Glorious Swans

…some at terrors, disputing existence, laughing while mourning: this shoebill brain, this kleptic excitement, our dreams flayed by fears: as casual monsters, as not but harms, at wars spewing ink: that cavity heart, this clove smaze, our destinies showered by insistence: if but our shadows, as shorn our visions, while watching for repenting our towers: that faithful scar, this inborn lease, our features as slanted demons: that wolf to landscapes, this Chinese rice, our shrimps sautéed: that woman to secrets, this furtive land, scribing as senses pass by—if wilderness struck, this essence in thieves, to cut with silence this inner swan: those power-apes, this elephant mind-drape, our furious cheetahs…as men dying, while forced to apologize, our white men a tear emphatic: that shifty churn, this fern to cores, at leisure compelled to reason: this deep passion, this steep resistance, as it feels perfect to feign but righteousness: that absent father, this other as complete, our siblings relishing in soul-born parents.  I sense a soul, this strategic madness, our palms moist with uneasiness: to thrust lightning, this fire about guts, while feeling capacities: such reckless hunger, such pitted goodbyes, such as promises fulfilled by receivers: that inner handkerchief, this Pauline destiny, this three day curse: where Love was gentle, confounded by mudslides, whereas, it felt good to witness reliefs: that elegant vase, those wood-panel geese, our suspicion of yeast: as souls collaborate, as Hathaway revives, as daughters lay claim to genetics: this racy heartbeat, this fueled mystic, our agonies splayed across infinity: such ghetto syndrome, or graves rushing to shore, this passion for Love without hesitation: that notorious station art, this winking at panthers, our lioness striking for arteries: as women marching, while bras set aflame, this ache in serious minded politicians: our kingdom while suffering, our nutty born travesties, this lake reaching as supports our rafts: those crazed griffins, this spiritual crow, such as darkness reflecting inversion: this pinecone parrot, those mice squirming passed squirrels, this aunt debating positions: as men live, a bit frantic this life, at boulders pushed upon high mountains: where Sisyphus perished, our daughter’s passage, while enchanting Mount Olympus.  I know our plight, stabbed for innocence, but torn by allegiance—this fretted armoire, this cloth by scripture, our hopes for something normal—as abnormal beings, feeling inadequate, purchasing a five piece from Vons: our odors sifting; our garbage afloat; our aches trespassing our allegiances: if but to exist, fueled by inflection, where arts become Victorian high-rises: those castle tenants, or Nebuchadnezzar insanity, or this hand appearing without origin: our trips to Xanadu, our transformed albatross, our Moby Heart resurrection: as men of war, or women of knitting, while crocheting a village of sworn resilience: that mother at tears, our sons to prisons, this father as giving where lack is perceived: as wanting perfection, to give in blue-blood, this survey concerning our steepest yearnings: to laugh by grit, while chewing insanity, fiddling for space dust scrolls: that high desert, those valley deers, our eyes mourning for failing to exist.  I know your challenge, while cleaving to your dreams, this passage as hatching spiders: those destroyed begonias, this trampled heart-breath, those insidious undercurrents—as feeling frustration, while smiling, nonetheless, if but this cut to simmer into diamonds: our wild nightmares, this extraterrestrial, our esoteric seconds: where something appears, this inner essence, our psychosomatic friends: as fueled for penchants, our pensive moments, where resistance transformed this inner swan: our ghetto charms, our ghetto style, our kingships constantly surviving—as death to breads, or life to wafers, sipping our communion.               

Caiman Genetics

We die as legends, this panther instinct, our Vietnam wars: this cold river, our brooks at nirvana, our womanly counterparts free: as men cleaving, but cut to souls, alive as dead peering at histories: this warm shiver, that volt to brains, our Freudian Slips.  I conjured, Jung, this atypical mansion, our brains flayed before kingdoms: our Asian animas, our African animus, such as destinies dying resurrection: that mystic alligator; that fair crocodile; our shoebill genetics: this woman’s love, this steep agony, our Financial Aids: as pastors cringing, or priests ambivalent, out professors carrying leviathans: such depth perception, at psychs with pencils, as to erase misidentifications: that Irish dream, that Danish loyalty, this precinct by brains: hitherto, this aim broken, this slain smoking, our bodily ailments fleeing remedies: if but to suffer, while happy a scheme, where-was, this instance by tragedies: those addicts glistening, this spiritual allergy, our muffins with cream cheese.  I’m gnawing sea-grass, while communing with bison(s), while fiddling this dream by absence: our kleptic devices, this happy scar, our aguish needling sky-essence: by caiman genetics, or dinosaur consciousness, at raptures staring at God’s fens: this friend to brains, our last ingestions, our alcoholic inflections…this essence speaking, our genetics soaring, at music disappearing into magic: our Venus shakes, this last sip, our souls fretting, Jim Jones: that People’s Temple, this tragic adventure, those seeds shivering from wilderness fevers…our catlike neurons, our dingo gaps, our wolves raiding livestock—as women living, featured in blackness, our wisest minds disputing Womanism: that fair aesthetic, those feminist’s white doves, this agenda-man disrupted by tenacity—as flowing into butterflies, or descending into bloodstreams, where caves glisten at red petals.  We ache hostilities, moved by fawning(s), abased for indifferent: this lethal churn, that rubescent tulip, this taupe admonishment: our white women, our ethnic stars, our Jewish Temples: or Zoroastrianism, wrestling with Zoroaster’s friction, this strict duality: as rare is beauty, as fair is glory, our deepest blackness becoming this ecumenical symbol: wherewith, our wild horses, this shy dejection, this aloof prescience: while itching genetics, or wiggling amygdalas, to find within Emotion this common electricity: that sudden fury, those dreams to monsters, this woman afraid that justice might advance: as furniture shifts, where cedarchest inflame, while fumbling upon secret compartments.  It was hell’s glory, wrestling with Athena, robbing this medicine-spirit: our needed accomplishments; our burnish roses; this purple swan: as royal garments, or dead weeds, to flourish this course by existence: our lungs bleeding, our women debating, as at once our souls were dearly inconsequential: this love for essence, this code distorted, our minds hampered by forward motion: this cut so deep, this woman so non-to-passivity, while distant a tear pleading insistence: at caiman instincts, at shoebill matrimony, while ashamed for fleeing where weakness calls by demands: our furious livers, this man sipping, those aches to Newport(s) plagued by menthol…this addict watching, as feeling her son, to flip with frenzy wrestling with dolphins: this prince of wars, our Machiavellian principles, this Monroe goddess—as aches his brains, to destroy his instincts, at terrors loving this fretful shoebill.           

Prehistoric Brains

We’re at love, racing through discomforts, at teary souls activated: this wrestling for silence, that Japanese interior, such as thunder our yoga origins: this hallowed moon, this decrepit signpost, our days at crippling hatred: to see his face, captured by masks, this shiftless chameleon: our weeping leafs, as disconnected, at our windy burdens: those raking gardeners, our mental agriculture, this swan pruning dispositions.  I ponder, Brimhall—aflame at treasures, peering into velvet sulfur—those raging highlights, this debate concerning religion, at tales designed to initiate: our swanic laughter, our answers spewing abstracts, at concrete presumptions: as mother retreats, while eating her liver, our caiman genetics: wherefore, this steep aggression, whereto, this woman’s souls—as transmigrated, and by grins we see ghosts, alive this hustling agony: our tethered carpets, this red rug, our trips to Hollywood: those cold engravings, those aloof billionaires, this song simmering sweetly: as kids are wild, permeated by wild ideals, a tear retracted debating concretes: that paving love, this failure to reason, this dream colored in mother’s gaze: those trying episodes, that inner saga, our workings rested in genes—as crazed laughter, to depict such essence, where a daughter mimics such joy.     (I read, Trethewey—while peeking at waves, such academic closure: as outwitting self, summonsing storytellers, sensing disconnection: such heart-brains, such core reverence, at presence such evolution: this man racing, attempting to charm gators, attempting to redeem as so to feel accepted: that curse to men, such wretched closure, as but dusky underdogs—to dine with fevers, while negotiating with thoughts, to assume such countenance at leisure losing mysticism: those dungeon islands, if but to convert love, if but to out-dream inevitability—at strata genetics, listening to grunts, poised and possessed ere photographers: that eye-catcher, those failing tales, while debating hexagrams: our casual love-sites, this wish to petals, this dreamy horizon: as tugged by currents, divorced from rhythms, ignoring but a billion larva).     We armor feelings, to love as thieves, twinkling by twilight—this ravished symphony, those ravishing kisses, this stolen electric guitar: our fathers’ debonair, our mothers’ wittiness, our grandsons’ impatience—as sentenced to red-tape, sipping grape-lemonade, searching keystone experiences—or apparitions, or fantasies driven, to want by cables something detrimental: by withered oak-brand, or tremulous fevers, at aches a writer’s enchantments: that subtle disdain, those enamored thrusts, as order merges with chaos.  It was excavated, as charmed by South Pacific, this raft permeated by hopes: this inner life-vest, afloat another Continent, peering for sinking into something foreign: such alienation, abandoned to futuristic mirages, at hells to release this agonizing crocodile: that losing bounce, that arriving heaviness, this sickly, internal debate: at ironic lies, or captivating seconds, running from luminous jellyfish: that fatal poison, that woman’s heartbeat, our chases through wilderness—to shift with delightful cries, this search as restricted, our faces denouncing our war-swords.                 

