I
get rawness, lost and screaming, studying damsel flies: this cry through
darkness, this heart as pumping, this fear as inverted: our last rounds, our
inner guns, this large participation: those butterfly veins, those leafy veins,
this mongoose race—as racy souls, to regurgitate life, to resuscitate deaths:
this gremlin face, this mulatto’s blood, this albino’s wisdom: to course
through dungeons, alive with fire, and fluxing through vestibules: this
bright-death soul, this light-breath troll, our years to reminiscing upon pain:
to hate with venom, to rob our legacy, to mirror our appraisals: this small
vehicle, as testing knowledge, this field of Mahayana maniacs: this entering monk, this full pledged monster,
this gut discerning between energies—as built through stress, this palm of
insects, this Japanese Red Swan: our black guts, this sudden feeling, this
mystic bewilderment. I’m struck with
kindness, this telic leviathan, while chasing iconic ideals: this lovely woman,
our lovely aches, this motion that dazzles: if but to die, this palm reaching,
this hunter too dismal: our addict inheritance, to ponder so coldly, while to
seek in every household: those steep ridges, this bridge to China, this assault
upon Africa: this Rose Royce, this internal psalm, our knuckles bleeding white
magic: indeed, Love, this killing insistence, this inner bribery, this session
in golden deaths: our brains railing, our tracks crawling, this world of
seahorses: (this brilliant diamond, this achy fly, these morphing alchemies: to become with passion, to laugh
this glorious tear, this man distorted: as never for pleasure, as more this
academic, this metaphysical tune moon): this autumn yogi, this tale as
unspoken, this van as Illuminati: our
creeks weeping, our brains chalking, this outline walking: that like this, or
this like that, while mother chokes bleeding this assassination: where dreams
are sold, as children confess, this bleak disagreement: if but to live, this
rapping enterprise, this freaky R&B, this blue jazzy execution: our minds,
Love, this place I dwell, to cut greens boiling intelligence. Its difficult arcs, and difficult hearts,
this space in atmosphere: this swagger, this cautious night, this snap while
pulling by dungeons: this summer mother, this winter goddess, this sameness as
screaming our identities: this beautiful otherness, this have-not curse, this
living as born to explode—those crazy thoughts, that scientific gravity, this
God as splattered upon kaleidoscopes—this Jewish woman, this old professor,
this tale as lives become evidence: this infraction, our daily curses, this
thirst for witness-ship. I gravel Panama, staring into this capagen, at love with primatology—this grammar
problem, this black man, this ideological warfare: this woman laughing, this
daughter flying, this mother to days those sweet gardens: our looking eyes, as
never but dung, to plead for what:
this little person, becoming almighty, while teaching with vengeance: this
Malaysia curse, this Malaysia treasure, this tricky drongo bird: to chirp a
sound, to mimic a feeling, to trick with pride this unbelievable face: our
courage cries, this love as bleeding, this carpet damn near toxic: as arts to
pavement, this inner Guadalupe, this trillion dollar mystic—It lives! I ache her heart, to diminish her hurt, while
to siphon this indri yogi: our days feeling important, our years damn near
dead, to revive as seated by Elijah: this foolish dreamer, this dream as
manifested, this pride as becoming evidence: this fire Malachi, this prophet
our guts, this troll becoming this flying phoenix: as dear this life, looking
for perfection, and damn near close to sharing: this remorseful life, this
wedding with flames, this person as unbeknownst: those copying skills, this
detached attachment, those principles providing sanity: this small man, this
large otherness, this cut so cursed we inhale: as students bleeding, this
immortal crush, this fabulous dreamscape: those romantic hypnotizisms, those
romantic facts, this matter of Acts: to live as dying, to thrust as wicked,
where mother felt deaths growing wildly: this book of yore-bars, this
antiquitous affair, this life as merely an excuse!
Thursday, May 31, 2018
Wednesday, May 30, 2018
Mystic Rabid Mug
I
love pain, this miracle mother, this phantom father: our bleeding ghettoes, our
lights barely lit, our candles our darkest years: this cocaine frenzy, that
last hit, this explosive liver: our dreams shaded, our angst wailing, our
countenances blending: this medley of dysfunction, our loud voices, our morning
breakfasts: this high nature, this low current, our discombobulated chakras: if
but this winning, as sung Dubois, or this maniacal sensory, at terrors
excavating graves: our caricatures, our Venice, Beach, our Santa Monica Pier:
this boisterous alcoholic, this lazy alertness, this fracture driving through
gravity: our cuts, this daughter, as never those cries: our bending winds, our
broken fires, this coal smothering this inkling: as branded insanity, to live
as chimerical(s), this treacherous unreality: our ashes digested, this tale
with blood, this grandmother’s intestines: our blue furies, this pale
conversation, our days as outcasts—to witness sameness, this group of perfection,
this mother with souls: to pass to darkness, or to surrender while dead, where
affections yearn for glory: our waking charms, this inner glossary, our
familial dictionaries: this so-so knowledge, this so-so home-base, as driven
with killer ambition: this academic, this furious river, this excellent
first-glance. I love pain, this immortal
swan, this kitchen by decorations, this granny that potty trained: if but to
luxuries, where thoughts are abated, if but this mystery with chimes: this
unfair ambit, this mental rosette, this California Camera: our Kodak Moments,
our blurry horizon, this treachery as pure falderal: as never this cut, as
rarely this lace, this touch of fortunate losers: where mother laughs, this
other side, pointing towards father’s indecencies: to pause and sip, where mystics
are cringing, while pushing gladiator spirits: this man loving, this compassion
for Aaliyah, and this Four Page Letter: this
midnight gray, this leopard’s bones, this meerkat’s brains: or honor this
duvet, as lain to sanity, where gramps must admit this reality: our guts
freezing, our sentiments tarnished, our mothers cringing—as dying this life,
while fraught by secrets, to have for comforts this strange island: indeed,
with wisdom, indeed, with knowledge, indeed, a young warrior—where hell is authentic,
as psychs to tears, where therapists digest an inch of pure fire: those rabid
feelings, this churning arc, this psych to wonders: but truth was honored,
while lies were abated, to omit where tension is tremendous: so more to love,
as more to sacrifice, while it feels good to perish for Love. I love angst, this intestinal vat, this
mystery with repercussions: our garnished brains, this mystic endeavor, this
unclean African American: our guts hanging, our phones as radical, our
sensories bleeding sanities: this fair market, our grassy blades, our palms
sensing this familiar life: that old self, that dying self, this terrible
breastplate: at Ephesians grunting, at prose listening, at hearts as pure as
our first inception: this voltaic nightmare, this indomitable figure, this
queen dying deliberately: as lives this gut, this pure admiration, but mother
died so early her existence: this fair creature, this innate mother, this
innate mystic: as too, this inborn yogi, this mental conglomerate, this
Catholic Education: to cut with silence, these myriad friends, this time
attempting purities: our holy diamonds, this field of rhinestones, this world
of dead allies: our purgatorial(s), this naïve pith, this thought that ‘all’
yearn for accolades: this good quality, this outer psychologist, this old
therapist: to gut his bones, as dying his mother, to find father pleading
resilience: our cursed existence, this metaphysical enchantment, this old
professor laughing at Destiny: if but for perfect, to feel while dying, to
laugh in good humor: this barbed-tail, this inner dragon, this daughter by last
rites: this introduction, to give as taught, to add nuances: this breed
bleeding, this harsh existence, as Chinese Laws: to turn with incentive, to
gravitate towards pain, to yank at self pleading our guts: this rabid mirror,
this rabid mother, this rabid father: our achy legends, this inverted veil,
this extraordinary fire.
