision: such fiery aches, such sky-cliff majesty, to realize this threshing called, Love: at rabid calmness, alert to something foreign, at mountainous remorse: at water so pure, palming a red eyed frog, while lurching into internal therapy: a tinge too smooth, a feeling too grand, at something so delicate, so rough, so outstanding….  

Greetings Adored Flower

…sunshine eyes, daffodil breath, at tulip havens: our sizzling rites, our winter campus, our souls as metaphorical giants: our mean tempers, our disagreements, our deep ignorance: as pictured pebbles, or radical sediments, to palm a tadpole: at shimmering thoughts, or acme feelings, our ‘transmitters aglow: to whimper softly, to need a different emotion, a bit too angry, and thus, bankrupt: those nightlong tussles, our warm pillows, to flip it sideways: our mental peepholes, our dungeon resistance, adrift and afloat our sky-summer: those yogic lines, this mis-agreement, or to swear by permanent concrete: at abstract humans, at abstract behavior, at abstract realities: those crumbling corners, our toothpaste mints, our insoles at sky-peppers: if but to release you, if but to disavow you, while salty concerning our circumstance: this hellish notion, this need for father, but relaxed enough to maintain infinity: those privy conversations, this privy existence, or chaos so thick we offer mayonnaise: at sandwich meats, gnawing our concerns, and swallowing pure indecision: at mystique values, at inner-mirrors, at one final dimension….     I play the fool, this ginger with spinach, those local agitations: or gentle palms, kissing our ears, and felt with ambitions—those secret faucets, this blank overture, or seismic memoirs: at bars of fireballs, at scars with psychs, at theories with theologians: this philosophic, those green islands, as now beige and black: this exposed cosmos, to outsoar detriments, while welted by unsaid merchants: this effusion of creativity, those lines be gentle, our circuits, Love, and please feel potential—this outward gravity, those deep epiphanies, or an early Nietzsche: as marksmen, or mandolin women, at both mischief and mayhem: at souls bleeding, to sense something askew, to look at mother tumbling in mid-motion: to grip guts, to apologize to granny, while granny is felt with total passion: those fair skins, those saintly sanctuaries, or our dreams so richly abandoned: at crucible insights, languished in night gowns, a bit too reluctant to pitch a fit: at marble grays, pitching dice, or conjuring up different inner guidesJ….     …our Wiccan daughters, our inner Warlocks, our mis-psalmic mystics: our Buddhists daughtersJ, those christic souls, those cultic eyes: at times with fevers, but aligned in psychs, to entertain at non-unaware-about(s): this melting ingenuity, those starlit circles, at daughter’s splendor, plus, ingratiation: this flexible temper, those bold daydreams, to imagine so much wisdom: our present motif, our aerodynamic sensations, while something seems missing in grandpa: this dark heaviness, this blatant unfairness, while forced to conduct a hermit’s affairs: indeed, this trespass, or more, this transgression, while ancient at pathways: those cobblestones, this refreshed mind, or those Myomin pills: at Guarana and Ginkgo, or pure Spirulina, or too many vegetables with fruits: at many questions, to witness squirming, while filled and fraught by effulgence: those baptisms, this man screaming in Arabic, our bodies shaking emotionalism: at minds seeking facts, to call sensation facts, while feel-good this millennia…!     …yours be gentle, and yours be sweet, where reality is precious: those future realities, this futuristic brain, our terrified needs: our mental phones, our gutty telegraphs, or mere to science our energized telegrams: at deep kaleidoscopes, or majestic messages, to awaken close to 5 a.m.: such mystic projection, a thump with resonance, this interior warfare: to keep with gentility, to acknowledge and move forward, as rarely to search out a correlation: this deep war-cry, those bipolar 1’s, or this energized calmness: at plights with mother, or deep projections, asking about our working utensils: to give a man dirt, while to request brick, where our desert-storm remains desolate: at crimes for punishment, at setup enterprises, while munching upon pure sediments: our inrush rapport, our spiritual repartee, or our mental repertories—to implode suddenly, this mythical event, while possessing Reality’s Principles…!

Immortal Sequences

…we germinate, a tyranny ecstatic, our radical great parents: those intimate memoirs, our flooding caves, our brain-ships: to die as slaves, volunteering for shackles, while looking at emaciated children: stricken with poverty, hunting for integrity, our stubborn highness: to lose Infinity, needing reciprocity, affected mentally: those unfriendly, antisocial quirks, listening to soul food: our daughters unaware, our mothers dying, our fathers trying to protect innocence: this failed enterprise, this sinking ship, our children looking strangely: as burned and buried, or bronzed and sanctified, such sick reciprocity: this city by names, that Morgan Bank, or those Jewish Empires: such old money, befuddled with practices, a chuckle, a giggle, our lives whisking winds: at deep dialogues, wrestling with mirrors, spacial and listening to laughing developments: this winning hatred, this winning poet, where loses have spoken in Arabic: those immortal whips, those immortal land-sites, or such immortal mentalities: our delicate culture, our angry culture, at language that singes our eardrums: to seethe with patience, our women requiring riches, or settling in desperate moments: to sip and smile, to think and laugh, to entertain in something proven as crucial: those mystic feathers, those sky-volts, to remember but concern: at liquidated assets, at steep liabilities, seated too low to acknowledge: this campus of racists, those anti-enterprises, or complacency ignoring its harmful pomegranates: our splattered blood, our mangled flesh, our postmodern slavery….

…a morning cigar, a Jewish prayer, an African Proverb: looking into Europeans, wrestling with truths, while convinced that goodness possesses such reach: staring at Psalms, fiddling pages, stopping an pausing: to feel such pain, to lose sanity, to become Nebuchadnezzar: as arisen in Daniel, even a new, private name: those trenchant lusts, this confused state of affairs, while dishonesty seems to rule our galaxy: our broken pledges, our vetoed vows, in minds where life carries volume: thither, our curse, hither, our women, while struggling for deeper breaths: this voice in dungeons, our rolls of mystery meats, our Malcolm X prisons: as becoming something lethal, as rebuked and stripped, while whipped internally: such menticide, Love, such needs for tender flesh, if but to redeem this typical nothingness: if by you, than inside of you, where one recaptures masculinity: at racial disputes, at demons with Saul, or at parallels with Paul: those clanging eyes, those rubescent lips, or that dignified chin: to perish such justice, aside its corrections, where Love acted in ignorance: to punish a man, about something irrefutable, while unaware of unsaid infraction: this karma existence, or non-existence, at samurai instincts: those bold delivers, that instantaneous thump, or this trenchant ass mystic: where days are misfitted, while evenings are recounted, at nights seeping into meditations: those fair castles, this slave bodywork, or minds so adjusted that wrongness seems appropriate…we die this space, our sphinxly koan, where enslavement became this interior activity….