Die to Live as Furious

We’re prehistoric, as human dinosaurs, at gutters trekking caves: this wire singeing, this sickle to guts, this belief in Jesus: that fair death, those fair eyes, our apostolic charisma: this womanly gait, that womanly charm, at arms another soul’s magnet: our shoebill instincts, this modern mother, those sophisticated psychologists—as men fry, dying this flight, at daughters that last tale: to cut gristle, our inner grandparents, this ribeye steak: if but to panic, at love this domain, while censored sorely this sherm leaf.  I was hellish, terrorizing our livers, racing as chased by authorities: that blunt to souls, our lines to Yahweh, our vicarious concerns: as Garnier heroin, our pear-feet wines, our symbolic plums—to meet with silence, this fool fretting passions, at torn concerns this cauldron of guillotines: that soft music, this glass of gin, our séance invoking energies: this woman to lands, this steep abuse, as to manifest this immortal godsend.  I laugh to live, this ace in dungeons, our casino alibis: that table leaning, those dice thrusting, this knife gutting its opponents: as apophatic legends, or cataphatic Sufis, this term in prisons removing its slime: to die as wretched, our Kierkegaardian curse, welcomed as dead-arteries praising pragmatism: those mystic cries, that kitchen ritual, our fiddling unto sheer disgusts: as granny lives, this plate for Africa, our Ethiopian wives: but lemur genetics, or caiman semen, those prehistoric mystics—or medieval emotions, or cavelike petroglyphs, or ancient synaptic gaps prior to evolution: that small cut, to usher forth cemeteries, while rushing for survival that curse: our brains as plural, our blood as acidic, this fleet of army-ant-mind-infections: those mahogany ghosts, this maple deliverance, our hardwoods seeping into vein-wars.  I moved a lady, while disturbing said force, at terror this recurrent theme: that drum raging, that piano enslaving, this want for mergence while forbidding our animals: that shy flower, that rubescent tulip, this nature in souls while prone to havens: this sexual flight, this fly watching, as sought an ear to whisper: those gray lies, this livid honesty, this wretched frenzy: as praying-mantis, digging into gravel, while alarmed this ache but suggested: our walnut candles, this oaken termite, those feelings destroying our realistic lakes.  I fleece a swan, those redwood eyes, that hazel configuration: those internal dreams, this screaming ocean, those octopus waves—as men dying, or women carrying, this shark steering into consciousness: our whale-wolves, our morbid coyotes, that ravishing dingo—as bongos resound, this essence as leaking, this Latin firework: to live as racing, this inner Lamborghini, that snort-heart-bottomless-pit—where thieves cherish, as perished his thoughts, while Love paraded enlove with sadness: that endless chain, this unborn resistance, to fire with life this thrust for science.  I live for Us, this garden invisibility, those footprints as voiceless: our carved aches, this plant in burgundy, our Baptists sipping grapes: that space in mother, this maverick soul, our years to wrestling bipolar parallels: that secret cult, this fear in brains, if but adventures his ultimate potential—that crying shame, this man shredded, our blenders laughing: for death is gravity, this inching towards graves, this palm as daughters evoke sensories: that cutting light, this mystic abandonment, this eclipse studying its worshipers: as cavelike grasshoppers, of locusts to harvests, as devoured this sentient overseer: that trenchant psych, those trenchant observations, this trenchant wall-grip.  I burn teak, as ticking her guts, fueled for rapacious seeking repentance: that wild soul, those wild dominions, our grannies at death to return with kisses: that pasta with cheese, that fair white wine, our thoughts drifting upon tournaments—or crying sermons, or rabid testimonies, while deciphering those differences betwixt humans: as animals forgiving, or wasps relenting, or daughters at love pleading this essence: our nights to romance, as seated in loneness, to thwart with life those subtle infusions: our mail to Christ, our hearts to deaths, this yogi as built to sustain perceptions: if thought to exist, as thoughts to exits, at barbeques our pork chops with hickory.

Hi Love: Swanic Outcries

It’s you, your unborn children, while ministering to spirits: this reckless fear, this ram in thickets, our trials to hereafter—that casual appearance, thrust with silence, peering at crystal wings: our music sweetness, our lively concerns, our Egyptian inheritance: those Asian cries, that European smile, this rich molasses: our shames dying, our hearts to clouds, this sky-berry charm: to ask by joys, this journey to swans, our souls preaching to Caleb: that warrior grit, this courage’d name, our mystic allies: if but those arcs, as explosive pyramids, while demanding God’s justice: this inner psych, this resistant child, that racist therapist—as winking with scythes, this outer ruler, at consensus speaking love: that Grecian library, that Roman cathedral, where a spirit swooped.  I adore swans, this inner thief, to sneeze while flushing dusts: this hexagram, this silent sketch, where lives were purchased: those tall tales, this hatred for machination, this acceptance for humans—while deeply at caves, this irritated reply, favored for insistence: to return to Spirit, as Spirit enchants, whereto, Spirit returns: that dark secret, our human efforts, our desert theologians: (your unborn child, this valley rainforest, our bio-devices:—this inner gadget, our mothers’ apparatus, this kiss to flights as wishing Us truths: at currents floating, awakened in body heat, sipping for crazy this daily misnomer: those cries seething, this steep elation, our calmness faced with hectic brainstorms: those mechanical movies, our diligent microcosms, this ancient caiman: [at dear frustration, facing his weaknesses, laughing while mourning this alley of rivers]: that ball bouncing, this cinema enterprise, our apprentices outwitting existence: this small baby, at arms reaching, tugging for yanking his beard).  I pet a dolphin, some type of sadness, our hearts flushed by ghosts: this red swan, this blue haven, our parents strutting through temples: this wild essence, those wild designs, to act as tormented against societies: those welkin volcanoes, this racy tornado, this slow-paced prayer—where mystics cry, as feeling resistance, while angled this daily reminder: moreover, this precious seed, this witness laughing, our carnivals bleeding palms: that disputed clown, our messy makeup, this L’Oreal catastrophe.                       

Majesty Comes by Deaths

So much ambition: Dear God, am I Caesar?

Reincarnate Us, as perfect jewels, our schemes concretive ligaments: this portal by dreams, this woman by notions, this feeling abrupt assassinations: whereto, this inner spirit, this autumn feature, this mental visitor: while cursed bleeding, searching for loyal friends, to convert to something obscure: this telic religion, this telic device, our burdens hallowed in quicksand: as, notwithstanding, this silk in blood, this blue ocean, this dolphin screaming concerns: whereby, this solace to aches, this grimace subsiding, this mystic to wells: our savage fathers, our remote mothers, this angst that touch has invaded our homes: our gramps tipsy, our grannies cooking, this niece spewing saliva: as cultured deaths, this cheesy empire, our Rihanna’s at cliffs debating: to seize through Beyoncè, this bipolar agent, while infused a tender sacrifice: this Native Child, this inner eagle, our tuataras sprinkling angel’s dusk: therein, this mansion of thoughts, this mansion of possibilities, our mystics writhing for deep at controls: to want with violence, such adverse scars, if but such as elation: that fair skin, those rubric eyes, this body to die his existence—as touched, streaming deeply, to have Us as our wives: this tasty morsel, this fidgety magnet, our nights adrift feeling confusions.     It was hell to love, sipping for smoking, alive some sorts by features: this inner vacuum, this English dinosaur, that ancient, rubescent palace: that aesthetic womb, as pictured perfection, to examine close to every line: while hated for breathing, this sightless creature, at wars concerning obvious activity: therewith, this fatal exposure, to conjure spirits, as invoked to rescue vengeance: that misfitted soul, those misfitted cries, this line in red abusing its practice.     (Spirits search, as peering into authenticity, to return with frigid violence): our salmon dinners; our pinecone deserts; this pantheon of human inventions—as steep in Isley’s, this TV excursion, this love for Love despite truths: if but to dance, this inner anthology, this citron in Cypress—as alienated to cities, where danger lurks, our a.m. tragedies—this fair love, this aching lemur, our birds but ignored—for life becomes cocaine, as mothers walk wars, this feud in men a bit to dying: hereto, this subtle Calypso, this excess of passionate deaths, wherewith, this fetus’ resurrection—if  laced our Pentateuch, while searching for exits, to invest such reasoning into something by eyes: that river tallness, that examined womb, this plight concerning beautiful childbirth: that fair death, that alpha male, those young magnets: our mango pies, our leaping caves, our bachelors becoming bachelorettes—if but his lady, to die his sins, at curses rehearsed in tragic elation: this manic drool, this fetching goddess, our apes stationed in solid isolation: those tender eyes, our neighboring langurs, our urban cities plagued with indigestion—while cut to gristle, as torn to grizzle, our New York peregrines: that lavish creature, those beautiful sea-monsters, this seven headed tiger-beast: as lives his love, to want with death, this knowhow Manhattan—as lives his grief, to fret with phases, looking for at disgust this city of starlings—that fine grain, this sickle impala, those leopards as easy with utter desolation: this lion at depression, our aerobatics, this trapeze carrying its destruction: that wild whale, this vulnerable ship, this harpoon stressed as missing: that target bleeding, this man to grievance, this woman making for comforts: our inner exits, this gate to havens, to find with essence another vulture: those brilliant eyes, that egress-entrance, this plight as entryway to mystic excitements: our controversies, this war for pontiff, this hatch as layered by insidious eggs: hereto, this alley as peaceful, our music as insightful, this castle as our gods—to die living love, our mystic conundrums, as persons want for exploration: that limbo abyss, that first hug, our days to recruiting our separations: as cold warmth, or chilled excitements, while running from castles to palaces.           