Gut Ransom
*…smoky-eyed
fire, excruciating pain, our soul-life: losing weight, feeling frigid, and
dying for closure: this traffic-life, this mountain passion, those Ten
Commandments: these bruises to bones, this curse with phones, this electrical
psych: our mystic fancies, our mystic daughters, our mystic mothers: this
tribal warfare, this inner catastrophe, or this self-image dilemma: our running
arcs, our damaged hearts, while seeking love this last shoulder: our cut with
lace, our liquor with weeds, this fury too furious for freedom: those cavelike
years, this prehistoric gene, this shoebill mentality: our dark nightmares,
those singing dunes, this inner scorpion—as mother lives, this plant with meal,
this jalapeño with bacon: as men die, to live her life, if but unyielding
passion: this crooked road, that crooked office, this new dementia: as never
offending, but bending game, to explode a second borne to silence: this burning
cigar, this burning fever, this trifle alibi: if but to perish, our sunset
deserts, our sea-deserts, our ocean-sands: this bent with death, this casual
existential, this man peeking through souls: this metaphysical, this
grim-reaper, this apparition: our stars with gin, our daughters with sins, our
great souls mourning with grandparents: to live as galvanized, to lose as
hypnotized, while guts bury essence….*
(…our
poisoned daisies, our psychedelic tulips, our heart-stirred calamity: this man
at slow pace, this woman too close, this other too far: our brains pouting, our
guts pointing, our phones ringing: to nibble sea-grass, or sky-trauma, while
furious with this design: those telic agonies, this losing with song, this
poison stripping integrity: our daughters with anguish, this angry soul, this
withering lotus: this gelada patience; while feuding with social hunters; at
tender concerns this nest of socio-winners: at summers clashing, at romance a
bit distorted, at thoughts too foreign for spirits: our blatant curses, this
struggling gut, this glass too damn empty: my sober mind, this somber coffee,
this lose too damn extreme: but hell to panic, as mercy for panic, to collapse
too near this well: our pushy wills, our Nietzsche ants, our flaming
empires: as built with lies, to adore such lies, to crumble this weight of
lies: our casual responses, after years invested, to move slightly left: those
singing dunes, this raving caiman, this mystic excuse: as running while
peeking, or peeking while gunning, to feel for different realities: our wants
with life, our needs with living, our attraction to immortality: this
sophistication, as doing alikeness, where something appears as different: those
caramel lips, this seasonal balm, this wretched philosophy: our commiseration,
our cognac with pretzels, our maniac chemistry: this fire raging, this soul
damn near dead, this pleasure to cuss where days were enchanted: our blue
music, our red tides, our burgundy gut-wires: as souls livid, racing through
memoirs, a bit too explosive….)
…to
enter sensories, this rising piano, this Galatians Guitar: our Colossians Dream,
this tender backslash, this tender alley: our cans tilted, our laundry sprawled
before this audience: our blaring saxophones, our roaring clarinets, this
attempt to study this noisy attic: our gravy with flutes, our flutes with
chimneys, our chimneys with regrets: our grannies puffing, while eating steaks,
this meal too much to bear: as diamonds appear, this invisible reality, to
sense experience carries its heaviest insistence: those poisoned eyes, those
palatial hips, or more, this chiseling by dear guts: if but perfection, if but
this midnight, to care so little as extending its greatest efforts: our ruined
ecstasy, our tragic existence, or better, this tale where self wasn’t present:
insofar, as living, or those credulous ears, or this need to seclude our
perfect daughters: where chipmunks dance, our internal leaps, to want something
so desperately and forfeit life: this passion as exclusive, our dreams as so
inclusive, to turn at angles to witness travesty….
Tuesday, May 29, 2018
Plant Life: Adolescent Core
…damn
near turned-out, and damn near buried, and damn near a lost cause: this furious
passion, this damned existence, this gorgeous travesty: as nine species, or
seven explosives, this dreaded fear: to lose his life, this dead-eyed soul,
just released from Harbor: our tiger instincts, this precise woman, this
priestly woman: our guts to liquor, our hearts to ecstasies, our bowels to
Febreze…. *…our beans with red nights,
our souls with darkness, our arms with love scars: those puppet eyes, that
puppet grin, {our women control passivity}: this jerboa race, this kick to
breathe, our mornings slamming shots: this curvy bullet, this bold mistress,
this shifty behavior: if but our deaths, those wild begonias, this lotus
daughter: our haven brooks, our torn distress, this precious insight: where
ghettoes are perfect, this perfect chaos, this stringent pantomime….*
I
sought parent roots, this strong current, screaming for aunty: this steep
sophistication, this jazzy wit clearance, this home too far to reach: our
sociologists, our homemakers, our lieutenants: those Federal crises, those
secret agents, this world of cultic warriors: that field of activities, this
mandarin with cheese, our coffee with cigars: this foul breath, this lively
love, this blunt testimony: as addicted to habits, while shifting personality,
to relocate our radix: this corner of dingoes, or that alley of hyenas, to cut
a turn into pure leviathans: this ghetto life, this rich cocaine, this
infestation of gram smokes: our mothers to flickering, our fathers to pure
Peruvian, our cousins sailing for cringing: our heaving guts, our asthmatic heart-cuffs,
or this holy catastrophe: where cellars dialogue, as chairs withstand, while
tables bleed tyrannies: this mental feud, this ghostly mirror, this shift as
perfection arises in deaths: our blatant arcs, like antiques by deserts, to
arouse this Aristotelian insanity: our science to love, our science to
children, our investments proving non-substantial: if but by fire, this
smelting misery, this chimney mother.
…we
panda existence, becoming twelve-headed monsters, able to discern motives in
but instances: (this beady-eyed soul, those lithium eyeballs, this risperidone
nightmare): to push with assertiveness, while one waits a certain resonance, as
deciding whether or not to act violently: this inner riddle, this place in
time, a caravan of warriors waiting to feel incentive: this cold kill, this
jetting through freeways, this throwaway vehicle: indeed, to laugh, while
frightened as hell, to praise without hesitation: this ‘somewhere’ God, this
inner God, this picture perfect God: {if but this existence, our
dreggy-nicknames, or gutty bear souls: as begging questions, while seated at
loyalties, where one has disappeared: this harsh tale, to think that thought,
where one was merely influenced}: this wretched divinity, this wretched
heartbreak, as mother fell damn near deceased: our casual spins, this life in
ghettoes, this evil-aided insanity…!
I’m
cooking salmon, a cigar at mouth, reminiscing as mother did it: this beautiful
queen, this misguided addict, this fair travesty: as cultured grandparents, and
resistant daughters, where profanity tends to relax anxieties: this cigarette
mother, this Malt Liquor mother, where such characteristics serve as warning
signs: our casual mothers, our deadly mothers, our caring and affectionate
mothers: indeed, with shame, indeed, with pain, indeed, to inhale and
dissipate: this truth be told mother, this gift to realization, this Tibetan
mother: our brains to deaths, this mother vacuuming, if but to carry this son’s
dilemmas: if but to live, if but to die, this woman screaming, Bloody Murder: to cut leaves, as sipping
sap, to then disappear into a mingy confidant: our years to seeking, our nights
to membrance, or those sights too sightly to mention: this roadblock, this
cul-de-sac, this rebel’s plant-life.
Cross Cultural Ghettoes
I
pace roughly, while sipping black syrup, a tad bit confused: this cryptic
abuse, this bleeding culture, this sap with juice: those blazing cigars, this
kitchen by smaze, this adventure towards Netherlands: our Australian cousins,
our African uncles, our European blood streams: this wellic feeling, this mutual disdain, this inner cabinet: to unleash
ghosts, this goblin affair, this pier by memoirs: our fitted suits, this color
as shifting, this colorless as dominant: our bold brides, this woman we adore,
our ski-lodge feuds: if but by panic, to announce as losing, this drilling sensation: those white shields,
those brown diamonds, this yellow horizon: while partly psycho, or terrified by
mirrors, or petrified of self: this feminine monster, this gentle skycraft,
this allergic aphrodisiac. I cut with
time, redeeming violence, while torn this lose of time: our gradual insights,
our beaming wits, where life sends its curve: this alien ball, this inking bat,
this melting glove: as young souls, stressed by ghetto rites, or redeemed but
dearly unlatched: this fading linchpin, this screw unwinding, those pegs trampled
under silence: this remarkable feeling, this trenchant curse, this web latching
upon hearts. I remember its onslaught,
this season for gifts, this horrific feel-good: our lively parents, this shift
in moods, this terrific dinner: that Galatians Alphabet, our nights enthralled,
our doors proving this Ghost: (this living catastrophe, this feel-good
destroyer, those years to treading pavements): this trick-or-treat, this treat
be-good, this trick for goods: our Sahara Atmospheres, this stuffy stench,
those grimy otters: if but our curse, this fair dilemma, those cross-county
cranberries: our explosive fights, this tale with chimes, this tale with
clauses—those romantic promises, this perfect life, this designated difference. *We perish with life, We die our
resurrections, We count our twigs: this style by cultures, such unyielding
sophistication, to become alarmed where we sense its absence: this essence by
empires, this legacy by ghetto rites, this séance supporting mental keenness—our
days to fantasies, this steep admiration, or so subtle it appears before intimation:
our winded souls, our adverse scars, or this pledge to distress potential
vibrancies: as men guzzling, while seated at hearts, to dine upon God’s
arteries: this vacant puzzle, this holy sickness, or this reasoning through
denial: our aches and bridges, our inner appetites, or this design troubling
longevity: this waking curse, this void through dungeons, to grip for life this
outer parachute.* I sat at renaissance,
aging but a young lad, while nursing mother back to consciousness: this thing
with life, as hidden from reality, while children witness our indiscretions:
those bold lies, that lying mirror, that ignorant doctor: to speak of lungs, or
to suggest purities, while arguing us concerning our livers: that foolish soul,
this foolish world, that foolish heart-murmur: at cliffs pleading, if but to
leap—our children gripping our ankles: this wealth by dysfunction, this abused
child, where innocence becomes hardened replies: to seek for normality, where
children become adults, to then upon this super relationship: our dear
indoctrination, our bull-shark mentalities, our essence seeping into usage:
those bold barks, that ripened root, that steep suggestion. I hear life, this sheer abandon, or this
defensive personality: where secrets are held tightly, while intrusion
spears-forth this lashing, indeed, even this retaliatory disposition: this
thing with shame, as pulled towards its aversion, while feeling sickened by
pursued interaction: our dreams with scars, our visions with doubts, or our
lives cornered by goblins: those treasured allies, or abusive agents, where
souls search for slumber: those tarsier eyes, this fidgety nature, or this
calming friend giving more: while souls mock, watching our destruction, as
grinding hell to keep their distance: this coarse reality, our souls
devastated, our grandparents mourning.