I was sick for Love;—needing that aversion, fist fighting atmosphere: I died in Love, as carrying affectations, and still with chains: as here for accounts, or there for controversies, such riddle and majesty: as further than intimacy, and richer than climaxes, or more important than existence: those pyramid feelings, our tapered Illuminati, seeping into intimate meanings: our shift in slaveries, our de-mechanical approaches, at years with deaths and feeling excited: to know a secret lie: if pits keep arising, than demons are losing: indeed, such reaching proverbs, our broken reality, this head as opposed to its tail: to cry with whales, to laugh with hyenas, or to cringe with Shakespeare: this roaring fire, this woman’s heart, this man’s deaths!

Air Wings & Breath

…at low resonance, at high intensity, to die with insistence: afflatus scars, agony streaming, or pertinent concerns: our kleptic gears, this internal war, our brains heavy: to rest with Christ, to redeem in Christ, to become a bit more conservative: if but our glues, if but our gravel, where mother would sacrifice—this moody instinct, those chiseled whereabouts, as to glisten unknowingly: thereto, those incredible portraits, as walking our garden, to simmer in violet attraction: while losing sanity, this gradual elevator, where Love was increasingly perfect: our brains and perceptions, our hungry sentimentalities, while starving for perfect affection: this need to pull, this tug as grinning, or days trekking around pure church: at terrible vows, blackmail, therein, and feeling crucified: but life is succession, and Love is bruised, and adoration becomes fretting: if but to resurrect, if but this mystic, while feeling abandoned six months later: those reveled insanities, this woman his brains, this crunch as devastating insanity: at culture integrity, to lose infinity, where art became lasciviousness: those bold remnants, this seashore confidentiality, or dolphins becoming depressed….     I thought about love—this fuel in souls, as needing its validation: to speak it plainly, our days at infatuation, to wonder if concrete is necessary for affectionate claims: at mercy with scales, at Jerusalem with sacrifice, at Judah with warfare: those miracle palms, those inner melees, or casual concerning something excruciating: those bold gestures, that fabulous investigation, to realize that he might be a good person: against our desires, as enthralled with frequencies, as dying for something repulsive but attracting: our gremlin appetites, our metamorphous grins, our last Beyoncè: or tales to dungeons, this need to exist, at three days vomiting: or cursed for gunning, to need certain realities, while tugged by new candidates: those remote islands, at private thoughts, where everything is pseudo-perfect: indeed, a tale sold, a measure calculated, a soul deep in throws: to die with Love, to become sentenced by Love, while imagined as imperfect beauty: those plain gestures, those trenchant gestures, or flesh seeming succulent.     I couldn’t sense life, afraid to lose life, looking for ruined abandoned to life: those incredible legs, this incredible future, if but to sacrifice for injustice: those remarkable fools, this remarkable need, if but to entertain: our first vulture, this inverted outcome, those suppressible tears: that deep cry, that mental ulcer, those extravagant charms: while running to havoc, infused by havoc, and cursed for havoc: indeed, this particular delicacy, while reasoned as ruined prior to existence, if but to embark cut through and hysterical: our graves, Love, this swan, Love, or cringing casually awaiting impossible miracles: at guts, Lord, and typing, Lord, where thoughts drift into preparations: eyes burning, screens glaring, at trenchant planetariums: our deep sensations, moved but stillness, at pictures something fierce at existence: to have platitudes, to renegotiate platitudes, to speak from soul to embarrassment: this lot of warriors, this inner vicissitude, at delicate crosswalks.     We can’t presume it, this interior life, as indicative of all creatures: our daily sights, to meet one so rude and indecisive about pure resistance: as charged to assist, but honor isn’t listening, and honor feels privileged to disrespect at leisure: this deep conflict, to ruin everything—while pleading victims to swear by praise: those same results, this similar behavior, while gutted and feeling confused: indeed, as preaching to souls, this choir yawning, our rites proving our intention: at music with bass, at brass with helium, or running for blasted and concerned deeply: to flicker mysticism, to adore mysticism, while removed from mysticism: this dying legacy, this living majesty, if but to core this mystic war: our club insanity, our privileged stars, as something afar redeemed in praises: this laudable woman, this trenchant need, while some are deadly honest: to hold this lot, to adore this lot, incapable of keeping this lot: our deep inadequacy, our mental sensorium, our kangaroo pouch: as living in goodness, after years with demons, after years intoxicated: those redeemed creatures, with hell gunning shadows, while conjuring St. Frances!

Christ Battles/Christ Fire: I Die to Imagine

…in a dark humor, attempting creativity, attempting a discreet sermon: at Love barking, a real dog, but sophisticated: those purple/blue skies, those red/brown skies, or that burgundy/orange horizon: to give this life, to awaken peering at hope, to need for something in blood: those genetics, those tasty sentiments, or this caged existence: at existential blights, at epistemic plights, or rummaging old feelings: this reckless morsel, those Salty Saltines, at Peanut Butter Cookies: our plank and haven, this campus of sheep, or sensing one ill-prepared: at grass with grins, at grasshoppers whispering, to release mementoes into winds: this glen lake, those treacherous meadows, those beige/green responses: at mechanics laughing, at realism chiming, to feel a hearty discussion: this low libido, this gratified essence, while looking at naked flesh: this marvelous dove, this creative minx, or so sick about integrity: at years losing, at millennia winning, to hear gates slamming: this thrumming turquoise, this maroon table, or this psychical trestle: as one for sameness, but nuances sting, to meet something too enchanting: those telic eyes, those gracious eyes, of eyes so embedded we feel particles: at hazel-browns, at midnight insecurities, as a woman glances peering at her body: to need appraisal, to need worship, to melt and fall forward: our humors changing, our deaths amazing, our daughters rummaging through manuscripts: those blank eyes, such rich depression, to effect a gentle response: thereto, such reaching aches, at granny surprised, at grandpa pleading mercies: this fool Pagan, this instant Hebrew, to change rites and culture: at terrible hunches, at terrible demons, or terrible rationalities: those monads, this small atom, those large agreements: this molecule maniac, those small instincts, those small tell-tell signs: at something gentle, those office discussions, while responses become deliberate: a master of honesties, a loser in this war, a winner in this kingdom….    I adored a dove, I adore a swan, I paused and lost insanity: I chiseled a notion, I spoke to psychs, I felt remorse: I hid as running, I gnawed my cheeks, I felt lumps: our blurry glasses, this man knowing his culture, those loses fretting his brains: at dry scalp, at tyranny city, or gunning with persistence: our absolutes, freaking our boats, while rowing insanely: those begging whales, those deep barriers, while Love forgives those ruined and pleading and dying and requiring resuscitation: such deep ruins, such octopus realities, or at underwater spiders: those terrible seahorses, this fabulous Creator, to imagine God in a good humor: therewith, our gray projections, our sensitive replies, our first-person determining our interpretations: at oily nostrils, at oily situations, at myriad attitudes: this angry society, this awkward behavior, to indentify unknowingly: our brains, Love, our bowels Love, if but this imperfect reunion: where mother is unsettled, and stepfather is reading Christ, as siblings are begging insights: at jasper realities, this vague insistence, while Love felt so inquisitive.     …those vanguard eyes, that meditated approach, to have given such richness: those feelings dying, those others arising, while Love looked incredible: those seconds, those minutes, or those hours to perfecting justice: those legs, those hips, or those internal binoculars: this incredible woman, to place it simplistically, while pulled for maintaining healthy relations: at immortal instincts, but enslaved deeply, while Love had a thought: at internal chimneys, spliced for opened, where sexuality has its measure: our Chris Tucker laughter, our Jada Pinkett beauty, while realizing certain realities: this vague plateau, those amazing characteristics, to exude as looking forward: this need to enchant, this want to seduce, or this need to protect our lives: thither, this man watching, such beauty wafting, such by derrière—those pensive/open legislators, those closed/mis-perfected blenders, or so lost for needing an open survivor: at guts laughing, at guts crumbling, or gutted for ruined by a mere gesture: this deep misnomer, to become suspicious—of women in-tuned with every nuance: this perfect fool, this maniac laziness, or one determined to create romance: as blighted and skating, or skating and gunning, while Love is amazing, sickly.