Indwelling Chains: Silent Cries

I was childish, linked to Darkness, at some sort by miracles: those grievance eyes, that sickly charm, those limbs speaking in tongues—our chaos, our mother’s dreams, to realize that addicts have visions: this human endeavor, this slight digestion, this loud inflation—as men dying, or women at restrictions, or both suffering private prisons: this human dilemma, this human condition, our fathers to late night excursions: our mafia screams, this planet of officials, at mercies pleading castles: that blade of grass, those fantasia abilities, this literature goddess: while fueled but wailing, this shackled essence, those childhood examples: our courageous guts, this resilient/passive monster, our hearts welded as bleeding: this woman to dreams, this woman to schemes, this soul courting snake-legs: if but to resist, as killing his aches, while destroying his mind: our brain properties, this psychosomatic, our ghosts to rush as in-pouring.     (I love this sentence, I die this sentence, pleading before our daughter’s audience: this reachless father, this silent mother, as all but deaths scurrying our lands: this cave he dreamt, this island he mated, this pheasant he recruited: those lovely brooks, as pushing English, while mounted to miseries—as frank admissions, or frank loyalties, our cores as isolated begonias: this sad alliance, feeding with ferns, abased while chasing this billion dollar life…if but destroyed, as feelings dissipate, this enchanted resistance: but deaths are plural, as magnificent pillars, a man to exclaim his love for miseries: if but to flourish, this stepping-stone frenzy, our brains inverted seething existence: that charming breakage, that lonesome noose, this feeling that fires are born through mindstuff: that leaping daughter, those brilliant flames, this essence spoke upon by Natives: our deep hatred, this whirl by radiance, this swirl by Darkness: that inner crane, those goose-bump sensations, our grandparents returning from death).     We ache for Love, this candescent miracle, this mean soul: as songs unsung, our tendencies won, this spun dejection: our eyes seeping, our shoulders low, our miracles playing pretend—where mother injects, while steady at cocaine, whereto, this plethora of behavioral inconsistencies: our wrongs but rights, our degraded shames, this pushing forward resisting change: [while roses effervesce, as skies are opalescent, where daughters are iridescent—those lakes filtering diamonds, while Sade scribbles prose: this rest as coming, those tears as plush, at nightmares petting teddy bears: our soul libraries, our spirit librarians, our mental psychiatries: this face screaming, this man but violence, to confront with humilities: as arts capture, this silent sensei, this radical Taoist: our tragic red beans, our rice with gravy, our lambs with corn—as miracle babies, or Malcolm brains, fleeing for surrender acknowledging Thich Nhat Hanh: this peaceful savage, this man of resistance, this monk threshed in Darkness: this lime kingdom, this walking invisibility, those screams at grains poured into existence: this achy psych, this message as blinded, this fever for fashion deep this subterranean: our miracle friends, this war on drifting, this space as rendering insights: our telic professors, our mirrored deceased, our mothers to visions].     Our Fiji brains, linked for survival, requiring steep concentration: to possess that gift, while secretive that gift, where one realizes a silent companion: this quilt to aches, as life needs applause, where lack leads to depression: this world of apples, this tale by sinners, our grins while ploughed a feeling discouraged: at seahorse screams, to penetrate surface lands, at sudden this invigorating vibration: our earthquake hearts, this crafted art-piece, this weathered encyclopedia: our women raging, our fathers silent, our dear travail increasing rapidity—as lowness occurs, our classifications, at tender shames to realize truths: this kakapo parrot, this learned scholar, this ghetto poet: to remember psychiatries, this evolved white creature, while struggling this existential curse: our falling gazes, that grimace by angles, this resistance to adverse mirrors: this man flying, his kite upon high, to slam to concrete a simple gesture: as brilliant eyes, to soar such glory, appraises inner humilities. 

Neck-bones & Greens

I feel indebted, this marvelous sky-pond, this turquoise-blue squirrel—those beige deserts, this casual peg-force, our dreams needled with grandiosity: those Grecian Ships, this siren by memories, our Odysseys by literature: to find with currents, embedded notions, at wars with education: that man skiing, as seated his den, at lions petting vases: to invoke jennies, or rabid our curses, at tyrannies denying passions: this man’s adventure, our eyes weary, our bodies lethargic: those trained instincts, this chiseling intuition, that sudden ramification: if but alive, as sewn into soil, our sickles disputing targets.     I touched a feeling, this radical misfire, as realized our inverted agonies: this flame at mountains; this torture as intoxication; our tires screeching upon gravel: those long limbs, our mother’s forehead, our father’s complexion: this bailing love, this bale of traumas, our days differentiating between intensities: that galloping poodle, as filled by excitement, our tanks decorated by algae: that tuatara, that lime-green parrot, our paranormal laughter: if but by beauty, this inherited landscape, our years to ignoring genetics: to study Nietzsche, this anti-existence, this anti-humans—our miracles depreciated, our souls to nihilism, our guts uneasy upon a different taste: those warriors tilling, those professors nursing, our housewives by novels: those extravagant tales, this private island, our Indonesian rites: our carnival screams, this pier in Ukiyoe, this Japanese fortress of passions: as women race, at rivers bathing, at a dozen lanterns upon sands: that mental sage, this segue art, our Elementaries deputing religion: our Amish territories, our stories about Socrates, our shock to realize women became men: if but for celebrity, if but by astuteness, our literary libraries filled by ecstatic Zenists: this heart charging, our deer watching, this lizard keeping us company.     We hark to lemurs, our muffins with butter, our dreams with seasonings: compelled by life, or low by life, our days to slumming in pajamas: our lunchtime teas, this subtle intrusion, this psych speaking to our spirits: that casual nuance, those fretted features, as becoming some sort of friend: that winter escape, this autumn whirlwind, this fabulous/fantastic fantasy—those garlic eyes, that garlic chain, this inner abracadabra: that summer blouse, those shimmery eyes, this glossy segue: at tunnels churning, or attractions thwarted, while stomachs rumble for closure: those guardian walls, while feeling secluded, to stitch this account called, Appropriateness: that angular geometry, those angular sea-prints, this excavation attempting to locate our senses.     Our hour’s turn, as humans running for clearance, as children oblivious to time: this rare luxury, as afforded our souls, while aging becomes suspicious of clocks: our high triglycerides, our sodium sandwiches, this vest haunted by genetic disposition: that bottle of Braggs, that tasteless celery, this hankering for spaghetti—those chips with cheese, this nacho frenzy, those plums with wine: our days to sing, our crested ankhs, this rollerblading nightmare: as fools at love, or scientists at play, or religiosities driving our ethics: this inner force, that inner voice, our echoes at times of composure: this woman meditating, this man at mindfulness, those energies combining shooting into exospheres—or close to mindstuff, this brain-globe mystic, those mind-darting eyes: at uneasy closure, or nervous attraction, to witness psychiatric language: our bodies screaming, at but a joust, our souls trekking familiar deaths.     I feel airs, or current pressure, or this floating intuition: as rarely for certainties, while disputing propositions, abashed by those with absolute premises: this needed missile, our weathered terrains, this pondering leopard: our cleats to barks, our creeks to silence, this mercy in men refusing its inheritance: those brainy atheists, our secretive monks, this creeping paranoia: our wrestling decades, this pot of neck-bones, our metaphorical greens: as livid souls, chewing existence, while coming to acceptance.                      