Monday, May 28, 2018
Carrying Sediments
We
carry dirt, this inner personality, while conditioned by experiences: this
fragrant nightmare, this compassionate monster, our aches breeding our
perceptions: this world of psychiatry, these psychological notions, this well seriously poisoned: (this slippery
slope, this weekend cadence): our social ladybugs, our apprehensive butterflies,
our forward socialization: at atypical openness, this challenge for ghettoes,
this nesting ground for upper echelons: this barbeque, this indifferent
treachery, this wheel within our
stars: as breathing our lives, or reckless with love, or stitched in secrets:
this trifle place, as our sisters die, as our minds gravitate towards miseries:
this daily frustration, this hellish meditation, this character constructer. We carry dirt, our nursing cribs, our
extraordinary parents—this chime by consensus, this misread community, this
history of abandonment—those bleak mannerisms, this instance with anger, this
fair breed admiring nuances: those orange hair-lights, our greens with ham-hocks,
our fluent use of profanity: our wants towards survival, our inverted
therapies, this wilderness while open to miseries: this familiar dance, those
familiar faces, our racial orientations: while color becomes eventful, or
colorless becomes this social margin, or both as at home with familiar
characteristics: this tension with essence, our differences by maniac
behaviors, our wonders concerning colorless strains: this stress for
popularity, this celebrity mind-state, or this deep resistance when selected as
abnormal: this serial behavior, this ghetto catastrophe, those rare
individuals: as coins flip, this imaginative academic, this relished charm: our
trips cross-cultures, our need to feel differences, our interlocking
insistence: our sea-shore moments; our schools finishing our habits; our
necessities tended-to while becoming outcasts: this florid nation, this fervent
beaut, while never appreciated: for nuance in unfamiliar, as souls grieve life,
where color becomes this adventure.
Sunday, May 27, 2018
Bipolar Rain Crows
We sing by flights, this fringe by survival, this dis-ease by wrangles:
our remorseful porcelain, our teary intestines, our bowels rumbling: those
catfish eyes, those Labrador cries, this tinge of perfection: as slanted
coasters, or diamond memoirs, while trekking gray-sands: this burgundy feeling,
those burgundy passions, this blue horizon: agouti tranquility, or meerkat
curiosity, or marmoset travels: this red sun, those blinding vases, our wounds
depicting perception: at but a glance, to determine temperament, to carry borne
messages; and oh by features, this casual response, where simplicity becomes
Mother Mary: this living space, this
wooden frog, this ingrown mushroom. I
take to passions, admiring wings, but realizing that each becomes this kinetic
warzone: our buoyant particles, our scorpion thoughts, our walls by both
escapes and trapdoors: those rosaries, our melting semblances, our Duracell
Batteries: as engines percolate, seated in stillness, this remote island: our
ashes flung, our cigars churning, our thoughts that essence to resonance: to
fair with gorgeous, this trembling soul, abandoned to Promenades: that
tremendous nervousness, that voiceless concern, that immediate retreat: at
purple dirt, a bit terrified, trekking this country valley: our indie music,
our indri primates, or gates too close to vigil: our watchful eyes, our
terrible cries, or this tendency to transfer feelings: that steep projection,
as giving others traits, where said elements are mere possessions: this
mirror’s eye, this third retreat, or by miracles, this chance to exonerate
yesteryears. I palmed an acorn, while
trekking palm trees, while pricing trestles: I sought a swan, as pure
simplicity, forfeiting her rights to anger: this foreign soul, this bleak sky,
this orange/beige travesty: as born to legends, while attempting to feel, while
refrigerators breed Iceland(s): this jasper warning, those jasmine apes, or
those saturnine feelings—where God is interrogated, this pain in souls, where
Job is said as one complaisant: this steep blaspheme, this terror with time,
this possible position: our years at darkness, to perfect benighted quadrants,
where innocence feels aloof from itself: this shorn rainbow, this palmed
Alaska, this tundra of waterfalls—those electric mystics, this sign our arc,
those walls too enormous for emotions: this intimate giant, this fair creature,
this excellent masterpiece: this Rembrandt, this Picasso, this Beethoven—at
intimate wars, as too complex for regulars, while bold enough to hide in
public: that warm embrace, that chilled insulator, that intellectual eagle—where
flipper becomes a confidant, while Bugs is eschewed, while, notwithstanding,
private sessions point towards an impending catastrophe: this space in souls,
this esoteric intimacy, this man’s soul stirred in quicksand—to leap with
courage, this footing in Ghost/s, only to spin for fire this web of
sentience. We spend tears with lies,
trekking raw rivers, or skiing frozen oceans: this polar bear instinct, our
beavers fiddling snowflakes, or our travels to enter vestibules: those roomy domains, our worries stapled to walls,
our harvest as something chimerical: this winter’s mime, this summer’s mystics,
our autumn yogis—as filled with helium, afloat low feelings, while seeping into
transmissions: this shift with time, this something to sober, as to encourage
those winners: unraveled aglets, unbuttoned prisons, or unknotted traumas: this
itty bitty spider, those screaming ropes, this particular space: our Brentwood
Sun, our Santa Monica Moon, our Los Angeles Colleges: as filling our brains,
this wild pack of alley canines, or that occasional porcupine: at souls, with
quietude, this search for rectitude, in this uncertain certainty: our abrasive
professors, our judgmental psychologists, or our stratagem joysticks: as
concerned with mirrors, this dance through lights, this mantis camera: to come
to passion, feeling emptiness, with so much more to give.
Saturday, May 26, 2018
Brain Pockets
I
session gently, by far an adventure, gapped at certain intersections: our days
with concern, our lost communion, or this fair second with time: those feathers
discolored, our wings by oils, our washings by Calgon. I differ such indifference, this internal
shadow, as hesitant by fear: those rolling arcs, this voltless session, this tender
vacuum: our impending breakthroughs, this struggle with swans, this cavity
melding with neurons: this abrasive response, this casual approach, this
un-teachable courage: as pure contradiction, this learn-ed soul, this miracle
stressing personal insights: our grave destinies, this pillar inflamed, and
those babbling moments. I session
gently, lightening to gesticulations, or struggling those captured winds: this
atypical soul, our atypical distinctions, to find where less means exonerated:
this man with friction, this self as motion, this daughter as unchartered
exospheres: our blighted crops, our senseless harvest, and still, We journey by faith: this fair frontier,
this intricate exchange, this fire these wolves. We sense wrangles, these inner wounds,
this wonder concerning speaking our souls: this device by clearance, to resolve
conflict, to confront mental mirrors: these crescent scars, those remote
controls, our intellectual welts: that intimacy with time, this dependence upon
souls, this gradual becoming: as arts flutter, where candles flicker, while
furry comes to heights exploding in tears: this rare adventure, this study with
time, or this study with intentions: to move like snails, to pace like iguanas,
or to flee like geckos: our zealous hearts, staring at zealous souls, becoming
with time such zealous healings: if but to dream big, if but our souls noticed,
if but our arms reaching: those unknit feelings, as brought to closure, where
souls knit various ideals: to unknot frustration, or to knot something decent,
this surgeon of stars: this deep travail, this seesaw journey, this bundle of
seaweed—where darkness whispers, as defeating its purpose, where generators
operate as binoculars: this scope with pains, to volunteer for surgery, while
convinced concerning methodologies: those shifts with turns, this seeming
betrayal, this winking sunrise: this friend of sun-breaks, this aglet unpeeled,
plus, impending tension: as more, those vehement lockets, those pockets in
brains, such as sour freedoms: those dragonflies, that tiger’s breath, or those
frightened artifacts: indeed, with time, indeed, with life, this exchange of
intimacies: our shoelace closeness, our mental differences, to come to bridges
announcing our humanness.