Something about Today

…let Time be gentle, this miracle event, our treasured ideal: our souls observing, our half human hearts, our sincere artistry: wrappings and boxes, tears and grit, such expense and justice: that captive smile, our inherited sentiments, our emotional head-fire: as women gunning, this life so determined, our hassles with deep magnets: at electrical sockets, this fair majesty, to adore something so little: palming pine trees, flickering candy-canes, our eldest pictured at distance: this need for feelings, this want for bonding, as certain sentiments drift into appraisals: at mother gently, at father jesting, at friends comparing riches: as trying desperately or dying casually, to sip more than juice: at one pill, or one disaster, or one bless-ed curse: at black science, at black existence, just hoping for a brighter future: our aches for Love, our years at Love, descriptive of attributes: that inner consensus, our outer realities, our mental barriers: at bipolar 1, or bipolar 2, or something like deep, dark, expressions: our hearts running, our grannies schizophrenic, or plain feeling goodness: those moon kisses, those fragile proclivities, our mothers speaking with force: at patience and courage, responding to subsurface(s), while molding little Jenny: this playful creature, at times to mercy, while reminding concerning intentionality: our Buddhist Insistence, fragile and reserved, a bit withdrawn from spaces….

…watching our dynasties, consumed with rightness, while cooking a decadent ham: this thing with pork, so unclean so sweet, our minds rummaging our experiences: this year is better, we’ve purchased something delicate, we’ve given joy to young Bruce: such adult tension, needing to give passion, and needing to witness something innocent: our souls flying, our children a bit sensitive, our Aunts dabbing turkeys: a bit too much, this oiled reality, or that flight to islands: if but such essence, pictured in mystic airwaves, forever put to persistence….

…northern dry winds, eastern sentiments, raspy, ashy flesh: those seconds to insanity, this soul trying harder, our rewards mostly internal: or fair this beast, as dying this swimming, at murky, turbid waters: our tadpoles, our leaping frenzies, our miracle existence: to sense damages, in mere an instance, as so many possess character quirks: at psychs thinking, if but those skills, while holding back a great deal: a little Irish tea, a Danish pastry, or an Idaho chip: at dice in grass, at turns in traffic, at skies our Pacific Coast: at magazines gazing, at reality pulling tickets, at brochures planning excitements: our Pete’s Coffee, our hospitality, at eggs with cheese: those butterflies, those ladybugs, or that hummingbird: to receive a text, something akin to gentility, a future mother feeling sadness: those beautiful dreams, and needing marriage, and needing something to believe into: those fragile alliances, so rich in obligation, where freedom seems to suffocate us: those white flakes, trickling our carpets, our souls unraveled, unwrapped, and exhausted…in passion or deaths, those sprawling tendencies, this inching into conversation—our carols wafting, or Gregorian Chants, or thoughts peering into media beauty: our screaming patience, our bottom lips, our hanging, dependent, inter-social expectations: at perfect performance, gazing and driving, or pausing in Malibu: our intimate Shrine, our seconds at books or beads or trinkets: our deep remembrance, those favored souls, as now departed: at cocoa and marshmallows, at cookies with frosting, at little Anny’s attitude: as grandpa evaluates, nudging grandma, where both are sharing an observation: those petit fires, extinguished daily, when absent something feels unusual: those families feeling existence, those fathers feeling proud, where mothers are acting in sequences: those reliable habits, that reliable confidence, or those sporadic pepper shakers….    

Literary Boxes

I rummage writings, those lambent crystals, those fertile flames: that radiance, so addictive, to commune with many people: our wings at night, our souls midday, our rites as social creatures: peering at beauty, or renegotiating beauty, or sensing beauty in something fiercely delicate: our years chasing mysticism, our bold and clever research, at tyranny and justice: our cryptic tempers, our cultic evaluation, at diligence to seek her soul: therewith, this captured beauty, such threshed beauty, while appraising something gentle: those months at perfection, our ferrets intruding, our skies watching: this purple curse, this purple pleasure, this excruciating anxiety: (as gripped by furnace, buckled and vomiting, agreed at faces: such candent miracle, such warm abrasion, while dead our eyes rolling back to life): such trance and fire, such human participation, or Return to me and I shall return to you.     I remember you—this bright young swan, or this future orator: those misconceived realities, this atypical lack of seeing, while content with a particular rhythm: those familiar arts, coupled with this cryptic chase, while engaging in ritual practices: those internal movies, that internal theater, or stages becoming induced: this film of activity, to have absorbed practices, while witnessing something intimate: such skeptical behaviors, such epicurean delicacies, while such behavior is rewarded: those conditioning habits, as opposed to confronting behaviors, while tyranny runs our habitats: at dungeon with life, at life with regrets, or sewn into deceptive complacencies: if but to release—this chill of nightmares, if but to select our inheritance: this subtle pain, as to meet a soul, where unsaid soul determines our future: this inferno reality, as never our decision, but dragged somewhere for possessing lusts: our terrific screams, our brightened wisdom, as giving so much for a particular glimpse.     I remember you—this fair creature, this devious seed: a bit asymmetrical, while balanced as soul, our days to life singing our membrance: those cold evaluations, those alarmed cuffs, and participated embarrassments: our minds to streams and oak tables and cypress dreams: our souls to mischief and song and needing social approvals—while feeling inadequate, and feeling faceless, if but to retain status: such mean adjustments, such radiant indecision, or such reinforced apathy: this space as intimate, this stranger serenading winds, as reading, feeling, and returning to something discomfiting—at sluggish indifference, wondering of colored existence, while deprived of political interaction: this solemn song, this salient sorrow, or souls slung into mis-education: as partial mind-control, as difficult to avoid, where adult conversations are deliberate afore children: this game with brains, this subtle nudging, where mother’s venom becomes daughter’s dynasty.     I rummage missives, those internet epistles, somehow searching for release: as never such depth, as never such meaning, while reflecting upon walls: alike to invisibility, or subject to freedoms, if but to explain: adherence builds wires, those intimate links, where participation is a notion of acceptance: this mutual enemy, this mutual disgust, or this a-racial family: indeed, this myth with wings, or those private lessons, while certain criticisms bear weight: such as temperaments, or mannerisms, or shifted so far one identifies another culture: this inner warfare, our lives walking a middle cobble, as forced to assimilate both realities: to shift here, to tumble there, while internally feeling like strangers: (but Love is smiling, this means perfection, unaware of internal clocks: and why chase, those latter years, where certain thoughts have concretized: that deep presence, those heavy engagements, or plain detached from one’s soul): this jiggle language, if but to instruct, where reality is multifaceted: so dance young swan, and live like diamonds, while addressing internal debris: in this land of hikers, following this trail of stars, abandoned to thoughts unless seeking advice: but know your consensus, and know your table, and discourage those that haven’t been selected.                  