Brain Properties

…this ball-science, this round laughter, this cordial monster—as burnt in dusts, or dusky glens, at whirls this intimate distance: our winter clashes, our summer flashes, this passion as dead to miracles: our lovely agony, our beautiful plights, this riddle to windows as lives a scar…that anguish energy, those Bhakti rivers, this Rajah excitement…as casual alliance, or fried chickens, to gumbo through haven hearts: that red daughter, at blue shadows, this pillage through wild livers: euphoric lows, as robotic messages, to sense this radical Ukiyoe—or tyranny warring, as mothers are dying, our fathers a line to dementias: as born cringing, our wombs filled with liquor, or that diligent flower at steep fantasias.     I laugh to die, as dying to laugh, this woman at Suffrage Mountains: that methodical psych, that psychological overseer, those dreams as cut two beats to drums: our cymbals clanging, this valley reciting, our Moses as instilled in testaments: moreover, a deep thrust, this threshing sand, our Rock as mourning its first adventures: where Love aches, as mother records, where granny skipped a heart-lagoon: to die moving, while awake dying, to feel with ecstasy those inner deacons: that pastor sinning, that bishop to men, those feminine priests close to suicide: as lived a soul, this apostolic breath, this disciple’s death—while cut for stitches, or harping for Polycarp, or that medieval woman: our nuns maniacal, our fathers literal, this allegory to sights pleading through miseries…to scathe a plum, or pander apricots, while pears descend into a mothers anxieties: this foolish man, this wellic daughter, our aches disrupting our music…so clave a vision, abandoned to court rooms, feeling for tears this salty residue: our cursed goodbyes, our mornings lowly, this scent cleaving to old pillows: if but to believe, as but to achieve, where gramps chokes cinnamon crusts.     Its late our nights, sitting for vanishing, that tile redeemed but begging forgiveness; this fallen paradox, this repeated misnomer, our energies at miracles feigning excitements: this small pup, that infant kitten, those first-steps: as granny urged, while children worked, as wishing this mental camera: our potties trained, our fathers to bongs, our mothers working through intensities: this rabid gut, those testy tides, this feeling for addictions latent a woman’s inheritance: to remember backpacks, this grit in packages, that trail for one so adored: this pimp in disguise, this brother to tears, our grannies laughing while repenting God: as broken rivers, or swollen rhinestones, to adventure for a thicker phallus: this tale explosive, this man dying, our psychs barely a glimpse—those nightmare agonies, this tale as sold, this soul as fallen by joys—to splash in sins, while courted by sins, where it felt good to meet those wonderful creatures: as aches to grains, or planets to souls, where a thin layer spoke to resistance: (to love our swan, this flower as immortal, this glee as trespasses: that tall highlight, those markers to brains, this ruler as disemboweled: those fine lines, that stepfather frenzy, this sibling absorbing energies: our Holy Ghost, this bias to glens, our fathers praising memories: that petit adventure, those immortal images, this relic transgression—as pork frying, or beans boiling, our days to starchy rice: that pot of corn, this creamy sauce, our mornings to running towards kids: this daughter plotting, while debating lights, as influenced by churns tearing into guts: this cabbage theodicy, this mental typology, this false impression claiming free-agency: as mortal men, at love Penelope’s, warring for acknowledging Original Sin: this tall tale, this Immortal Brain, as seeing so little as to curse women): that mortal argument, this place as demented, our years to demanding perfection: this curse gleaming, this glimpse to souls, our men as but our negotiators.     I thought as atheists, conformed to anger, as but this caldron destroying his essence: that walled discourse, this pointing to travesties, this claim for named as God: our treasures bleeding, this fruit as redeemed, our women as pastors—or more to priests, as accomplished as bishops, this daughter his churn through science. 

Affected: Claiming Unaffected

…those sediments, this soil texture, our oaken dreams—hacking for coughing, as coughing upon gravel, our social wrenches: this sluggish snail, this rabid rabbit, our fangs sanded low: this spirit-vampire, this creative melancholy, our brains shoved beneath mounts: that inner courage, this silent hell, this Sienna Cell: if torn that cut, those blankets filthy, our tunics dripping resistance—as casual trolls, upon rafted diamonds, as becoming sophisticated jewels: our Bugatti leather, our Jaguar brakes, this tendency to exist as passive victims: or attic soldiers, abandoned to warfare, abandoned to lithium.  We lose beauty, as gaining insistence, while laughing this brief escape: as consequential nuance, at inconsequential agendas, this miracle proving its falsification: our gravid eyes, while pillaged by realities, this soul pitted where squirrels gather: at lakes kneeling; at screams terrorized; at aches this essence bent towards destruction: that challenge to suffer, those remote images, this inverted routine: to sense imbalance, despite rosy smiles, as pushing for comforts this alienated soul: our sour spices, our lamb with grits, our moldy breads: our big-eyed pillars, that loose-fitting language, this haunted resistance—as treacherous motives, this inner mirror, our visions clouded by crystals: where oceans dream, our spasms eclipsed, our spouses observing: that manic wealth, those kleptic genetics, our freedoms hampered: at taunts by selection; at rubies pitching dice; at terns feeding mood-shifts.

It requires years, those methodical monks, while absent to demographics: this elegant scar, embedded in membranes, at churns rumbling through cedarchests: that outer armoire, those colorful garments, our societal voyages: our humble condition, this skeptic glory, our cynical wounds: (at but a gesture, to ruin equilibrium, as so sweet this terror by souls): seeking Popeye’s spinach, or Yosemite’s zeal, while fleeing this incurring existence: this moody weather, our combative minds, this glassy grass depicting mental advocates—at pure feelings, unable to climb, where liquor impairs emotions: that cocky retort, that welkin trespass, that demanding passport: our curses as souls, this gem inverted, while learning this insistent darkness: our waves as tittles, our tides as conditioning, while resistant that ploy, at which, forces submission: that dear friend, so sweet this luxury, so pure our shared dilemmas: our calloused heels, this trekking through clouds, our pains as existential instruments: those cymbals screaming, that harp for soothing, this brief reality confronting our status-quo. 

I walk lagoons, dearly at sunrise, about torn through thoughtful screams: this passionate planet, our illogical nature, as possessing atypical crochets: this balanced iguana, to pass our sights, where awareness meets cadence: our difficult judgments, as feral habits, at jogs or seated at mercies: this looking outward, to locate something inward, traipsing from deserts to green pastures: those winter blues, that jasper summer, this ability to regroup perceptions: as lived a miracle, this exercised saint, our days flogging temperaments.

We come to spaces, crowded by rooms, this island in Indonesia: our suited threats, this knitted alleluia, that particular psalm: as kids run gallantly, so much sap to t-shirts, where ducks quack, flapping frantically—this artsy swan, this resting chameleon, this park strutting its aloofness: those withering leaves, that Bugs Bunny kite, this picture perfect family: as left equals right, speaking metaphorically, that typical yin for yang—this hope in souls, this thought to cries, where Melancholy has a cousin named, Bliss: this grace to souls, while thoughts erupt, at years thankful for mystic souls.            

Hard by Deaths

…you saw glory, this invisible collage, our brains splayed: this intimate course, this intimate distance, our intimate miseries: as cries a falcon, settled in Brail, alive this second verging upon madness: our redish cheeks, this slamming heroin, our bones to yoga—as dies our innocence, fueled by contempt, remanded by judges: moreover, this curse, our closed eyes, this shy adventure: that myriad castle, those interior lights, this exterior manager: if but to live, aside these feelings, as pure observers: this freakish hell, this freakish dungeon, our windows printed with silence: that cedar woodpecker, this animal that long abrasion, those tales told while emotions are vulnerable: our days to lies, our essence to tethers, this noose upon his heritage: as ghetto fools, this lavish Cadillac, those ounces as coca.     I laugh attractions, peering into sentences, those years trekking laps: this building falling, this edifice rebuilt, this present orange wine: if but our daughters or more our fathers, as leasing instead of abandonments: our mothers livid, our brothers entrenched, our sisters arguing with cousins: this smoky horizon, our feuds with venom, this Lexus parked upon brains: that Bentley Impala, that Asian thief, this woman loved as strong that affair—at curses bleeding, at rivers shivering, at brooks deprived of mercies: our grannies dying, our women at kept passions, while sold this adventure at deaths—as furious frameworks, or curious mantels, this vase witness to over a thousand traumas: to love by swans, as curt for ruined, where years vacuum this innocent stare: that poignant scholar, as wrestling existence, a bit too smart for resistance: this flowing Tao, this chopped up reality, our piecemeal elations: hitherto, this sullen angst, this cordial address, this feverish addict—as broken records, to spew as needed, while forever to traffic.     (If ours to grieve, I grieve sensations, while dead a slither: so cold to skies or anguish cries, to love as received for passions: our afflatus insights, our dear epiphanies, this major electricity: while hated for life, as perceived successions, where authors retreat).     I changed a second, to remount an engine, thrust’d for reckless this sand of bleach: our particles streaming, our mothers frantic, our fathers cursing: to give accounts, as opposed to ruins, at feathers sullen this rich caress: that woman laughing, as dying this castle, our daughters bearing witness: (to read poetry, or philosophical treatises, as popular as outcasts: this ostrich existence, this blackened sunrise, our cries to something there within: that warm embrace, to travel beyond, as one explored for presence).     It’s died this section, to arise as deaths, while feeling with purpose: this cursed infection, those thriving algae, our larva across a million waves: to cut through patience, as gripped in affairs, to laugh at self this theologian—our ladies winded, upon at clouds, as retrieved this dungeon of chaos: this liquid sandwich, this fueled isolation, this fragile controversy: our Irish rites, as Irish bishops, or Irish priests: where mother lives, this interior sanctuary, as died for love while another cuts: this voice speeding, this image as blinded, our aches as presidential: furthermore, this philosophical, as religious habits, our refined antecedents: this crafty vice, this slough upon innocence, this concretization upon doubts: our beating hearts, this inner realization, this want to caress a dying fern: our needs for safety, to grant his appeal, where unsaid vest becomes too powerful—to hold by nights, to pick by pressures, to mold by courage: our casual brains, this casual affair, this woman too gone for closures: as needing resistance, as craving resistance, as dying this current by resistance: this agent dying, our Federals absconding, this return as fueled by graduations: (this father absent, this mother present, this realized infatuation: to cut livers, as mixed with gravy, while hot a pepper feeling excitements).     I tried hard, as cut against inclinations, removed for years to happen upon love: this fragile sunshine, this vex to brains, our essence bleeding its deaths: to court daily, this infatuation, this woman’s addiction—as floored science, this cage mouse, our deliverance slow at pace: those cold lenses, as warm receptors, above life falling into skies.