Friday, May 25, 2018
Sky Thoughts
…so
much entangles, this man by dreams, this wrestling shadow: those blackdamp(s),
this inner smaze, this ring of smoke—this beaming dragon, this mental
sea-monster, this ironic joy—as bundled with feelings, or feeling semi-flat,
this natural disposition: as days fly, our souls bubbling, at that sudden burst
of mind-waves: this luxurious beta-cave, such flatness dissipating, such arms
sprouting wings: to realize this shift, this blanket of knots, this berry of
intimacies: our crying antlers, our reasoned antennas, our angling
knowledge-base: this reckless calmness, this throwing of one’s soul, or those
wafers with wine. Its casual delights,
or rumbling intestines, or acidic reflex: our planes while seated, our
stillness with moving, our motion contemplating concrete: this abstract world,
as thought his belly, where asphalt rarely crosses our antennas: this pillar by
science, this rushing physics, this tenable metaphysic: those books by facts,
our earthly examinations, or this soul concentrated on spirits: those stinging
eyes, that glossy glaze, this angular reception: as souls challenge, this vest
by existence, our guts responding to stimuli. I weep for wisdom, this fair
creature, this robust nightmare: this protector, this tester, this immutable
creature: as minds to skylarks, or brains to mechanic scanning(s), our nights
by disappearance: again, alive with uneasiness, to locate passions, to embark
upon this voiceless journey: our months as monks, our seasons by seduction, our
evenings to psalms: this weekly undergoing, this slight ache, this slight
frustration: to feel irk rising, while to study those tentacles, while proud to
have pushed it downwards: our bellies laughing, our intellects searching, or
our instincts realizing havoc’s approach: this field of grapes, that nursery of
feelings, whereat, those sentimental notions. It looks for sameness, these kangaroo
agendas, this nonchalant aggressiveness: those suspicious cries, this languid
voice, this shameless disagreement: our woes to skies, our dreams to
stitching(s), our seams slowly unthreaded—this need for attention, if but for
balance, chased for floored our mirror ghosts.
Wednesday, May 23, 2018
Simple Complex Realities
Our
delicate weather, this sunshine state, its moody contradiction: our aces and
kings, our tender memories, our neuronic harbingers: this kingdom by silence,
this kingdom by treacheries, plus, this resilience to relocate honesties: our
cringing wilderness, this lady in black, our talkative habits. This aromatic coffee, this banana muffin,
this aloof newspaper: our casual eyes, at casual cries, seated in this roomy
city: our deceptive magazines, while never such beauty, to arise a feeling forming distrust: this elegant statue, this picturesque waterfall, and that
nearby vestibule: our memory’s museum, our sketchy tablets, or this bundle of
coins: as laundry lingers, as laziness centers, while pungent odors are bombarded
by Febreze. We shared a steak, this
reasonable course, attempting this diet: our burgers and fries, our sausage and
eggs, our guilt and determination: this land of obesities, our treasured
placation, and this well of milk and money.
Our nightly news, our blues and rhythms, our milk and cakes: this dearth
of calcium, this effort to attend our famine, our days at existence: this
statuesque moon, this extravagant sun, our stars silent by night-sighs: this
morning’s grasshopper, this litter of kitties, that diligent and passive
mother. Our evenings cleaning, our
restrooms filthy, as realizing it always demands attention: this lot of humans,
this wood-designed-floor, or this shaggy carpet: our kitchen dishes, our dinner
inventions, while tossing this old bag of Hamburger Helper: indeed, with life,
our dusty windowpanes, our dusky emotions.
I write of aphorisms, but rarely do I gripe, while acidic oceans rage in
this gut: this sea-dahlia, this cliff bumble-bee, this anxious tiger: as pacing
our consciences, while swiping figs, while pushing intuition: that sudden roar,
those myriad faces, our dreams confounded by emotions: as unresolved, this
moment in time, while years are invested in particular fantasies: this inner
warzone, this need to careful our thoughts, or this vulnerable disposition: as
birds sing, about this simple life, while facing this complex hawk. I gaze upon dressers: at this container of
butter, this tube of Gold Bound, and this plethora of individual items: our New
Year’s solution, this Healing Softness, those pair of weights: plus, this
brilliant irony, as if life wasn’t demanding, to censor with life this
domesticated zeal: those high buttons, this inverted tension, our bodies
reacting with eczema: those dear apples, this topical syrup, or more this
hankering for walnut breads: as souls breathing, this dusty river, listening as
our souls growl: our moody features, this quick solution, or our
disappointments.
Tuesday, May 22, 2018
Fantasy & Islands
…such
hidden gloom, such dying roses, such deep instillation: this full Christ, this
conflicted sinner, this abandoned resurrection: our deep blues, our jazzy
sorrows, our mystic relations: this fretted capacity, this glowing countenance,
this instantly suffocating room: our defensive glances, our moonlit children,
our slight envies: this robotic response, this rabid air, our castles built
upon green sand: such innocent delicacies, such lemon insanities, or our souls
writhing this committed wind: to die while inhaling, to grip a palm of pills,
to bemoan this air of nicotine: our bowels resentful, our hearts tugged, or
this grin suggesting dishonesty: our cozy souls, to rekindle our first years, to
sing with deliberateness: this rapacious woman, this insatiable appetite, this
tugging where sin is bashful. (I touch
this agony, while screaming this love, where music is such sweet forgiveness:
this aguish for beauty, this artsy elocution, this breeding hound: our colorful
language, this British charm, this European wit: this African tribalism, this
pierced membrane, and your majesty embroidered upon mental planets: this
sitting moon, this walking beach, this glass murmuring: our sacred passion, to
relocate this essence, to find with tragedy this inner treasury: this palm of
blue-jays, this throat to speak, these frontal lobes beaming with ecstasy): as
delicate creatures, too skilled for converse, too insane for retreat: this
romantic agony, this forbidden lust, our arms reaching where Osiris dwells: if
but Ms. Isis, this glamorous damsel, this sister of sins—our aching intestines,
this river of vomit, this uneasy agitation—to struggle our voices, tugged by
fantasy, and dying to flee justice: this wicked sunrise, this longstanding
kiss, our souls demented with rectitude: this jasper grass, this fluffy hay,
this accentuated waistline: those rejected hips, this wood-oaken scent, this
endless star-chain: as souls blighted, so close to annihilation, so far removed
from our last argument: this rosy charm, those sinful thighs, this sinful
feeling: as finding our courage, if but to sing, this valley painted in
turquoise: those trimmed begonias, this reckless neckline, those remorseful
eyes: as moments feel life, while seconds induce challenge, this unbearable
dream seeking reception: our casual dance, this inner saxophone, this restless
piano: our mourning lights, this palm of dew, this reluctant shower: as dies
our souls, this dream in gold, this passion as slipping its reigns: where
canines bark, or growl while eating, to find with time this canine’s
uneasiness.
…time
becomes relentless, this French undertaker, this Cambodian sharp shooter: our
silent Rembrandt, our dearest carnivals: this wide-eyed invention, this
imaginative dreamscape, this dainty warrior: our souls to deepness, this
darkness permeating, our wheels rolling into sunsets: as miracle souls, so
lavish our concerns, to pamper with ease our passions: this partial moon, this
daily sign, or those soundless symbols: where music dances, this late night
cartoon, this plate of honey-melon: as sensibilities shift, this fair compass,
our remarkable sensories: this want for horizons, this reality facing our
dungeons, or this cat purring in our laps….
…it
was bound to emerge, this frequent visitor, that abrasive shift: this ladder
mocking, this paint slathering, this canvas laughing at pressures: this fork
for salads, this spoon for icecream, this melancholy for deeper thoughts: this
Jesus for redemption, this Father as mastermind, this Ghost as remembrance: our
steep insistence, our tugging at feelings, our rich communication: while
looking at existence, while seated as reality’s settees, while knitting our
resistant morals: this lawyer’s conscience, this judge’s ulcer, this monk’s
religion: as souls flying, feeling electricity, while cautious to take notice:
this world of songbirds, this motive unbeknownst, at serious frustrations: our
casual routines, our casual approach, or this fiery stepstool….