Whirlwind Axis

I stared while longing, at deep surprises, this lonely faculty: that empty space, to archive a dungeon, while peering into riches: those few days, those few spectaculars, to resist that incredible pace: our black havens, our dark cities, or yoga ten minutes before sunrise: while so concerned, considering a stranger, where messages seem to invoke—this inner storage, this inner storehouse, to gallop realizing futility: this murky lane, those murky antennas, while burgundy robes seem to explode: at tension survival, to die with grace, as Love is at mindless Love: those deep suspicions, those robotic responses, to sudden at this pause: our elevation, our aesthetics, our trenchant behavior—to die forever, as never such goodness, while empty this curse by Existence: at desert moons, at jasmine sunshine, while deep at mental muscles.     I need you, to revolve you, to leave you: I ache you, to revolve you, to return to you: this inner sickness, this sickle blight, this surgery succession: if but one trillion, if but every personality, if but our first kiss: running for closure, sniffing cologne, at deep dark memories: those perfect parents, those palatial castles, this interior penitence: moreover, this wretched blessing, this wretched happiness, this existential existence: if but to exhale, to sip gin, to remember ice: over six cigars, our facial muscles, our redeemed nothingness: to tell for secrets, our ladies listening, men need this particular us: as cussing and raving, this feeling appetite, those deep dark mentalities: as Love soothes madness, this sick, fragile, intimate physique—to rage at airs, to keep to disguises, to reform for one so lethal: at secretaries laughing, at psychs rigid, at professors running: or mystic crazy, laid in affection, while gunning for reloading aiming for something crucial: those bold charms, this infinite beer, while slight with headaches: our beige crosses, our turquoise ankhs, at Egyptians giggling early morning.     I died today; I saw a child; I thought to curly bangs: this fool at mountains, grazing at clever seas, if redeemed for clearance: that soldier graduate, that warrior fire, as born to suffer for clearance: our solemn aches, our last perfume, Love, or this recurrent atmosphere: those similar problems, those similar responses, those similar excuses: to wait for Love, or to hold secrets, while tugged between lovers: as escaping but dreary, or re-talented but weary, as now we watch our Love: that sick music, those explosive nightmares, those sick, psychotic charms—our brains screaming at indifference: those maroon whales, our precious garlands, while splayed and devilish peering into our last crush: that blank symphony, that lively orchestra, at tyranny if but to re-enchant something deceased.     …it becomes tipsy, it lives in portals, it dies as living sprinting into silence: our remarkable frustration, to ask for solace, if but this Love so sick for us: that paper boat, to float so far, as prior to sinking: our ruby green grass, this infinite aye-aye-cat, if but to relive as stung seeking passion: this lot to him, this enthralled by him, while a fool wastes years attempting to become him: that sick science, this sick avalanche, or Love crazed enough to rekindle something resuscitated: our romantic death, our re-filmed tragedy, while manics clear courses for maladies: indeed, so psychotic with passion, and so intimate with passion, where Love needed something dying daily: if but for Love, if but for sickness, if but to share someone that guts our souls….     …in tears and suffering, so intimate this dynasty, as afflicting myriad castles: our blight with panic, our memoirs with terror, our cries with short delays: at bold devastations, at tragic loses, to look upon Love with credulous existence: those cinema eyes, those otiose declines, while tendencies are rich with infinity: our dying hearts, our lucrative inversions, to find Love has loved for millennia: that ruthless seed, this ruthless friend, those ruthless replies: at guts and tyranny, at chicken and wings, or so sauced for glory it rises: our brown caves, our jasper petroglyphs, while sunk into something as never it lived: those trenchant years, this occasional flutter, or dreams splintered and harvested….

Abandoned to Forces

…tender blue skies, our souls to life, our minds to stars: as lost and becoming, or settled for passion, remote and uneven: those silver clouds, our foggy airwaves, at measures so gone it hurts: this inner bout, those mental parties, our days with terrors: to climb gently, while looking downward, to tremble at mid-step: at marvelous winds, those valleys so near, our courage increasing: that dear tribunal, this land of trespassers, those terrific fears: such glitter such light, abandoned to undeveloped interpretation….

…our waiting hours, to give our demands, or to awaken mid-sentence: such galloping pride, such scorching fever, our whereabouts unknown: to drift with silence, to barely summons, while forced to speak: our justification, our pleasant relief, at shadows boxing our interior: such feral cries, such mythic articulation, at wilderness sudden into our cities….

I see hillsides, I hear prophecy; I’m waning forward: this dream, this curse, and such accountability: our breezy trees, our noisy twigs, our settee branches: to exist as one sleeping, this web of excitement, and seemingly marooned: those distant islands, our distant thoughts, at figures in pure lightning: seated and lost, getting closer afar, debating our message.

 …we reappear as thunder, those city lights, those zooming cars: horns blazing, tires screeching, fuels and gases wafting: our miracle souls, our redeemed lives, our tragic confessions: at waves and vanishing, at torn rehabilitation, while closed off enough to remain holy: our pastors and deacons, our priests and bishops, at something seeming chaotic: those bags of marbles, our steep imbalance, or perfected at something becoming foreign: that private prize, that private legacy, our private concerns: plucking a marigold, or watering daisies, as lost in dreams:  those changeable flowers, those praying mantis, or such resemblance to fates….