Superstitious

…at wires to throats, or loquacious coats, or opalescent pistol-mouths: our rigid gravity, this flower waning, our brains breaking—if but for tares, this talkative weed, at greed(s) this spacial galaxy: our rippling curses, this woman’s womb, our fantasies to rest-planks: as born for hospitals, this crazed novitiate, our nuns praising telekinesis…that thousandth scar, those bars to rooms, this male psych: or women screaming, free-flowing mane, attempting to seduce—as frantic wives, at distance but love, to admire one too far that cloudberry: as captive men, sensing sex, to look with passions pulled our guts: that manic spell, this wretched advice, our angered therapists.     I called deer-eyes, a frog for prince, this book designed to aid furies: our manifestos, this metaphysical existence, our existential giants: that brain to Kierkegaard, this death to Camus, our carcasses reprinting our fears: this mother with pains, this man at false elation, our senses blurry with those we adore: that magic woman, that mystic man, those carnal passions—as left with treasons, while evolved as wholeness, to live this division of morals: that secretive kitchen, this inner male, that inner femininity—as sorry for clashing, while ruthless by kidneys, at bladders guzzling aqua…this relic lizard, this telic tuatara, those instinctive dinosaurs…to bawl his dreams, our kleptic sensualities, as tried, so parsed, he failed: that old image, as once a queen, while drugs for liquors destroyed cadence—this fuse to waters, this warm-bath, those flogging membranes_ our memories but seconds, while much has drifted, where it felt sadness to miss life: that grave spinning, this cactus resistance, our deserts resting in wells: that plain algae, those allergic eyes, this compelling infidelity…as sorry for clashing, where wars are destined, while clocks tick as carnal witnesses: that fern breathing, those plankton revolving, our lowlands becoming too humble: where mother dictates, as father instructs, as mystics cleave this invisible experience: as out-sided Pagans, or inverted Jews, while something ticks in Germans: our Dutch passions, this castle gleaming, our miracles through studies: that bipolar machine, those twain excursions, as met with harmony running for chaos: our Doctor Gertrude’s, our spirit-exercises, this book as remaining nameless: those psychiatric cries, this thin vessel, our tears washing our deliverance: if but this flirtation, as deep this silence, where tender minds are persuaded.     We exist as pantheons, an uprooted tear, our woes speaking through showers: or more this fire, to evolve for taken, our quilts by waters and fluids—that running frenzy, as hypomanics, while invisible to but our thoughts: our serpent genetics, our whale-wolves, this saber-tooth, his inner intestines—as outward dynamics, those converse anthologies, this woman at tables spilling teas: our ruined blueprints, as saw a design, to erupt as this scholar’s fruit tree…that winter’s dissertation, that spring’s theses, our plans for culture as arriving at deep breakage: that resounding phone, this reckless rocket, our dreams tearing us to provocations…as mere men, attempting this miracle, to satiate an insatiable curse: our countless screams, this need for release, this fixity of frustrations: as forests bloom, or deserts are grassy, while it felt good to annihilate passions: this clashing sensation, this destroyed rebirth, our laughter to canyons…as souls cliff existence, to remain as algae, while follicles spill revolutions: to hope Us there, as infused creatures, where our souls thirst for our contagions: that gravel resistant, those clouds as returning, our waves as insistent: that fan as spinning, that remorseful switch, this ceiling awaiting its earthquake: if but as hallowed, this pit cemented, our arches as supported: or kleptic archeries, this hut upon sea-skies, this limbo extravaganza…afflux this floating world, this steep euphoria, as eyes meet that trenchant second—those sides broken, that alley fetching, this myriad of trinkets—as fatal loyalties, or loyal ambivalence, while love is determined by presence: this cold snow-bank, this furious god-castle, this mount for purchase as but attention: our wellic heat, as captive grains, as fevered its.

Moonshine & Butterflies

…as terrified bug-bees, or treacherous honey-seeds, spent for balanced wheeling into psychoses: this lemon-pie, our sanctities, this plaid checkerboard: if but with deaths, as accustomed to clarities, to love while vacant our academies: this scientific, this social psych, our wails for bladders screaming insouciance: that calm poetess, those flagrant thighs, that yoga built derriere: but more to exospheres, or daughters winning prizes, or mothers coming into maturity: this field bleeding, our cotton moaning, those thorns to spines where grandma yells.  I remember passion, speeding through crows—that wire those eyes this insanity: as kleptic ghosts, or kleptic psychs, as grandmother soothes this violence: our caldrons trembling, our fires by missions, this soul too haunted for closure: that miracle goddess, those miracle eyes, that miracle womb: to cut his bones, loving for sentenced, at tears this minor prophet.     I felt silence, to emerge as radical, where humans are spent searching for idols: this small man, as acclaimed for features, our grandiosities by dungeons: this thought to brains, as needing this image, while serious sanity provokes realities…at wars to love, at souls for cadence, at thoughts by sheer bashfulness: that beige island, that segue albatross, those ships to pagans as more we sought!    

We drift, Love—amused with feelings, aching our wrenches: this mystic wand, those mystic flames, our wilderness mystics: if but to live, our orange eyes, this fabulous attraction: that inner carnival, those smiling clowns, our hectic passages: this sail to Mars, our Neptune rites, this mental Pluto at arms our crosses: to come to justice, this chance to exist, while furious flaring our banners.     {I remove self: I claim forgiveness: I need souls our visions; that fern cistern, those desert-daisies, our inverted graves: to cuss with silence, angered for nonsense, at measures to confess, We care: those Cajun sapphires, those forests’ twigs, this season to howling through summer snows: that deep religion, those terrible realities, this fantastic mystery}.

Alienated Colors

…it becomes justice, this intricate battle, our hindsight binoculars: that rugged attitude, those closed doors, that sense-dry substance—as performing miracles, or living incognito, at such love that professes barely: those silent rooms, this inner television, this need for clarity: such ruthless blackmail, as one-sighted debates, our defenses becoming normalities: those wretched seconds, our senseless sex, our agonies dismissed as falderal…those cavy streets, our minutes at lights, those universal symbols: to spark something, while sipping miseries, where rare joys become infatuations: those moist tulips, this Japanese maze, our mothers racing for closure: as therapy cries, this psychiatric gut, a tale too far those straightjackets: as bought her life, this windowless dungeon, to hear beauty, such sightless chirpings….  We live rehab, at steep converse, our eyes betraying our hearts: to sense integrity, as to sully dignity, where one has struggled for freedoms: that man laughing, those uneasy chuckles, to realize this cemented war: that life by records, this inner databank, such as memories forming tentacles: while mental prophets, our designs by studies, to predict our disagreements: our sad mornings, those chasing forces, our hours to denying depressions: that glee-to-brains, this suggestive spark, our neighbors feeling heavy: that rude banter, this strong position, our negotiations: as insecurities, our cabinet brains, this nursery by feelings: our rounded diagrams, those fleeing quadrants, that ten-step solution—to arrive at feelings, while adrift currents, such quality by life increased.  I study curses, as not magical spells, but essence this cadence by inheritance: those do-good hearts, our palms to tombs, our years as have-nots: that riddled story, this fiddling glory, our resilience chased by ghosts: at colossal struggles, as existential rabbis, or metaphysical mathematicians: this shift in thoughts, this feeling as connected, those whispers to proprieties: as never to greet, but ever to meet, while sullen a deep suggestion: such beige tobacco, or celebrated portraits, our increased thoughts by lucre: that soul running, our minds chasing, to have as possession this gift: to aid with spirits, as evacuating temples, while unsaid vehicle chases familiar resonance: that black moon, that benighted sun, those battling stars.  It was daylight, this tower by mornings, while sensing this particular cycle: such cartoon realities, our futures piecing puzzles, our suspicions concerning God: our subtle nights, this silent adventure, our mornings returning: as dates suggest, this difference in realities, while heated-hearts sense familiarity: that powerful calendar, our moments to communion, this choosing by forces our lives: that internet tuatara, those island cats, that metaphoric chameleon—this sea butterfly, this beautiful life, those hump-back whales—as forces lingering, as aesthetics glowing, while wild a feeling by artistries: at zero point madness, or this storyteller life, our existence depended upon interactions: this cold reasoning, this mental monk, or atmospheric miracles: at albatross poetry, this symbolic reality, while studied as unique creatures: where never this light, our welts by impermanence, our grace through change: this living life, this inner multitude, our soil by blossoms that rose.  I searched for concrete, sought by sour candy, fumbling vinegar like sugar: this slippery floor, our beanbag cuddles, that futon witness: our clapping children, at never a guess, our reality but a pair of pliers: as wrenching aliens, our dissociative lives, at existence exclaiming but a fraction: at bodies mourning, at grins while suspicious, at studies giving such essence: this slight confession, this realization, our souls pushed into silence: that first force, that fallen evolution, this hand by designs: our nightly gins, our morning pills, that feeling that life has forced our discussion: that inner accent, this metric called passion, our remotes requiring integrities: to resume existence, pulled for shut, our clams as metaphors.       