Rubik’s Genetic
…it’s
been years, this somber sin, this rejected monster: our livid muscles, our dear
charms, our developments deep this remorseful season: our alligator soot, this
elephant dung, this backgammon ghetto: to sense with life, this infant
attraction, this plebian slant: our cursed genetics, our shoebill instincts,
this flooded pond: our brooks uneasy, our conscience bleeding, or this willow
bending: to have for fantasies, this airplane daughter, this sophisticated
vixen, {this wretched essence}: as blue blood money, or appropriate spoons, or
liver smothered in Tabasco: our dreams extrapolated, our winnings as terrible,
our angst as driven: this sole purpose, this soul pain, this mischief becoming
illuminating: this treasure by losing, this anxiety by sinning, this
kleptomaniac beauty queen: our sips of coffee, our distorted playfulness, this
catchy gown: if but this life, this four-headed calmness, this psychiatric
war-exhibition: this sightless majesty, this cool composure, this infinite ache
exuding deliverance: this application, this mystic observer, this fair friend:
as needing admiration, if but this event in life, or more this impeding
recruitment: our mothers to energies, our fathers to skies, our souls
remembering our grandparents: this handsome woman, this sophisticated gem, this
intellectual monsoon: this scholar of dreams, this Tuskegee giant, this round
of playful noise: this deliberate approach to language, this ability to spell
complicated sceneries, those slightly suppressive vows: our minutes to clarity,
as refusing our sketches, to know for our terrific intestines. *…I remember infatuation, staring at our
contour energies, where recently I gazed this countenance: this fair woman,
this abandoned dream, this pain riddled through happiness: her dear capacities,
this woman as warrior for Yahweh, this person a warrior against depression: but
throng to brains, this insistent feeling, this amazing wonder: our ankle low
dresses, our sophisticated anklets, our beige top suits: this time to need, as
aborted to grasping, while chilled for perfect this storm of dreams: this
cabinet mind, this sight too difficult to forget, or that churn looking over
one’s shoulder: those intellectual insights, this man to restrictions, this
land as immortal: to scatter as lizards, or flee as cheetahs, while honoring
this husband’s lot: for life was reaching, this pan of chestnuts, this man
recruiting for dear existence: as a man thinketh, as so he liveth, while his
wife personifies justice: so angst to love, while settling for experience,
where it felt like hell to feel such adrenaline: this rush of prose, this
inward griffin, or our tender cerebrals: this song blazing, this feeling
crying, this remorse as blended in memoires of Princess: if but to dream, if
but to live, if but I were enough: moreover, this catastrophe, these hurtful
words, this man rebuking his posts: those incredible lenses, those incredible
brains, this talkative feature: indeed, to trespass, as believing it as normal,
where private folks demand a touch of distance.* (…she’s so naïve, and so smart, and so
gifted: this immortal charm, this resonant personality, this catchy laughter:
those pyramid realities, this mental geometry, this acting with easiness: those
genius psychs, this deep trepidation, or this feature constantly appearing: as
if to privacies, this musical opera, this presence in stillness: this watching
woman, this dying legacy, or more this father I needed to love: if but to
risks, if but too risqué, if but this woman that knew his reality: our dearest
sisters, this mystic observer, this slight intrusion: but life was present, and
energies felt pain, while eyes presently drip: this courage in deers, this
tiger to snows, this stepfather as feeling his passions: our growing priests,
our rhythmic nuns, or this pushy for abrasive tendency: our authority
challenged, our guts to fires, our essence bleeding humilities: as casual
beings, or reckless mice, to push for perfection: this lovely granny, this
fearless father, this great treasure: as borne to missions, this inner loquat,
this mental pomegranate—where granny was pure, this lovely woman, even her
cigarette breath).
Mental Assembly
*…yesterday
was liquor, this lizard’s release, this repent with chimes: our steady
stations, this mug of gas, this kitten fiddling mushrooms: this fledgling
laughing, our mothers to sanities, our fathers coming home from wars: this
asylum, this mental condition, and such public mockery: our Aaliyah wives, our
sibling computers, our inner circles: this perfect resistance, while perfect is
seeping, by far this terrific cobra: our itchy scalps, our red dirt deserts, or
this event at Death Valley: this scorpion mouse, or two headed centipedes, or
our majestic zebras—as men at love, fawning over fair features, our visual
distractions. (…yesterday was cathartic,
bleeding with daughters, or finding love for mothers: this dear struggle, this
helium anxiety, to confirm that some mothers were afflicted: this enriching
diamond, these electric chills, this zebra tailed lizard: [those deer eyes,
those grassy legs, this essence painting riverbeds]: where passion becomes
life, this angst and vine, this mental serration—this saw-like frustration,
this need for desire, this want for something filthy: indeed, this religious lizard,
this slithering reptile, this discarded handkerchief—those grasshopper moons,
this ceiling by Regrets, or that Libra and that Scorpio: [this Pisces heart, as
depleted of sounds, while fumbling this solace frontier: those beige
spectacles, this restaurant outburst, or our mothers screaming at Jesus]: this
remarkable therapist, this acorn unlocked, this dung beetle excavating sewers):
as lives our guts, this internal superwoman, plus, our venomous recue: this
pure saint, so dead to life, so warm to structure: this Catholic Asian, this
African Christian, or more, our colonized Americas. (…yesterday was psychiatry, to ponder this
taste in stereo, to conflict with probing positions: this rant this rave, this
giant this snail, this heaven as hell—our blighted feelings, our weeds
sprouting, our crops speaking this exotic language: our metaphors, or occasional
similes, or this existence feeding upon aphorisms—those petit observations, our
seeing while surfing, our days to Watch Towers: [it becomes this treachery, or
this lavish existence, or this refusal to gaze upon confliction: this elephant
shrew, this racing monster, this ability to move two times faster than
cheetahs: our running minds, this aesthetic congestion, this stuffy and runny
nose]—our borne mentalities, our wakeful daughters, and this tall branch
speaking its essence: this tiger’s head, this lion’s body, those phoenix
wings—as built for raging, this sign becoming conscienceness, this symbol
haunting our harvest: those infant copying skills, this posit as defined, or
our Maruchan Noodles—this far chase, our deepest influences, our nights to Troy: as extra our lives, or ordinary
concerns, or plain treachery—this song by wolves, this howling sunrise, this
penchant curse—as men live, while women breathe, to have for justice one slice
of existence): our chess designed genetics, or this schleprock feeling, while
pressured to review every tenet: this cross with life, those abandoned
chuckles, or better, that abandoned self—at full throttle, as seen this best
person, to realize that humans become self-saboteurs—those darkened brains,
this infested lying, or this spiritual heist: our random condition, or this
extraordinary Ransom, or our scholars
playful as children: this deep reflection, this ravishing retrieval, this
incredible rescue: our chocolate theater, our vanilla enterprise, or this
medley of acrobatics: this kettle whistling, this pot seated gracefully, or
this rug leaping up and claiming its existence: our bare bones, our troubled
bodies, our biblical allegories—where Magdalene grew, our dreams by Love, and
Peter was destined to peter-out: this fuel for men, this reality for women, as
witnessed this history of Exercises: to
live as moving, to become this fire, or to demand of self certain behaviors.*
Monday, May 21, 2018
Swanic Likeness
…such
casual, debonair tides, this loose existence, this existential panorama: our
furious guts, our remorseful woes, this time too early this collapse: to dance as if, to come to treatises, to die
while resurrecting: this pentagram, this apocrypha, this uprooted bishop: our
dreams by boats, our meals by gates, our hearts ruined for pressured: this thin
woman, this strong woman, this ruined existence: (for tides are permanent, this
etching into characters, this casual disposition—as flushed nonchalance, this
cynical reality, this gravity tugging upwards: our inner music, this bestial
symphony, this ill-gotten cadenza: our harps, our whistles, our enemies: this
running faucet, pouring its venom, while hell to souls that struggle: our
banished hearts, this lovely creature, this ruthless machine: at porticos
pleading, at horns tugging altars, or more, at Jesus asking appropriate
questions: to flee by wretched arts, this kingdom beneath sewers, this dream in
purple and white: our flailed flesh, our flogged brains, this space in
purgatory): if but to exist, this tarnished sanctuary, this stress dependent
upon experience—as reaching ghosts, where mother dances, this seven year old
convert. I sense a swan, this language
repeated, this essence seeping through religions: our guts restricted, our
brains seeking homage, our insistence to survive: this world by tyrannies, this
harsh reality—so young realizing those particulars unsaid: our downward faces,
this upward pride, this confusing reality: those adult voices, this deep
resistance, this child emerging as this swan—our caged soulprints, our instant
angers, or this freezer becoming metaphorical: our writing frenzies, our last
converse, this star that mirror: as born to waft, to scud and fly, to flit and
demand—this courage by rank, this passion as mother’s, this calmness as wisdom:
our forefather’s bleeding, our terrible nightmares, this sheet as quite a
quilt: this slew of mystics, this inner triangle, those explosive glands: to
channel with time, to grovel when necessary, to attempt this serene atmosphere:
such ambience, such as pyramids, such as Hebrew origins: to float as Asiatic souls,
to visit this mental providence, to administer therapeutic tactics—if but to
breathe, while harnessed by realities, to sense this self emerging where
something has fled: this castle of thieves, this purple passion, this inner
eye-glint: such acrimony, such deadly curses, this un-polite existence: as it
rarely repents, as continually trekking forward, at seconds leaving Jesus
behind: this welkin Buddhist, or this Catholic sibling, our years to removing
our first sins: or Protestant sinners, this pride this room, and our darkest
insanities: this catered persistence, this fear to let go, this reality pushing
this evaluation: as men tinkering engines, our women rebuilding transmissions,
or daughters yanking for demanding this inner entrance: our abrasions winking,
our days as shallow, our nights as too deep for comforts.