…it measures softly, our apologetics, or those perfect attributes: those other parents, those grade-school teachers, our redeemed essence: while trekking uphill, to return to square one, or so perfected it becomes nauseating: those mental fires, those gentle feelings, those riveting visions: to tread deserts, to live in caves, to face mental manifestations: our hearts thrumming, our souls to clarinets, our bodies becoming violins: as nowhere fast, as somewhere quicker, rooted in soil and sediments: to where we scream, to where we dream, racing through daily tasks….

Unveiled

It became insanity, this methodical lying, our skates scraping asphalt: our sparks rising, our souls crumbling, our friends at laughter: this trenchant need, if but sole desire, as offended as enlove: those clanging bottles, that odiferous trash, our succinct eye contact: at bowels dying, at love shivering, and headed to court: this family cringing, this daughter aloof, this song upon deafening ears: our voiceprints, our ashes, to swoosh into an angel: dramatic pudding, our cookies with cream, our father’s ovation:

…those years intermittent, this faucet repentance, while accused as an acapella catastrophe: such vindication, such a false existence, while proud into a sightless atmosphere….

I noticed, Love—this small frame, those floating leaves: a manic countenance, an inner glow, a provocative essence: aside grandiosity, lying to mirrors, happy but penchant: those blue cactuses, at tragic euphoria, looking invisible.     I tried to hear, but moving with wonder, and wandering this veil: at travesty and disorder, this bipolar projectile…it arrives before us: this shaper of thoughts, this huge galaxy, this psychoactive mystic: to thump his heart, to feel alarmed, while seeking plural reasons: to share with Love, this moon-ache, while trespassing molecules: that shift in stunts, as ever a ploy, to imagine a wall forbidden—this deep gut, our brains dripping, our lake turquoise-burgundy: as pure art, at such darkness, while afraid to collapse.

…we become particles, this shattered miracle, this distracted conference: our seasons, Love—at denims and damage, at damage and disaster: to spin into justice, alive a thin line, while east bound: such traffic and rehab, such high-minded nonsense, to have forgotten those years: at slight mockery, to assume he left—this life of realities: as threshed and diving, as acute and laughing, while he couldn’t miss beyond orientation: those cold rooms, and so many years, to presume that shadows are wicked: this liquid tinge, at the flesh of men, and preserving semen: those cellular responses, this course through Infinity this powerful reminder: our receptors giggle, as Love ate, to murmur, mumble, and make madness: our days starting, our hearts moving, our nights to something at courses: this violent window, this mocking insanity, or this need to break with society: at neuronic fleece, a beast to existence, a gorilla feeling lost….

…such absent deaths, battling an artificer, while pondering this essence: at redwood, at terror-feelings, debating something shallow: to invest in winds, those passing emotions, rising but cautious: to remember this life, somewhere around forty, while trespassing womb-memories: those midday yawns, our chemistry with strangers, our fair but faint hearts: at much ado, laughing and feeling silly, or too serious and unsteady: it tells that way, it lives that way, and it dies that way: to suffuse a feeling, to sip and dine, to grow weight and repent: such slender contempt, such delicate irony, at weight looking to vanish: to become bad at this, or tragic at that, if but such love as never to perish: those aesthetic eyes, or that shift towards dungeons, while feeling fatigue: at tender delights, at spacial conferences, while moving realizing danger: those studied realities, this sylph in permanence, projecting and flinging thoughts: our cursed lives, our telic show-money, our brown dice: those rounded edges, this seven back to walls, or this zenith gut-piece: that thread reminder, where Love was gentle, while Love spoke life—at tears for millennia, at wistful cries, to look upon something holding its remedy: at such brilliance, to ask a simple question, while reality speaks to about fifty seconds….

Interlude: Honesty Segue

…we learn breath, we dance afar, we die resurrecting: this pensive design, our winning battle, our losing beliefs: at mountains mourning, at glory roaring, at films and media and lies—this purple plague, those cyan cuffs, or neighbors entering dreams: as caged currency, or rage about guts, floored for shuffled: our tears, Mother, our deaths, Father, our system with flaws: at internal consensus, to move gentility, while suffocating from pride: our walks sneezing, our odors wafting, while love winks like beauty: those fairer gems, those fairer eyes, those fairer tendencies: at something tendentious, at something scandalous, at something irrepressible: those casual grays, those deep realities, where Love pled insanity: our rhythm shaded, this shrubbery of spiders, this sheared goat: at life with vengeance, at terrors with passion, to awaken to first thoughts: this incredible pain, this incredible nuance, those incredible tentacles: while pulled and fumbling, or stumbling to altars, those horns, my guts, this metaphorical nightmare: at glen deaths, or valley blackness, where mother was thunder: at foreign islands, at foreign dungeons, or admiring an unsighted flower: our deep infatuation, too steep for resentment, too keen to readily discern: at ape calmness, at testy intelligence, while straddled to caution: those flagrant, feminine eyes, those fiery instincts, at tyranny and shame….

…some speak literature, at pure allusion, where ghettoes speak rain: those traipses through wretchedness, this happy curse, while cooking potato chips: our roaches with venom, our dreams with passion, our teachers a bit towards therapy: at timbre alley, at deep resonance, to carry on affairs and airs and pure dissatisfaction: to need you, to die in you, to open a door and you disappeared: this life as slanted, this grit and churning, our daughters our souls, our lost connection: to pause and scratch, for Northern skin is dry, while aches and treble penetrate our bone marrow: that intricate second, where Love shifted personalities, while seekers needed such lessons: this essence in rain, those years at hospitals, to awaken watching one chattering: or one possessed, and filled with spirits, walking and glowing: that foggy horizon, this opening interlude, our palms foreign to black souls: if but those brains, if but our youth, prior to three kids and husband: if but total enthrallment, or total enchantment, or total universality: therewith, this gunning instinct, to grip, grab, and run afar: this pot of terrors, this delicate, strong, inflation, or racing through mazes to arrive at brainstorms: our inclination, our dreams, our robotic resistance: as something dying, while growing vigor, to arise as one singing Infinity….

…hearts thumped sceneries, our eyes flattened, our souls grew and fell to pieces: to want something stale, as needing its life, to resuscitate something three days deceased: to invade hell, to unchain apostles, to re-head St. Paul: this flurry of complications, while drawn to old affairs, where such to aches as pain: our writing frenzies, our publications, while rumors breed dissention: those charming energies, this failing man, those failing winners: our chasm in dungeons, our losing empires, our risks as something that had to exist: those rusty red roses, those rusty red lips, where something possessed a slight odor: as men going crazy, at souls inverted, at chains pleasured to love addiction: this pictured moor (link), this moral erratic, those mongoose horizons: as changed deeply, at Love with strife, at struggle muscling forward: this warm nightmare, this cold glory, to taste for penchants and dying: those far greetings, this aloof nature, if but to tug at something hidden: our daughters learning, our mothers giggling, our fathers petrified: thither, this special life, this familial life, those rubies pure insanity: as mother chances, our infatuation dances, where we perish by dissatisfaction…!