Uncaged Binoculars

…alleluia—while palming blades, while scraping sanity: this island creeper, those trees as symbols, this ancient affair: our cursed chests, this talkative heart, our loquacious brains—as cutting ribbons, while sinning trespasses, alas, to die laughing without reasoning: those antsy millipedes, this fist of sediments, those rippling mirrors: at love winded, at tears’ forgiveness, at welts nibbling honey: this drug to intestines, this frogfish dynasty, our passions becoming prisons: as livid comedians, a bit naked to traffic, our Crenshaw impasses…with paranoid instincts, as so much hidden, wherefore, we side with reflections: our feelings validated, our chaos condoned, our winters to cocoa and coffee…whereto, this invisible essence, pushing its currents, alive for seconds feigning niceties: this crazed woman, that angry sanity, those violent mechanics: as testing realities, while replanting sorrows, to cut with ink this legacy…our dying men-shine, our satiate livers, our nuclear warfare: at inner battles, seeping into features, aroused by likeness: our shorn dementias, this boarder-line maniac, those cordial responses—our social faux pas, our marshal training, aside this empty limousine: those cameras flashing, our brains running, those vestibules speaking abandonment: this mental hospital, that glowing woman, those shuffling feet…alleluia—while kicking tracks, this hitch as ingested, our rumbling dreams: those foreign faces, this palatial sky, those reasons to cease resistance: but arts are good, this pressing pressure, our last screams to sky-summers: that delicate converse, as dissociative tendencies, while wrestling tendentious education: by nothing social, while afforded our reflections, where thoughts evade our reflections: to sip while patronizing, or sniff while realizing, at tortures to insist, This is living…to have your eyes, planted at his grave, where we demand internal affairs; or life as sentenced, this marvelous ventriloquist, this consummate actress: our bones testifying, our sinews winded, our lungs mourning our Holocaust—that rabid sensation, this profile for bias, our scams confusing our private natures: to battle at Wounded Knee, this city of disasters, our deserts fleeing as witnesses: that cactus running, those horses galloping, this mis-written fleet of clichés: that deep thought, that inner hysteria, this calming voice: while adjusting reality, at seated control, while angered they acquiesce.  We hope to live, this curious reflection, this ingested woman: our children whining, our grandparents headed to havens, our souls up-against our furnace: as refined sociopaths, or elegant psychopaths, while avoiding celebrations: this wishful thinking, to have as possession, to live as sentenced by reality: that cold force, those insatiable cries, this palm filled with warm chi: our Taoism as intricate, this misprinted insanity, our affairs becoming our prisons: that sharp woman, as lifted for chosen, where it felt good to heal her: our radical pigeons, this frantic squirrel, our spacial converses: this infant to smiles, our knuckles speaking, this clash into sandy shores: that beige Cadillac, that orange Impala, those church grounds recruiting those myriad features: this sickly hospital, our waxed heart-plates, this breath-mask—where love was essence, as misappropriated funds, while racing to find his escape—as not by persons, by essence by souls, while admiring that one possessed such formula…that incumbent tick, such by responsibility, without a thought to her sanity: if but with lies, to adore for sighted, our intuition running from images: as caged freedoms, or lenient surgeons, or atypical sermons…that cyan mountain, those turquoise stars, that mahogany sun—if but her life, cut into veins, to feel with purpose destroyed neatly: this stitching frenzy, that new reality, our ambitions at becoming this appreciated human: if but to live, or but to die, staring while reaching for callous arms.                  

Postmodern Sky Cliffs

We die so gently.

I’m tippy nightmares, staring at Happy-Face-Spiders, to envision this life: our sluggish nature, this casual address, this six-seven Amazon: our terrible cries, our larva cultures, this bleeding songstress: as terrific crimes, or mothers needing fathers, or fathers needing mothers.  I die at love, this complex vehicle, while undergirt with sin: this Shen Yun adventure, this carnival at dawn, those threads cemented in arthritis: our sharks roaming, this mental fruit bat, our restless scholars—if but to exist, as crazed this fantasy, lingering in turquoise shadows: that dream kicking, this apparatus flipping, those keen disciples wrestling sexuality: our blues blazing, our jazz becoming Chinese, this spectacle alerting sensitivities: as broken drinks, this cocaine line, our mornings filled by regrets: if but as sung, to die as living, this circus chasing his dreams.  I ache a swan, thrust with silence, laughing for pretending but normal: those watery eyes, as but a gesture, while addicts adore his guts: this faux pas, this inverted taboo, this island of insect rites: our iguana pains, our lizard tongues, this passion hating incipience—as pure this villain, or rabid for forgiveness, or repenting by paying alms: our nuns with child, our priests with bishops, our mothers as harboring suicides: our bathing in hospitals, this mean tendency, our probes seeking anger: that tatted resentment, this inner jealousy, as needing to vet resilience: those flying kettles, this species by men, our millipedes stressed for structure: as crying women, or seething men, this battle to maintain our nucleus.  I adored instance, those Fiji dreams, those wasps as but by days: to ache his life, or cut his Spanish, where screams flooded her membranes: that rapid hatred, those in-current voices, this ghost as embedded our DNA: to float as sinning, while cultured as Queens, fiddling this morning gecko; whereupon, this England flower, this Hawaiian beadle, our Egyptian lions: if but for deaths, to die by wombs, this dream as repenting such sensations: our vessels demanding, this place we can’t see, this harvest we refuse to cherish: as mere seahorses, or incorrigible villains, but a thought to pretending our innocence: as returning but crime, or dying our sentence, at love demanding ironies.  I chased for essence, this sky by deserts, this ceiling-falcon—as plucking feathers, to flourish vultures, where love cried as tender lessons: that fevered cadenza, those delicate pianists, this sunlight favored at her horizon: whereunto, this library of screams, this glance by pigeons, our snails repeating their journey: to live incarnation, while livid this existence, praying for peaceful footlights.  It becomes this vice, at love for sex, while confusing deep intensities: our bodies clashing, this storm intrusive, our cries while wild our deaths: this wretched damsel, this violent retraction, our trapeze rebuking psychs: those fragile investigators, those rugged warriors, this voice in souls demanding such indemnity: thereupon, this casual resistance, as aglow this office, where unsaid psychs were fully prepared: to crave love, while resenting love, where it feels good to loosen insanity: that carved feeling, those indebted villains, this atypical fear outlined in attraction.  We live this voice, to know by feelings, as reasoning that such-to-such was affective: this changed persona, this cautious creature, this steep investigation—as meeting strangers, at wild impasses, to question with vice this mysterious language: that cutting demand, those florid dreams, this personality insisting on authentication: hitherto, this silent stream, this vicious mother, this addict contagion: as Love whispers, this gazing into Vietnamese, while cultic for rites at tortures this island: our countless fixities, this purified garden, this essence by this seventh gate: while unmoved, sprinting as tadpoles, about as evil as goodness would demand: this plural attraction, this vest as tormented, our days to lusting by first glance: those crazy persons, this livid design, our credenzas bleeding.         

Budding by Rains

Its heavy violence, as remarkable courage, seething through blueberries: this craving villain, our current vomit, our nervous intestines.  Its rabid cultivation, or mirrored grievances, while colored this racial strife: our bandit warfare, our melodic sadness, or more this vivacious melancholy: to sense eyes, our crowded rooms, this lonely village: if bursting in flames, to settle at coldness, our mystic affairs: this yogic diamond, this cultic glen, this field of combined efforts: our parents laughing, our eating frenzies, this day to fasting.  I die daily, as resurrected, our minutia minutes: that crafty gaze, those foreign eyes, this need to become oneness: that fevered delicacy, this fevered dis-order, our kinship with boarder-line tendencies—as miracles moving, our rooms with winds, this battle with nature: as Mt. Olympus, or Roman Cathedrals, those churchlike insecurities: to meet a friend, as nonchalant, while moving fire, ablaze: that candid cry, those innocent alibis, this love as furious occupancies.  I tether horizons, those orange/red skies, this telic blackness: wherewith, this delicate ice-land, this polar bear intensity, our paving(s) upon snow-furies{…}while told this man, this shallow current, wherefore, this dedicated searching: if but for clarities, at essence moving, to film with silence this newborn cub.  I see mysteries, this vague existence, tugged towards silent rooms: this woman watching, our rays to wonders, this yanking out as if to perish this circus: our stomachs aching, this cinema at reverse, our petals testifying existence: this infinite chase, this potent affection, our pianists stroking energies.