…we
sense this life, this imperfect existence, while insisting upon perfection:
this lying mirror, this mere perception, or this honest and affectionate
mirror: our souls moving, our rooms widening, our ceilings evaporating: this
base of training, our inner responsibilities, this parent removing obstacles:
if but to exist, this pragmatic reality, while balanced enough to remain
spiritual: this deep compassion, this terrific science, this cage flung into
nearby fires: our metal melting, our minds liberated, our justice resounding
from mountain tops: this slight insistence, this day with judges, this book as
recording every decision: this day at life, our steepest passions, this ability
to justify every action: our idle tongues, our loose language, our hurt feelings:
where two danced, and harmonized gently, while living our freedoms: this small
bundle, this fair tale, this unimportant reality: for perfect is sought, by
imperfect souls, where study and diligence are shunned: to eschew works, purely dependent upon grace, while free to do as we presume:
this slight rant, this deep soul, this daughter as a reflection of likeness.
Dahlias upon Sea-cliffs
…our
livers surf, our brains at hyenas, our guts floored by (gravel): this rising
rose, this rosy mile, this sinner’s Malachi: if but by ruins, this overseer graphing,
this river craned by blood: this ocean fleeing, afar these belted tides, as legions
trek our muddy glands: to love as if,
to die with wings, to sense this horizon gutting our inhibitions: this frequent
trespass, this woman with kids, this terrible fortress. I’ve come to panic, this political nuance,
this Michelle in Obama: our deep Rihanna, our bashful Cleopatra, this tale
knitted through Osiris: our casual eloquence, this classy enchantress, this
woman as held to private morality: our zealous religious, this pint of bourbon,
this curse addicted to its predecessors: our mothers comatose, our fathers
absent, this son too explosive for normal converse: this behavioral sin, this
inner pill, our lakes meeting our ponds: this lethal cigar, this infinite
cigarette, if but this kettle steaming prose—as men convoluted, or women at
their last guess, to come to grips this mystic by sparks: this passionate writ,
this wrestling trespass, or this fever whet for this soul’s guts: our blanket
realities, our quicksand dilemmas, where Love was sick enough to proffer a
life-vest. {I’m dying our glove, this
engulfing feeling, this mental vox—as voices cringing, or mothers to abuses, to
arise this panic at one blast: our winning acreage, this sand-dirt cleaving,
our years to counting mules: this spiritual weal, this internal vizard (mask),
or our vital retractions: as immortal losers, or mortal winners, to come to
scripture pleading father’s existence: this hung beacon, this hung phoenix,
this rising air-sin—where father designates, as groups coordinate, while
essence explodes into five year bids: this passionate mantel, this tendency to
unsay, while cursed this eternal distance: our privileged seeds, our deep
unrest, or this propensity to exclaim this deep adoration: this mother with
child, this surviving prayer, this potbellied daughter: our unnoted arts, our
incriminating autobiographies, or more, this music sensing earlobes: as
unknitted dearly, or reckless mystics, to vow with time this need for passions:
our cut caviar, our relished gin-juice, or this radical forgiveness—as sudden
in time, this satori mountain, this
hawking for truant epiphany}. I splayed
our tyrant, I paid our sins, I died while eyes rolled into oblivion: those
Italian sonnets, those Italian women, as but a fraction of your art: this man
running, as returning to islands, to peek with contention this fair
catastrophe: our bleeding Beyoncè, our rippling travail, or this troth bleeding
its recues: as women with wands, or grannies with magic, to cut and cuss this
man for dying: our deep surgeons, this battle with reality, to ask and witness
this shift in temperaments: indeed, with issues, our tissues raving at Keyes,
while pianos dance to Naïve’s resurrection: this slice to bone, this revised
episode, this resistance pleading its subsistence; and, thereto, this dragon
with wars, this boar with demons, this psych with feelings: as never our charm,
but ever for tugged, to bless with ease this Jerusalem mystic. (I cursed a flower, to witness it wither,
while ashamed because of so many witnesses: this plaid scarf, this inner
cleanser, this fen harboring mayflies: as women to guts, or souls to women,
where it felt good to bond with serenity: this hell in time, this space in air-goats,
this tragedy becoming our deepest ingestion: to cut with life, to love with deaths,
to arise this billionaire ponderosa—those galloping energies, this thrust through
arcs, this plaintiff attorney: as fused and driven, this ambition—that black
goddess—where parts are choking, while rhythm provokes, where a man rests but a
second by fortnights: this inner project, this primate feeling, this code by
genetics—as musing forever, this rising volta, this remarkable Trethewey: if
but to exist, this terrible confliction, this Smithsonian alligator: where eyes
are opal, and tears are rubescent, and ferocious animosity is defanged: this
bleeding whale, this bloody sea, this innumerable number of sharks: where Love sewed,
this flower upon algae, this floating miracle).
Sunday, May 20, 2018
Dear Eyes
I
ache soreness, this vengeful dahlia, this mis-fathomed rumination: as dying
God’s pain, or intricate a snaky web, or feeling this present spasm: our guts
to harmonicas, our blood to venom, our bowels to Jehovah: this pregnant spouse,
our dreams upon platinum, our grannies trying this curse: if but our good
times, seasoned in Cajun soup, to blend our gumbo: this feral daisy, this
pungent rhythm, this fury unto gravel and dust: our furious bones, our
ferocious lungs, this tornado stretching our arteries: this sure Princess, this
alighted travesty, this swan ingesting currents: to bleed soil, to ingest mud,
to fall while gripping satiation: this hell for tears, this bird for cries, these
mystics our old selves: this passionate elf, this remarkable person, this tale
fleeing down yonder: if but by wisdom, this theologic pain, this husband
becoming as he witnessed: this perfect person, this gray noise, this welt
attached to heart emotion. I could
forget—this tragic curse, while staring at grandfather: this welkin man, this
thought to goodness, this winter’s abrasion: this talking wall, this steep
affliction, our days pondering Nebuchadnezzar: our grannies bleeding, this son
of thoughts, this tragedy as far too cruel: where God is questioned, this
vexing maze, to feel as Job this humbled existence: but dear to God, this
losing of children, despite this new person: our aches with solace, this beautiful
Lexus, this warming and cozy temperament: but, nonetheless, this cruel man,
this cruel feeling, this right to wage war: as men dying, our women to chimneys,
our guts ingesting raw liquor: to plead as destroyed, to gripe as destroyed, or
to grovel as one destroyed: this pushing passion, this timeless thug, this
remarkable Theologian: our days to passion, our nights to passion, our lives as
knitted in tsunamis: this voice as deaf, this ear as receiving, this woman as
too for much: this living swan, this dying swan, this occasion to depict such
raving examples. I’m losing self, as
born to psychs, I’m shedding tears: this non-threat, this emotion as subtle,
this adverse creature to blackmail: if but to soar, as livid this curse, where
Love was such beauty: {to speak with substance, to exist despite consequence,
to utter, It was pleasant our first time
around}…this intimate therapy, this kiss from yonder, this ache for more
than our ruthless selves: this father watching, this aunty to God, and this
great grandmother to swanic souls: this struggle with life, this tetras as
failing, this anger as rooting Naïve in sediments: our blatant cries, this
person I met, this woman at ends attempting to lace infinity: but hell to me,
as more to self, to witness this snake with wings: this dragon’s curse, this
swan at prayer, this curse as passing through generations. I couldn’t pause, this life of Chinese rice,
this world of Fajita steaks: as men wondering, while falling victim, if but to
nothing than this silent voice: where Love was ingratiated, and Love was
willing, and mother was positive: to come to grits, this terrible truth, while
Love was quite demanding: this horrendous Precious, this heavy heart, this
arrhythmia seeking its home: this trial with passions, this leafy intestine,
this gut-born insanity: this puffing maniac, this wine as our first chorus,
this pentagram as God’s witness: our warlock horizon, this wiccan half-course,
this mystic with deaths: those tragic crosses, this effusion in souls, this man
with reluctance to choose life: this dying fool, this mechanical music, this
ache as slipping into darkness…our rules for justice, our judges for
plaintiffs, this mysterious woman pushing my panic: this button slipping, this
passion wailing, if butt to suggest this love of hair designs: to cuss and
rant, to fuss and live, to remember this woman crying her life: as daughters and
souls, but not on this account, for I failed this journey: so no to redemption,
at this moment in time, and more to suggesting, I see your soul: this inner
woman, this elegant flower, this want to exceed as perfect: where death is
gentle, this majestic segue, this entrance into faith: that mobile creature,
this leggy Labrador, this talkative iguana: (your fairest luxuries, your
seconds at God, this feeling as illuminating).