Sky Intimacy

…rain becomes liberty, such incredible passion, such seconds by freedom: acacia dreams, upon foreign romance, racing against sensitivities: our remote moon, our boisterous sun, our envious stars: to need this miracle, to plead this miracle, while affected nonchalantly: our brave hearts, our valor and chance, searching sensations: our mental networks, our solemn rituals, while placating emotion: this alive creature, sudden but lethal, where thoughts consider connection: at harpoon feelings, something so gentle, or something so afflicted: our minds spin decisions; we demand our peace-works; where challenge comes with affections: such gray pavement, such swooping creatures, such irregular beliefs: to have gentility, to fly through energies, or so charged our waves become fireballs: but more to feelings, alerted to something pressing, to silence something awaiting its next visit: such critical eyes, such rubescent countenance, such humble sorrow: such gait and power, such deep intimacy, where it’s good for one to disappear: those casual concerns, our bagels a bit stale, our coffee seeming unimportant: our coming days, our restless nights, to sudden upon a taste of freedom….     …such dry weather, such humid feelings, to awaken in sweat: our rabid thoughts, as merely our heater, but something seems important: a subtle trinket, a vestibule of screams, an ancient emotion: such ignition, over a cup of tea, nibbling sacred inclinations: our fairer concerns, at wilderness and wonder, at wandering passions: that old song, those old feelings, those present dice: while racing slowly, dotting our intuition, to sudden upon a trinket: such dulcet memories, such lucid emotion, such volumes of energy….     …some are electrical, but heavy at heart, our stumbling concerns: our purest sunrise, those American grasshoppers, or those nighttime crickets: our butterfly dreams, so exclusive, so terribly relaxing: those dances down patches, our shrubberies so manicured, our palm trees filled with symbolism: to hear a whisper, to sense a cauldron, sudden upon inquiry: our gray clouds, our French lilies, made apparent as one confused: our mindful introjects, as awaiting their return, or just enough time to rest: such observant music, such intimate joy, at luxury sipping aqua delights: those silent cages, such rattling silence, or a closet bear….

…it happens by years, thoughts grow deeper, our projectors grow intensely: our magnet gems, our richer existence, our interior nostalgia: those simple delights, while sharing an apple, or sprinkling a lemon: those pomegranate trees, those ruined garments, our mother’s dismay: as lively creatures, racing through caves, and forced to make pertinent decisions: that cup of life, that eschewing miracle, those eschewed feelings: while trekking valleys, such cowboy instincts, as if galloping to Existence: such rich nectar, our nectarine thoughts, while sharing in something exegetical: our search for meaning, to arrive at conclusions, while haunted by epistemology: our fairer days, splayed by inner hallways, or alarmed by neighboring sirens: this space by rites, this coming and passing, or such comfortable lies: as Time is shifting, our souls are aching, and our minds are surprising us: those few essays, or certain renown, or this need to insist….   

I’ve read life, this intricate intimacy, this fight for clarity: those few roses, so gifted with chimes, so alluring with persistence: our atypical compositions, our battles with scars, our dreams as forcing us to awaken: our casual encounters, while many yearn for affection, where many are churning through existence: at mind or body, at soul or spirit, or stumbling upon deep realization: this elegant rose, if but by eternity, if but this space somewhere deeper: those delicate hands, those soothing intonations, or seated while reading into Aesthetics: our holiday feelings, our sullen glances, to realize something is nudging us forward.

Invisible Stranger

…by gentle spells, this rushing life, our symbology our rites: at meddlesome diamonds, or accursed by riches, lurching into kingdoms: such glamour and pain, such remorse and perseverance, such edgy composition: this logos land, fraught by inhibitions, while drugs pursue our dreams: that first this for that, our exclaim as madness, our scars bigger than our resilience: at foggy meetings, listening to foggy language, or so close to failing: this swigging machine, our mother’s dynasty, our mother’s mistakes: while hoping for father, this indiscreet brain, our knuckles dragging: those few mirrors, screwed into psyches, this man this stranger this light: as ruined for others, a fair amount of compassion, our rules seemingly bias: thereto, this false reality, this protective reality, where reality possesses little meaning: this deep fracture, this needs to survive, at something screaming by mysticism: whereto, this close Entity, this friend of sufferers, while something so low could evolve into something great: our pleasant therapists, our observant psychologists, or something a bit discreet (but overt): those psychical films, this inner cinema, our Shakespearian stages: at aloof pathos, tragic and teary, set by resilience to reappear: such laughter funneled, such flimsy joy, while Love hates what she wishes shall survive: this gray tinge, those remote applauses, where tears have become acidic….     …we seek alliances, we study behaviors, while requiring manuscripts: such tinge intimacy, such platonic tiptoeing, such rationalization: this cloister of feelings, those ballads made thunder, to try so desperately: at winded cries, at chantress liturgies, or seated as antitheses: this measure as displeased, our agnostics watching, our fair queens requiring something emphatic: while lively with wounds, sipping plum juice, or debating an unopened exploration—at times of forbidden wine, at chimes with secret confessions, while absolution came with mere a verse:

…so at ease, and so uneasy, and such for a bowl of satire: to picklock emotion, about something flat, to realize those terrific spears: our spurs digging, our gardens adverse, our delicate rain sparse but gentle: therewith, seeking elaborate balance, this room of rumination, our psychical aesthetics: so terrified; or so debated; while feeling something in merely that instance: this promise of time, such emotional blackmail, while one feels ashamed for fleeting emotion: our webs through ethos, our lit cigars, or those fleeing rubrics so adjusted to survival: this need to posses, this want to fly, as another day passes its location….

…inherited or nurtured, or both with sacrifice—this argument running into dungeons: at an early age, disputing sherm-leafs, or mimicking behaviors: dominoes slamming, that supple stench, our ears ringing loudness: this penchant for converse, this legacy dying, at silent years: our gray Pumas, our plain white shirts, our baggy Sweat Pants: indeed, to lonely rooms, or this elementary psych, while mother said something akin to silence: at mother’s business, at father’s absence, while unconsidered for prophecy: those inner movies, our perfect dinners, as opposed to angry silence: to boil water, for much those baths, to share such water: (it comes with age, diligence, and a bit of calmness: while theirs is contention, our contention is slammed, our voice is trampled under caves: those inner layers, this mental pleat, where convergence seems apropos: to watch a twelve year old, dancing and talking, where only spirits are listening: those chattering phones, our internal lies, while so secluded public life is blurry: those decades waning, and thrust into society, where onlookers have deemed one as difficult): but yours is mystic, and yours is opera, and ours shall evolve into resistance: this persistent presence, this life those children, this epitome of contentions: as rare giants, those farm flowers, such amorphous insistence….              