       

We lose innocence, roaming contagions, left seated at memorials: our cries to life, this feeling to abrasions, this pillaging internal screams: as showing souls, or tragic beings, with others robbing our confidence: this demented outlook, this purpose to destroy, our days to placating villains. 

I love Swanship, moving through ski-soars, at terrors our eyes fail for forgiveness: as lifelong adversaries, holding our discomforts, disgusted for truths waved through cities: that terrified glance, those shivering knuckles, that air as foul our afoul’d dissertation: that burgundy fen, this ache to brains, our heads pounding pillows.

We hug laughter, our eyes to quickness, this treble-like emotion: our cadence weaving, those instruments blaring, our caring for lies that reappear: this indebted man, those indebted skies, this morning’s coffee: as feeling loosened, while shackled to perceptions, this loop spinning its sins—as pure contagion, while it feels good, this mirror needing its victims: that craved soul, aborted at inception, whereto, this neighbor’s first son: our camera eyes, our x-ray brains, this existence that cartoon texture: as more are living, this silent nudging, while trekking through cave-storms: that radical cry, that grackle’s death, this inner owl racing through leaves: our innocent infractions, that disdain for honesty, while reaching for honesty’s affections: our machinery, those tribal drums, our African art: as told to live, while chugging a noose, while apparitions appear as brain-data: that wild hair, those long nails, that free-flowing gown: those blackened retinas, those shaved eyebrows, that poignant nose: those mirrors screaming, our ceilings withstanding, this chain with links that door: as born to rituals, crawling from mud, while washed this kingship baptism: such thought-filled women, this miracle to survive, our academies teaching skepticism: this heightened love, that torn confession, this epistemic swan.

We sudden by existence; realized in consciousness, afloat a stream peering at kites: that soft moment, those sugarcane eyes, our coconut breaths: that palm of sand, our sodden emotions, our misery becoming exportations: as pure beings, or livid philosophies, purchased by insights: that private essence, this driving sensation, those swanic powers. 

Swanic Valentine

Greet souls, my Love: Spin galaxies: While indebted to mysteries…our Chinese Wisdom, our stippled garments, our turquoise Impalas{…}as dreamy minions, or cagey leopards, this feeling killing his guts: our gravel intestines, this wife pleading, our men too callous—as afraid to wither, while cautious by deaths, our addict grandparents: those lethal generations, this mystic influence, our frontier Olympics{…}wherefore, this grizzle bleeding, this brain screaming, while listening to Hathaway.     (I died in [Us], unto laughing gleefully, at tears those years to blenders: our hardened souls, our uneasy differences, our butterfly adventures: our distinct temperaments, as chased for running marathons, at wonders concerning dis-orders: our parent sensations, our deep influential(s), this mathematical spacecraft—as dripping into feelings, born with Al Green, at so much love: as if we live, climbing chimes, and whispering to fireflies: this net and tent, this cougar lurking, our dreams as simultaneous: at every turn, to meet in visions, to cry with richness: our forefathers at sins, this death in souls, as hating what we cleave to—this white soul, that mahogany flesh, our greatest parents churning: our mother’s legacies, this infant compassion, this torpedoed anger{…}as men drift, clutched about ribs, slithering for sliding to God: that mental friend, this torn envy, our jealousies clamped to brains{…}if but his life, combined with yours, to gather a fist full of promises: this man to words, this grave calling, our promises as but a few: where love is gentle, as love is selfish, while needing with breath this steep gentility).     I sought mercies, fiddling with humans, as mercy comes with humiliation: this oily concrete, our slippery falls, this cloudy brook—as up-side-down, afloat our skies, while listening to blues: our intimate seconds, our thoughts by Eternity, our reasoning(s) for mishaps: our velvet roses, that opaque gesture, those years as sensed with silence: this woman craning, this anchor waning, our deaths becoming our pillars.     It lives in flesh, this correlation, our achy revelations: to reach perfection, our mental alleys, as fraught with trash-bins: this truck entering, our gates resistant, where angels appear that Light: those awesome creatures, those miracle yogis, this soul with mystic-bias.     I know little your paths, while knowing more those hurdles, theretofore, this carrying caravan: our heavy mantels, those tormented growths, this space separating adolescence from adult-splinters: our Buddhist Ways, this craved insanity, our humble spears—insofar, a nightmare, as asked to redeem, where resentments build into travesties: those bold sayings, our crying nieces, our hurricane emotions: at years for comforts, at tears for pains, at rivers planting our lotus: this fine thread, our tendons to soil, our seashore Witness.     I met an island, so naïve with feelings, a bit sensitive to lights: this small frame, attempting to vet sanity, while cautious concerning secrets: this perfect family, our perfect souls, our perfect images: indeed, to wither, out cats to litter, our poodles coughing{…}as strikes his heart, our learning left behind, our days to television.     I resurrect; as but a thief; this man to dreams: as, notwithstanding, this infant swan, yearning for adulthood;—or tears be-gone, this inner person, those intentional thoughts: this symbol aflame, this crane tugging, our aches abated—if but a dream, I’ll meet Us there, laughing and hiding—our cycle with roses.                        

Harps & Images

Sapphire bones, emerald arteries, and sci-fi passions; as living carcass, or radiant algae, fleeing into justice; this radical woman, so gentle our disgusts, so avid our hunger: to love as monsters, this florid humanity, our achy marrow: our dreams as cave-walls, our screams as nerve-endings, our synaptic church as havens: if but our terrors, gripping for rolling, pulling for affective bruising(s)—this small flower, by intimate shame, at cadence, humble our trespasses.  I recharge, floating roof-tiles, scudding as wafting, nibbling a feather: this insidious gem, our odorous gyms, this jinn tugging insanity: as graves cycle, these intimate ghosts,—her sins at fires those eyes: where spines shiver, this tongue to mansions, those ripples by Aesthetics: our craved islands, that azure waist-line, this oceanic explosion—while daunting our revels, as rebellious loon-winds, this inner apology.  I wanted deaths, or local caterpillars, as metaphors for poetry moving slowly: that fine air, those strapping calves, our ankles distorted as unions: that broken pillow, those chirping ceilings, our vests opening into dementias: that heavy kef, this blow to sandcastles, our incredible denial: this womb contracting, as once to pieces, our resilient orphisms—by opalescent cries, our dye to sheets, our violet life-demons—where others perish, we relish in geese, as something so delicate capable of sheer treachery: those lagoon roses, that frog laughing, this pelican aching our ministry.     Our stomachs rattle, this day for fasting, our mornings to 4a.m.: this downstage arena, our gourmet luxuries, or more a steak with red fever: our inner rehearsals, our internal cadenzas, this mental encore—as pure allegiance, or cursed for breathing, at cuts with lyrics falling for carried: our grand opera, those musical brains, those saxophone eyes—as crazed men, possessed by possession, rummaging trinkets from down south: such as teak crosses, or oaken promises, by maple engravings—those tall palm trees, this pagan agriculture, our sexual architecture: as paleontologists, or sexual psychologists, peering for abandoned to neuronic apertures: our gazes grazing, those yoga pants screaming, while Love is far removed from arousals.     We come to terms, abased by revelries, sentenced to pursuing our first endeavors—those beige casings, this see-through reflection, while left with self to decipher between arias: that inner man, that silent woman, this feeling where life was worthless—if not her mind, if not her guts, if not those yelps gnawing into grizzle: our spirits’ Fahrenheit, our souls to court-grooms, our brains as artist managers: that soothing gesture, our mourning aches, this bagel a bit too much cream-cheese: to hear complaints, while laughing our chests, lost in spiritual cantos: those brave pistons, this oily voice, that baritone languishing—as burning souls, or palming coals, our ladders blending into houses—where children run, as splintered an engine, looking for mother’s gentilities: those immortal signposts, this symbol craning, our daughters wiping tears.  [I get lost, attempting creativity, where, I love Us, bleeds into settee-marrow: this bold, delicate, festive woman, this miracle winnowing, this threshed for deaths crawling existence: this multiple woman, this strategic mother, this angst with losing this inner self: this professional as fetching, our manly insecurities, our hearts studying but losing concrete: our magical prisons, if but this need, while effected by mere a gesture: our animals bathing, our parrots annoying, our sons to souls that second kiss: as losing days, while gaining memories, our honey-melon teas].                                                                                                                                           