We Couldn’t Die
…this
infinite strength, this bloody heathen, our grandmother’s urn: this florid
blueness, this anxious death, this hidden principle: our black veins, our black
bones, this incredible black threshold—as built for deaths, to arise as
floating, this unstoppable force: our muddy rivers, our sediment hounds, or
this sizable Goliath: that man to wretched, that woman dejected, those
scientists bogging resilience: if but to die, this leafy existence, probed for
plagued sorely: to furnish habitats, to intimate snakes, this purpose eluding
recognition: this chiseled swan, this friendless cygnet, this flourish by
detrimental emotions: our scribbled sidewalks, our kindle and catfish, plus,
our Cabbage Patch Dolls: this catching fire, this endless beaut, this maxim
prowess: as born with hatred, this motherly cocoon, these eminent catharses: as
waxing eloquently, this feral déjàvu, this space as scented but forgotten: this
weak feeling, this strong attraction, this fatal nonsense: as men cleaving,
where women run, while wrought in fantastic fantasies: those lemur eyes, that
epitome chin, those idyllic curses—this found artifact, this wretched genius,
such as pain too electric to reveal: this steep malaise, this channeled
television, this radio screaming her name: as shorn nirvana, or dejected dakini, while
satirical justice tugged this panacea arc.
(…we vex with pride, this mental ape, this inner gorilla: this axis by
thoughts, this gremlin for Love, this scientist removed—as sure to seas, as
shorn by shores, as dead but alive an inner chamber: our deceased guts, our
resurrected intestines, or that sigh so gentle those psychotic seconds: awash
with fevers, or nautic with sentiments, this knot, this sculptress, this
invisible winner: our daughter’s brains, this invincible flower, this bloom by
December: our fables churning, our puppets as puppeteers, or this whetstone
psychiatrist—to befall his wills, this
therapeutic massacre, or this penchant mantra—where
pearls are motifs, this mastiff madness, this pearl bedded with lyrics: our
dying for living eyes, this field for deserted blood, this milk as afar
restricting its honey: to wax with eloquence, this seldom antique, with far so
many miles, to intrigue as if born a fortnight by adult passions: that vacant
lust, those vacant glares, to arouse for deliberate this maniac attraction:
while cut through thoughts, this jazzy queen, this mistress to myriads: our
kissing child-games, our imprinted stars, or this burgundy red carpet: where
love runs, as chased by intestines, to capture as forced by retreating: this
lovelock delusion, our bodies writhing by frustration, our minds playing
jumping-jacks—that steep koan, this Asian sensei, this Jerusalem depicting its training—as crocheted lagoons, or rabid but dormant daughters, or blackened
moons: this winsome pain, this whelming torture, or such to guts rebuking
failures: our brains afoul, our souls ruined, our bowels breathing adders—this
gutty fuse, this pregnant dove, this woman calculating calendar dates: indeed,
a circuit, this threshing mischief, this reaping where God has sewn). I shift currents, this remarkable season,
this incredible human: our doting zeal, this family life, as far too valuable
to taint by destruction: this deep pleat, this extra-ordinary galaxy, our lutes
aflame pure justice: this place for passion, to outsoar petty grunts, our
tattoos with Indian Ink: this opus flute, our outstanding confidants, this
person that betrayals statistics: if but to die, seated and rolling privilege,
this harp speaking Swahili. {I ache with
terrors, peeking at glamorous women, this vernal welt: our untold privacy, our
sweltering and boiling bowels, this timbal, this pregnant kettle-drum—where
passion exhausts life, while Love is passionate disposition, to grieve with
luxurious essence: this battle in men, this struggling Hebrew, this Vedic Guru:
our inner harem, this Isaac Hayes, this place coming by its exhaustion: this
inner Isaiah, this mental Jeremiah, this Greek goddess—as pushing through bad
times, to Give God favor, while pulled through jealousies: this censored soul,
while tugging through graces, if but this kettle of ashes}.
Binocular Guts
...such
vatic energy, such rich enchantment, such rusty wines: this space of termites,
as metaphoric thoughts, or semi-deliverance: this intricate wilderness, this
ancient rose, this frozen tulip: as kissed particulars, to evade our Love,
while charged with violence: this antiquitous ache, this antiquitous daughter,
or our return to acres…this silent need, this silent craving, to possess your
wits: this cagey scholar, this infant’s anger, this remarkable training: our
jasper sunrise, our jasmine pollen, as sudden this tropical tear: that salty
resonance, this salty lake, our leaping turtles: indeed, with nuance, to gather
these souls, if warmth becomes our coldest glaciers….
…we
requested passion, this angst for Love, this incredible summer…as cringed our
guts, this feud with adaptation, this evolutionary language: our mystic giants,
too humble for war, or too crazed to resist…this penchant in time, this
outstanding rage, according to our sixth sense: as frustrated geniuses, this
push through life, this simpatico Condition,
or this feeling tugging our strings: as men gunning, this psalmic war, this
insidious cure—while so infatuated, upon this thing called dreams, upon this
essence bleeding its humanity: those rustic charms, this castle elegance, or
our infamous retreats….
I
dreamt about pecans; I awoke feeling thirsty; I lay there pondering our
hunger…this mythical kingdom, this sagacious entourage, or this emotion
attached to invisible essence: our blackest moon, this fantastic pain, or our
opal palms: if but to sing, while whittled by scars, while this fantast
screams: our seconds at comforts, our incredible abilities, or this reach
knitting softly: our cultic waves, our emphatic grave-life, and more, this
arrow pushing through existence: such deep blessings, such lethal ammonia, if
but to likeness called, Love: this rubescent sun, this fatidic conclave, and
more, this mental-merry-go-round: those challenging words, this need to feel,
while afflicted by steep depressions…our legs crossed, our knuckles swollen,
our voiceprints cycling through kingdoms: this yogic pinch, this pensive
passion, this wistful electricity; and more, to agonies, and more, to
vacillation, if but this region of brunette leaves: our deep insistence, to
adore beyond reality, to touch this incessant heart-wrench: our pliers falling,
our women catching, our indelicate wars occupied by swans: this force filled
fragrance, this mime dancing, or arts to life, this suggestive longevity: our
coquettish remarks, our chivalrous pastime, if but this belief in brevity: that
brief midnight, those otiose promises, or this fever parted by deaths…moreover,
a dream, this cadence with existence, this palatial mid-sun…our seconds as
automatons, forging our religions, and forging our philosophies…as,
nevertheless, that fair grim-reaper, those flowers too heavy for transport:
this inner reality, this esoteric charm, this morning to fantasies…those inner
recalls, this fruitless lettuce, this raspy e-coli—our days as pigeons, slowly
this wind of eagles, to retrospect upon those years as unthought: this cavalier
woman, this misspoken wrist, this misspoken breath, this lose of something that
lived its essence: this steep secret, to tap into dispositions, if but to cull
out those rabid instincts: hereunto, this reluctance to push, this reluctance
to claim Glory: that magnificent mystique, those magnificent feelings, this
space leaping by signs…{as mere souls, at love for decades, at patience but
existence: this tragic tale, this tragic glint, or this reality so tragic it
fits: our shivering tequila, our nightmare wines, and more, those unsavory
calories: if but to live, to place this peg upon life, our firs bleeding animal
rights: at lethal charms, so entrenched by sexuality, to gift this terrible relation}.
Saturday, May 19, 2018
Hi Love: We Experience this Each Life
It
becomes your soul, this gravitation, this inner compass: to ache as dripping,
this sweat as supernatural, this feeling by Remorse: our Saturday Musings, our
brains sauté’d, our colours playing make-believe: this pressure, to inform your
heart, with such modicum reach: It becomes madness, this generational curse, as
I churn upon Mother: this avid reader, this push towards glory, this agitated
Mother. I sense your heart, this
penchant dewdrop, this sudden outburst: as leaping forward, this fortress of
gold, this fossil buried in my lungs: that silver hearth, as God’s floor, to
arise as this immortal queen: this blood and brine, this soaked planisphere,
and those cloudy textures: as moody this summer, this iridescent artform, this
dulcet voice seraph: or this mental carnage, flooding arteries, to coil with
this slight approach: for life has become, this furnace of roses, this
reproachable heathen: this self as cringing, this self as dying, where this new
woman emerges. It becomes appetites,
this welkin sigh, and our sunset tears: these fragile smiles, those luxurious
daisies, or this sour and empty swan: as never to rightness, or ever to
jurisdictions, while captive a daughter hard for justice: our godhead brains,
our liquid soil, or this twilight shrapnel: where time in unfair, as kernels
are incorrigible, while fiddling with this sign of turmoil: this cypress
electrocution, this clockwork existence, this country of old souls—as livid
arcs, or explosive dynamite, to roam this land of pantomime expressions.