Feral Diamonds

…at undertones a bit windy, at kites reminiscent, at feelings a different countenance: so deep in fluids, so mesmerized by fantasies, if but this, if but that: to fight for existence, to love as glaciers, to induce something literary: our fabled hearts, our inner yarn, our crocheted head-storm: at mornings brushing, at evenings re-knitting satire, our graveyard nights redeemed: our local catacomb, our teary Milky Way, or those succinct eyes: as men gunning, if but for running, to have such glory relaxed in trauma: our radars screaming, our evidence so futile, our dreams upon edges—this cliff in dynasties, this rich existence, while too seductive to retreat: our casual skin, our abrasive wits, our brunches over Sirach: thitherto, this complete wreck, those shorn complaints, or so radical a dinner that fell in space: our crooked voices, this ceiling lowering, our fists screaming—at tyranny cold-witted, at intellect so encouraged, or dancing emotion flippant with concern: so beige our horizon, such grace our systems, to kiss, collapse, and wither about: this sunken feeling, those round, red, blinking tortures: at lengths trying, at terminals chancing, at liquid stating uncertainties: our flying cages, our writhing aches, if but to soar in agonies: this pensive warmth, this penchant converse, our patient discolor: to roam infinity, blinded with ambition, while unthreading our mind-ware….

…so encouraged to fly, so low as mimes, a bit tragic concerning forever: our good times, our lethal conversation, at windmills looking upon heights: those sin-breakers, this inner film, those blue roses: our dilated prose, our inebriated poetry, those women seeming about life: or radiant gentlemen, at Love’s tendencies, while arrogant enough to win: this fretted feeling, those fretted sylphs, our fretted arguments: or so gray, so deep, as unaware of nature: those managed emotions, or unstable emotions, while pleading for raw certainty: if but to believe, if but to re-establish, if but begging for lies: our nights with envy, our bowels with sincerity, as laughing to imagine eternity: It’s quite simple, if but this majesty, to claim with actions as willing to perish: to grip as dying, to taste as insulated, to gnaw with essence: this fairer fight, this slacking innocence, while Arts are tired of perfection: to hear those laughs, to feel dementia, to realize this maniac for Love: such embarrassment, such deaths, at miracles tugging Darkness: hereto, as but a glimpse, and, hereto, as but a rare song, and, hereto, as something so roughly delicate….

I feel as lifted, but low, this oxymoron—at paradox dramas, at life laughing, while torn about existence: this flaming cold majesty, this crazy ass universe, those few seeming too elated: this giggling minx, this tuxedo demon, or those that adore a little for prices: this blood blue angst, this tragic romance, those tragedies but absent: our watchful neighbors, our towers in brains, our sick, enlightened religiosities: while born to suffer, as one flitting through clouds, at something it felt good to loosen: at favored fires, a fair flagrancy, or famish for felicity: that slight of gesture, those angling movements, at something studied for reception: those classes with mother, those snippets from father, or those romance novels: at years perfecting allergies, at seconds delivering something digested, while so enthralled it became natural: our treacherous bards, our electric poetesses, at life as once composing novellas: our crazed feelings, those cymbals clanging, our clangor agitating drums: those superior minds, those outstanding physiques, where it felt like heaven to sing to futures: our bold angst, our waters falling, our skies raining: our cats yelling, our alleys refurnished, our hillsides flailing sceneries: as small persons, or large persons, so sick about another human being: our lives rebuilt, our hearts restructured, our minds re-knitted: as flung into battle, our armor aside our curse, our heart-plates determined for justice.         

Salutations, Love

I went too far, as not to ajar your soul, but more a feeling streaming into mystics: this fair fountain, this glamorous kiss, this feudal warfare: as mere a flag, running its symbolism, while others are too weak to battle: at deep contention, at miracle women, or to witness mother at tears: our days with silence, our counties with venom, at lengths to evade our mirrors: but yours is courage, inherited from parents, a bit so evolved it hurts: our inner grandpas, our terrific soul-balls, if but too excited to touch liberties: this freedom cast, our Luther in gold, our catches in silver: to reverse while driven, this forward motion, while self-talk has positioned its winnings: (I met a soldier, this mental lieutenant, this sick and psychotic professor: at rare gifts, so humble with slight, or too observant to speak: this time in evenings, a particular trait, to endear as mother’s remembrance): it comes with ambition, this legacy of prose, this fair creature at skies: our remarkable souls, your incredible smile, while observant enough to maneuver: some fitful, at a slew of spells, to attempt to awaken: this gripping force, this incredible psych, this inner cushion: that trinket thrall, this ridiculous wall, at clashes to witness demolition: such bane and deaths, such reach and perseverance, while seated with mother over lemon pie: this fantastic monopoly, this aggressive center, at memoirs scribbling houses: our surprise at life, our guts at splices, while driven for drastic at dynamic heights.     …such rapture and love, this need to define, as something dependent upon action: this soothing friend, this relaxed dialogue, this person sick by silence and running passions: our aloof segments, as consumed with honesty, while too much fraught(s) our legacies: at ghetto memories, this axiom with time, at dear thoughts this woman with gin: our days at converse, our nights at indifferences, or so concluded it was time to sleep: thereto, this keen experience, this doting lad, while Love intentionally broke heaven: our grimy reapers, so enthused with ruins, while mother consoles a living soul: those hallowed flowers, this passage through grapes, or this cocoon of interpretation: to outsoar pensiveness, to sketch our reality, as one a fireball upon seasons: this gorgeous individual, this gorgeous havoc, those curly, gorgeous locks: our minds insync, our language dangling by clouds, our sequoia beneath our ghosts: as flying infinities, or floating midair, to relax and drift into a seventh dimension: at hemline moons, at haven sunshine, or taking with force this delicate helm: where granny watches, as brooks glare, while mother is softly effected: our waking bosoms, our heaven glories, while Love has become a gentle goddess….     I met a culprit, this red lacewing, those penchant hazel eyes: I was sick with passivity, or plain a young child, while sudden upon an experience: our days at breakfasts, our nights at Natalie’s, our nimbus chemistry: to ache for closure, carrying our futures, while drawn for sickly about our pasts: those concave mirrors, this thought in Love, our blue blazing brochures: our evenings with gin, our souls with wines, our observations courting your arrival: this slant in time, this rhythm in pains, our discourse a bit reluctant: but heaven was watching, Ry was strategizing, as destined to become this pair: our slight rages, our deep convergences, our inner accounts about true passion: our differences, this angelic miracle, our announcement as one coming forth: this void in pictures, this picturesque swan, our abilities to grip to life tugging guts: those fair enchanters, this glorious, porcelain, green eyed masterpiece: as deep in comforts, a legacy mid Venice, or one so enthralled our Laws were calling: such attention to delights, such rich secrets, about life living as The Drummonds: this character sullen, this picture in angst, a bit enthused with existence: our painted concrete, this wealth of decisions, our audience despising our grit: as men gunning, to capture paradise, while unaware of inner omens: at turquoise adventures, tumbling with weeds, where moments converted doubts: our screams lethal, our dreams unrehearsed, our guts raging!      