Debated as Losing Images

I have little to give, but triumphs to give, adoring this purported seed: my brains are Chevys, this engine at tune-ups, this transmission fluttering comically: our black-magic, our tragic gifts, this day to sobrieties: our deep admissions, to die giving, while boarder-line sociopaths: this dangerous undertaking, this infinite undulation, this small spark at ease: our mythical feelings, this mythical daughter, those carried behaviors: as selfish mantis, or rapacious gorillas, or this languid rock monster…our dreams trespassed, our souls tarnished, our hearts burnished with agonies—to cry affliction, while told for nonsense, our guts bubbling with acids.  I have little to give, in needs with anguish, our therapists dropping tears: this addict banter, this jesting scream, this self-given-indemnity—while others writhe, twisted with torments, as sources scourer new terrains: that cabbage seated, our lettuce as witness, this stony shell as testament: our inner Jesus, our captive souls, this essence purported as Yahweh: our differentials, our dreaded diseases, this green-tag garbage of glaciers: our mother’s habits, as resistant our legacy, where mirrored behaviors are repudiated: this distant psych, as doing for goodness, to measure with keenness a person’s temperaments: as sentimental, this fear in souls, our eyes runny with lakes: this muddy pond, that autumn breeze, this infant songbird.  I have little to give, revved with excitement, at deep thoughts concerning this swan: or that family meeting, as reserved with guilt, while perfection disregards intimacies: that tale of innocence; that grail of needing; that pail of biasness: where father appears, this cultic light, our minds filled with self-appraisals: this needed ability, to withstand those tides, our jutted mountains carved by waters: this intimate soul, threshed with philosophies, living for relished by theological tragedies: this voyage to seas, this hero-savage, this weaving mother—where times are harsh, as filled with joys, if but enough to cloudy our skies: this steep horizon, this mental iguana, those mint-leaf earbites.  I have little to give, a tear to frustration, where absence appears as self-salvation: this little being, this mystic agent, our mirrors hopping with images: as trying desperately, while reaping intentions, this person undergoing rapid transformations: while pushed towards interests, while tugged by resentments, this inner mugging tormenting spiritual brains: that fragile living, this logistic nightmare, our internal linguists—theretofore, this heavy gut, this heavy arm, this hand reaching for alterations—that brown sunbeam, this bright travesty, our days puffing for clarities—that grave calling, our ages running, this terrific swan as peeled within: […we dare to care, as fraught by objectives, rereading scientific histories: this terror to souls, while seeking inventions, this tragic gut scouring to re-invent our wheels: that last essay, that coming commission, this honor by receiving tenure—our souls as captives, our hearts as pianists, our experiences as wind-chimes: this feat as dreaded, this person as altered, this deranged feeling as losing our comforts: that fatal chaos, those determined salmon, our bridgework covered with bears: as something to die for, if ever that intensity, while coldness reaches its warmth: those deep feelings, as needing normality, whereas, we discover this instinct for shifting our footlights: this kicking at goads, this refusal to honor, our miracles in others disregarded—as absorbed in mercy, giving so little, while reaping spiritual harvests: this upscale design, wondering concerning wickedness, while abandoned to waiting out blueprints….].  I have little to give, up-heaving energies, with gold to die for: this once to lights, this tragic arrangement, this treacherous agenda: as father never knows, as perfect in our eyes, while arts abuse this terrific status: this fool in brains, this traveling guitar, our swans carving flutes: as more for life, this pacing harmonica, our rustic roots: this weaving for losing stitches, this engine re-oiled, our fluids running low for patience: as designed to forgive, or designed to hold deaths, where mental images depict our futures.   

Innocence

It was lost, as pricking soil, aroused at gravesites: this miracle bleeding, at full recourse, slithering for shining at pulpits: our dangerous wives, our winter, Glee Club, this tremendous beauty: as purely crazy, this violent nature, our bodies as lethal machinery: those drugged eyes, our grogged souls, our staggering through orgasms: that winded window, those wooded wine glasses, our gregarious guts.     I saw rebels, our debated scandals, feeling empathetic to ceiling grasshoppers: those mirrored meerkats, those gumbo locusts, our cocoa with shots of Folgers: if but so gorgeous, as cries our wits, to grip for dying while purged of sanity—that insidious smile, those marvelous limbs, that face by shoulders as sheer excitement: while blood trickles, this moon in jasmine, this teal-green sunshine, (our burgundy powders): as shaking gravity, those tender palms, as violent as Roman gladiators: or humble with bishops, while ravished by power, or gutted with sheer abuse: that angular death, that jugular breath, this deep meditative monster.          {…we sparked for darkness, reading manuscripts, leaping into mysteries: this fragile island, those fragile wounds, this hint by attitudinal trespasses: our passions screaming, this shared legacy, as realizing this scent by Innocence: our sluggish language, that volt to Alaska, this Canadian dream-care: our doors squeaking, our floorboards laughing, our credenzas weeping: this settee watching, this ottoman jealous, our eyes to Jamaican wands: if but as living, gnawing into flesh, at radical, high pitched responses: this drug roving, as wondering characteristics, our vehicles as enslaved Mohegans: this tender inheritance, to go beyond B.C., moving by destruction arriving at hell’s gates: this kitchen melting, this pot squealing, our rice stirred unto disappearance: this envied woman, as physicality, depicted as ruined destroying by presence: our latent growls, those pit-bull instincts, those saber-tooth eyes: our carnival mayhem, this clown’s parade, our sinister chimes—while perfected as winners, losing our refuge, finding with heights those thoughts to fly….}.     I loved a feeling, killing its minds, while retracted at sullen gates: this man running, this jaguar tipsy, this leopard climbing: to reappear, as stumbling dreams, our bodies soaking our satin: that heated debate, those lavish voice-arts, this soul to madness: as caged agendas, at flights by millennia, our medieval obituaries.     We crave completeness, our women vigil, our brains deliberating: this jury hung, this promiscuous spirit, our tales by seldom voices—if but to resist, as thrust into wilderness, our mortuaries haunted by ghosts…to lose that ache, to unveil poodles, our eyes spewing darts: at pure velocity, roaming our brains, roaming our castles].                                                                                                                         

Debut

I’m sick about God, this method by energies, this fire storming beneath hearts…that cold river, this shivering leaf, that auburn summer: our ponds green, our algae orange, this frog leaping for sanities: our misuses, our puzzles, this psychological conviction: as made a threat, to consume liquor, a bit retentive about adolescents: those warm oceans, this raft adrift, our fingers conjuring spirits: if but to die, while living cadence, this quick return: as mother grieves, his number two injury, this woman as afloat a million scars: to insist upon life, while vacant concerning life, whereas, this novitiate claiming life: our practical courtyards, this evangelist ruined, this selling of dementias: if but to live, while captured Jewish strife, as to wonders concerning Germans.  I echo surveys, and psychiatric profiles, spent for dangerous concerning thoughts: this mystic waning, this man laughing, our souls merging—if torn disasters, at terrible melodies, forced for culture this design…at petroglyphs, or hierarchy, or hydroplanes—while fretted for deaths, peering at academies, weary that professor’s last reasoning: to ponder infection, this resilient message, as data inputs genetic breath: that passionate daughter, that lethargic aunty, those mothers terrified that daughters see life: as mere this confusion, abusing insanities, living for bawling while craving luxuries: that blatant rehab, those cross-pollinated groups, this feeling as arts are failing.  I’m sick about God, sipping and smoking and talking and laughing—if but to feel, while plotting in Plato, where it felt good to decipher Socrates: our brilliant scams, as confusing men, to look with realized disdain: this inner thought, where mothers listen, at wants with arts this familiar love: and oh for bleeding, filled with contempt(s), as radical as cultic lunatics: those psychs watching, this mad abuse, our miracles seated in human efforts: as needing proximity, to enforce resonance, or struck with afflatus this cynical brain-crash: as mere men, or radiant women, where silent that missile awaiting destruction.  It was shells, our albums skipping, those relic blues—wherewith, this insatiable fly, as seething existence, while purposed to continue life: those waking dreams, this using of liquor, those families at warmth concerning freedoms: if but to swim, those geese that lake, this hydroplaning swan—as but that glimpse, to petrify existence, while grandpa committed his faux-pas: our minute schedules, our broken agendas, this artist singing his background—that colorful death, this brilliant resurrection, our cloths as total reminders.  I’m lost at rehab, fumbling a sandwich, addicted to sheer silence: that radical pull, this radical shell, our clams peeking at lights: that jazzy woman, that pale woman, that distracted woman: to ponder perfection, while killing instincts, this winning for losing while pleasing our audience: or more to receptive, living our consensus, to awaken filled with rage: as opting for blindness, this evangelical life, where all becomes perfected colors: as losing grays, while cleaving to plaids, abused for sprinting afraid by mirrors: that lustful woman, that vagabond man, these at widths courting egos: if but to reason, this mind of Ithaca, that azurian Aztec.  I’m sick about God, this feeling burning, this clearance as reaching: that sole vehicle, those intelligent brains, this intensity while waning: those glorious souls, those fervent spirits, this miracle sprinkled to pains: our legacy fireballs, to reach wit days, while darkness has dissipated: this losing of persons, with gaining of persons, this group a bit en-tuned: where father laughs, trotting for followed, this Spirit grinning: to see with ghosts, this plethora of thoughts, while afraid to journey beyond as taught: those winded horses, this galloping essence, our energies sparkled for reaching membranes: that inner woman, that reticent man, those two to silence while igniting our universe: this place in gods, as mere but men, looking for tortured our curses: those bodily cries, those bodily eyes, this feeling as if all was forsaken: our goddess impulses, while treacherous to wars, infused by panic at sheer electricity.