I
adore by credence, this remote ambition, this present exhaustion: as words fall
to heaviness, as ghosts explore emptiness, while swans pretend this life: this mental
triumph, while at serious wonders, to fulfill with time this immortal deed:
this creed by science, this art by forgiveness, or this allegiance to something
angry: our Aphrodite, our Women’s Wisdom, or our fertile and distrusting
ovaries: as needled in bones, to encounter our nightmares, this clasp upon
something dying: to shimmer and totter, to live with indignation, to have this
force fraught by illusions: as rejoicing our get-backs, this clarion of horns,
this summons to vindictiveness: this nether-land glitter, those strewing
shapes, this banquet of redeemed fathers: (as peeks a purpose, this tension
upon high, this absolute zero down below): if torn by parables, we stress our
guts, as churned this privy about knowledge: to get as dying, to inform as
livid, to retrieve your inheritance: this know-all soul, this person at much to
learn, while shivering from pedestal fevers: wherefore, this garb, as hung to
perish, where mother is quite proud.
It
becomes your needs, this glimmer of light, this embarrassed swan: for this is
justice, our egos passion’d, our guts pampered: this toilsome mirror, this
daily dying, if but to appease swans: this purpose of living, this cut in
wounds, this lesion bleeding its resistance: our primate agendas, our kingdoms
grieving, or this nonentity appeasing for dear life: where family smiles, to
sentence this death, while daughters feel a tad uneasy: this turquoise tether,
this place by Mars, this recurrent theme to haunt my existence: so more to
equality, as this thinking soul, where Irrationality purchases its last ticket:
for days grow longer, and songs grow deeper, while florid a vibrant curse: that
primal feeling, this dazzle with venom, this choice persistence with
isolation—as aches rightness, or flings as flung by contempt, while we must
examine our keels: this august mermaid, this resilient survivor, or such
numbing atmospheres—where words are but silence, as feelings remain ignored,
while death is eating gourmet: this undulation, this rigid piety, or this
lightsome butterfly—to sense with easiness, this joy in your heart, while so
many are purely envious: (our mauled heart-currents, our flannel pegs, and such
generational rhetoric).
Underwater Sculptures
I
tried this life, feeling like abused, sifting through ivy: this hallowed bird,
this rising phoenix, this zealot gymnastics—as enlove with dangers, this fair
queen, our innocent binoculars: that scream running, this gut grinning, our
mass mischief: as divine castles, this type by history, to enter while failing
by gavels: this horrendous beauty, this terrific house, this warlock and
wiccan: our chewing insights, this sipping with grace, this opera Oprah: at
tales with Prince Harry, at dungeons with The
Color Purple—as aster fires, or walls speaking, or lilac sherm leafs: this
buried soreness, this muddy blood, this suture to palatial wounds: (where goodness is yours, this sentient spark,
this jasper grass: those ceiling glasses, this see-through mirror, this Idris
Elba—as legendary survivor, or strict partialities, or numbing
water-prints—wherefore, this wretched hope, as living our shoe soles, or
plummeted by resistance: this music million, this trillion silence, afforded a
nation of Mandela’s): in truth, to die, relished for insanity, this offbeat
dejection: this leaping puma, those amaranth eyes, or this maniac attempting at
something normal: this casual grace, this defaced legacy, this mental
abandonment—as foxes to hens, or foxgloves to children, or this inner beautiful
prison: our un-dreaded scalps, this scorpion
love-ship, this essence recorded by Thich Nat Hahn: as purely amazing, this
African estate, or this slight ingratiation: (this tortured laceleaf, these freesia extravaganzas, this intimate lacewing—whereto, our people cringe, as
needing this life, to avert with time our length by succession: this groomed
pearl, this magnolia vice, or our winters putting others before self: this
political battle, this satiric theater, or this path screaming its fire).
I
often sound white, this excruciating battle, this spacial appropriateness: our
torn perceptions, our shorn hypotheses, or our theories driving our insanities:
this absent prenuptial, this living by faith, to appear as riveting this
wrinkled hypertension: this reckless bi-racial, this terrible mulatto, this
frozen quadroon: as marching queens, suspended at sunrise, or casual this
Stephen Hawkins: those terrible passions, this terrible kiss, this terrible
future—as fraught by gifts of valor, or harassed by blood-genes, to fret this
hall of chains: (as something unraveled, this maniacal atmosphere, this
marigold army—where providers dance, as granny merely gazes, to know by gut
this astray reality: this rich break-through, this intimate future, or this
palace always defending itself): whereby, this lack of trophies, this kingdom
of wives, where only a few are considered royal: indeed, with pains, indeed,
with heart-scents, or more, to passions this mind-silt—as ruined corners, or
raging bulwarks, or this mother’s choir—to self be justice, this tale about
divine intervention, this asexual Spirit-Raindrop: as moving winds, or index
enchantments, to die with time this classical mythology.
I
handle venom, while sensing delusions, to have this art as reflecting by insecurities:
this lethal disease, this cabinet crisis, this chilled Cabernet—to fuss with
dreams, while pleading for clearance, this Freudian feud: while running
paradoxes, this conduit of souls, this pristine ripple: as ballad fools, or
window believers, partaking of holy liquor: this keyboard existence, as typed
into, to commit something atrocious: this colony of dead rivers, this bleeding
into Poseidon, or this telegram to Buddha: as souls failing, as thoughts
tortured, or sleet becoming vocal—this stunning volt, this haunted ghost, or
our unfastening nails—at works with forgiveness, at deaths with excitement, or
felt for intensities: (this black bird, while guarding our graves, to thirst
for light with Eve: this broken triumph, or The
Pride of Cain, or our mothers seeking alimony: despite, this dearth by
souls, this absent interaction, this greed-charmed saliva).
Friday, May 18, 2018
Gnats & Insights
I
know your energy, this furnace of soot, this Lutheran Jerusalem: our bare
waves, our naked chaos, our blatant wholesomeness: if but your mind, sold for
glory, rebuked for innocence: this cooking elegance, this shifty loyalty, or
those mischief leprechauns—as Alaska melting, or by a thousand days of
darkness, such frozen intimacy: our subtle contention, our wilderness tundra,
or more, this sipping with passion. I
know your energy, this fair wife, this remote lioness: at years destroying
kelp, or tyrannies to aiding souls, where some are quite infuriating: this palm
of snowflakes, that seventh hour of majesty, or less, this filter, this
imagination: our romances bleeding, our chainsawing oceans, as thus, this
remarkable conscience—as fools driven, this blast by nostrils, our tripod
ecstasies. I thought about you, this
person I channel, this person I ignore: this American Winter, this American
Summer, this Conglomerate by America: this film reaching, this soul born inside
trees, this Branch flogging contentions—as livid scientists, or religious
scientists, to die one foot cemented in gravel: our porcupine fevers, this otter
backstroke, this orange grape—as, moreover, a curse, this built towards Israel,
this origin towards Ethiopia: our great lakes, this intensive care, this
intensive glare: while mother arranges curses, if but to hear you sing, if but
to push those crevice buttons: our Sahara blood, our resurrection plants, this
transmigration—sensing this flying thought, while rebuking this flying
squirrel, where chimera cameras explore armrests frequencies: this man to
feelings, this woman to treacheries, if but life a village of lemurs: this
cordial pain, this mantis symbol, this field of bamboo dreams: as accustoms
life, this moth by guts, our souls burping up butterflies—as trying souls, this
Voltron exhibition, our transforming science: to awaken screaming, while
reaching for Love, to realize this need for Love: our vein-thickets, this
cerebral cactus, or our leaves hopping planisphere(s). I know you energy, this crescent dance, this
invisible sensitivity—those pails by agony, those rails by foot pressure, this
silent-vocal twig: if but to perish, laughing at insanities, while bolder this
exchange by vultures: those moral grains, those gummy realities, this flexible
enchantment: our days by oldness, our existence by youth, this disposed
existence by both: our asthmatic spirits, our chameleon moments, or this thrill
to sights prior to realizations: as women dying, or men subduing, to have this
war betwixt primates and humans: this sakata indigenous, this Yolanda Tornado,
this super intellectual therapist: as men for honesty, aside for clearance, to
invest true thoughts void of elevation: as penguins moving, or emperors ruling,
while fond this diamond of voices. I
know your thoughts, this wealth by suspicion, this phobia towards believing: as
casual souls, this brain as nostrils, this counselor as feeling resistance:
this place of see-through(s), or this
river of psychotics, while holding certain principles dear to arcs: this
linguistic iguana, this metaphysical gecko, where life was riveting before our
genius sickness: this place as challenging, this tortoise examination, this
choice of breads: our hard breathing, our apish instincts, if not for
complaisant niceties: indeed, to pulling backwards, our silverback
psychiatrists, our gorilla therapists: as but a soul, suspended in pains,
stumbling for nibbling mental-grass: this fair exchange, this sauté’d
grass. I know your pain, as far from
clairvoyance, while more to this station in time: our scientific glances, our
religious suggestions, or our fumbling through historical facts: this length of
time, those chimpanzee earlobes, this generation of fireflies: at burning
hearts, or orangutan simplicity, to put life in a nutshell: this fair
condition, this want for brightness, this need to suggest, I care!
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