Soul Centered

I think aloud, penchant for degrees, too evolved as one flying: this resilient cage, this infamous wisdom, those torturous games: at flames our evenings, but fast asleep, or up for segments: this inner clock, those radiant pearls, at diamond eyes: at birds whistling, at charms pulling backwards, as one aware of carrying foreign laws: this sentence in men, this life in women, while both fight for realities: this justice farm, this lake in valleys, or this brook near lights: those Universities, this doctoral essence, while pleading for existence: those blue bloods, this blueprint, at angry silence: to die feeling good, at unawares, to beg forgiveness: at bags with thoughts, at windows mourning, or so close melancholia has struck: so responsible, so diligent, so denigrated: our work systems, our plain Jane(s), our extravagant winners: looking for praise, looking for paranoid, at thoughts to sense them seeing: our guts, Love, our sounds, Love, our demonstrations, Love—as souls gathering, over loafs of bread, or living by Our Eucharist.

I drift into life, confused by bruises, at laughter feeling crooked: this sight in essence, as never made straight, but one chasing glory: our wretched woes, our wretched happiness, our wretched passions: while fretted in souls, or abandoned to winnings, where one cares less about existence: this theologian, roaming through doctrine, a bit concerned about experience: this salvation gravel, our soteriology, at pace scribbling in margins: this black face, this Faceless Man, or this Asexual Spirit: to slice our veins, sneezing as trickling, while Love abased this logic: our running arms, this mystic observing, this soul at Greek Literature: our wildest brains, our livid cries, to fall forward lunging backwards: at paradox and damages, at stoic advice, or a bit so cynical—abashed and ruined, but trenchant our return, making ten year plans: this faith in Naïve, this reckless sunshine, or so gunned for skeptic peering into motives: this cruel adventure, this lively curse, at Egyptian geometries: those passing queries, this lasting animosity, to realize freedom comes with letting go: as forgiving agony, or plain for wars, at courses feeling irregular: that inner spice, those winter leaves, at deciduous emotion—or studying our Jewish Laws.

…it was science, our cryptic casual, our dreams gunning—if but to panic, or but to live, while tugging at energies: this Christian Fool, this Maniac Liberty, or this Cautious Insanity: at mother pleading, at granny forgiven, our aunts slipping for rewound: at guts for penitence, at miracles laughing, while conformed by logicians: this sluggish train, this Narrow Gate, where burgundy carpet splayed in particles: such demanding screams, our beds fluid patience, to look at a fretting stranger: this close friend, that one insanity, our bowels speaking in Swahili: at deep cages, our unlocked apes, this inner pictured gorilla: or pictureless greats, too high for living, to aid in scribbling Seduction: at hangings low, at bears tickling, at hyenas laughing—this master of honesty, this mastery of decisions, to resist in God this mystic punishment: our grand appeals, this room of peers, at life gutted for experience: those mystic conflictions, this tyranny feeling good, at literature by forks and spoons: that slithering maniac, those slithering insanities, or running for greeted as a normal Prophet: our bleeding projects, our ghetto legacies, our families hating for ruined: to frown upon Jesus, at God’s Business, where thoughts seem influenced….

Dear Granny: it felt with passion, this purgatorial book, to know for origin: this lost pain, this gear in forward, this reversed soul: as here again, to return again, while thoughts seep into spiritual business: those inner portraits, such calm wisdom, or gasoline to refined furnaces: this mystical curse, this irregular pedigree, to beg for pleading too deep at Darkness.

Swan Water

…at luxuries shinning, at honesties dying, or plagued by internal forces: but yours is courage, this symphony of affections, those blurred realities: as coming into, this land of womanhood, abandoned to studies: this plank of lullabies, our crazed tendencies, to lose while winning: at quicksand existence, rabid but kosher, or mad for something seeming foreign: at humorous segments, at rainstorm realities, our slurs and signs: to give existence, awash’d in tyrannies, exclaimed as something precious: our trenchant circuits, this symbol in chimes, at swords thrust’d as henchmen: this incredible song, those incredible wishes, at present a nightmare underrated: those physiognomy impressions, this quadroon existence, while needing a certain dialogue: our worthless clues, our passion waning, at life attempting at something normal: at nonplus wilderness, at immortal love, or freedom seeming a particular freedom: this wealth of cities, those irregular pressures, this redeeming college adventure: if but three glories, if but three charms, if but something resembling normalcy: because life was gentle, plus, evolving, to realize life as one competition: improbability gambles, as fate becomes an enchantress, where existence becomes a wrestling match: our tales for lunch, grappling with tall stories, while afraid to point at inconsistencies…our spellbound literature, our trying hearts, our mental software—as deep in trenches, at tales with giants, while raving over something questionable….

I felt a glitch—roaming interior countries, spacial for traumatic: this solo voice, against this conglomerate, where souls are claiming religion: this outcast, this feel good high, at terminals reciting electricity: our murals in psyches, our psyches driven, while something is holding pavement: while born to intimacies, alert to compassion, but slighted by occurrences: this life in vows, those vows trespassed, our existence dependent upon tear but foggy: those inconsistent seconds, those leaking truths, while we must ignore such penchants: our new day breezes, our fabulous morning, our need to reassure something guarding our fortress: indeed, this life of romances, those truths so delicate, while wanting to reward kindness: those inner travesties, or this blank encyclopedia, while late nights writing in dark print: at metaphorical life, at simile and dance, at lyric and compromise: this existence by wilderness, this tragic reality, or chanced as one keeping secrets: that rapture of pegs, this rapture called upon, or love seeming impervious.   

…something is tugging, this energized particle, this list of captures: our travesties in lightning, our rehearsed responses, or those particular trespasses: our needs for perfection, while seeming imperfect, where such and such has a family: by seething frenzies, those normal emotions, while feeling guilty: to watch a certain essence, to need a certain undertone, while rarely at articulation: our souls at gates, our gates at fences, our fences awaiting our command: this inner building, upon its pillars, while our winds seem silent: this place in tension, at sights unmentioned, where something private pinches consciousness: at torn feelings, abashed by reality, while harboring a few resentments: but yours is courage, this orchestra of passions, while running for affected deeply: these tragic realities, to haunt our adult relations, while seeking guidance: this internal feud, those atypical anxieties, or something seemingly unimportant: that need for balance, so far into existence, to sudden upon bended knees: our mild understandings, our medium resonance, at required delicacies: that lingering forecast, our cloudy living rooms, or this doorpost seeming with presence: our intrapsychical realities, our brains manifesting lights, where something out there impresses upon something internal: this roller kite, those small dolls, or particular essence: to recite softly, a valued belief, while thunder plagues our whereabouts….