Peacock Traits

We abide softly, those primate clocks, at waves and cushions: our poetic forests, our cultic charms, our immortal habits: to arise and deforest, or sluggish feeling mercy, our nights with bowling: those marmosets with offspring, or this country of silence, where sympathies germinate: therewith, this calm chaos, this normal malady, where something seems wrong: but tales are vibrant, and lies are radiant, and illusions are glamorous.     I fiddled a flork, and pondered patriots, this feel good necessity: such sufferable decisions, or regular indifference, our days trekking through gum: such opposite magic, such reeling kilns, and such mystical mime art: our inner pilots, this countenance of Aviators, or wings speaking softly: thereto, those women of prose, or music, or to play violin, or to dance piano: those cultivated and rounded souls, too steeped in marsh, where hours pass unthreading our skies.     It aches to adore, it feels good to adore, it confuses us found at adoring fawn-deserts: such incandescence, peering into deep selves, or abandoned to seeing so little: our pagan lusts, our rebuked asylums, where others remember insensitivities: moreover, our pantomime hunches, our talkative guts, or such intense passivity: thither, this light, this faint composure, looking at our toes: or bleached with insecurities, attempting this voyage of love, becoming sensitive aphorisms: those phenomena, those whispers, or this inquisitive passion: to need this vest, to cherish by life, while sharing this spellbound infusion: those web-like dreams, to envision clear water, to sip a person’s soul.    

…those taupe, topaz treasures, those fuchsia binoculars, or souls content with closeness: those strobe insights, those mental seabirds, or this tiny miracle laughing at our jokes: our inner thieves, as robbing our neighbor’s soul, where lineage appears as destiny: those blanket cries, those candent sparks, or that glowing insistence: as souls gunning, to unravel drawbridges, or to cage for self something purple: such deep solace, such crackle waves, or days at poetic songbirds: our wheels spinning, speaking about arts, or build a wand-flute…at neuron-frustration, those perceptible eyes, and those imperceptible strengths…!   

December winds, or decorated thoughts, or adorned emotion: such aquatic sentiments, such rising tides, such elegant debauchery: our souls running, our traffic heavy, our gaps filled with hopes: freshwater feelings, freshwater cries, or acrobatic alpha-waves: as charged by silence, or awakened by words, as some adorn certain patterns: those lakes flowering, our algae trickling, our souls pitch-light-green: our sails flapping, our prows mysterious, our helms laughing wildly: our curious colors, our show of knowledge, or such radiant IQ’s: those resting undertakers, those toxic jokes, where indecencies appear appealing: that puce wine, those strawberry pies, or silence seeping into manifestations: that small vignette, that horrifying ballad, at tender concerns for Haiti: our deep motion, this violent attraction, those pushed limits: to court those eyes, those hostile lieutenants, those prehistoric witches: hereto, longing for insistence, at passion with resistance, feeling as if such pleasures are running extinct.

…such alchemic beginnings, this race with time, or those sky-flares: our palms to wet-grass, our souls to heaven’s corridors, or long treks through mental vestibules: those deep blue ribbons, our justice wigs, our billow orchids, while bathing in sundew: those nosy ventriloquists, this echoing through vibrations, or such animal animation: this semi-nightmare, as so much for gain, while vying with an army of clairvoyants: those inner dimensions, that scribbled leaflet, or logic at its acquisition: this building rumor, this chaotic trail, or this narrow-path—                          

Cactus Water

Such ghetto nectar, floored in ramen, or damaged for orientated: this desert eagle, this Forty Ounce guzzle, this Night Train fool: to disappear, this circuit loop, this violent and subtle volt: those lines to gods, this born performance, or electric kryptonite: to ask for Machiavelli, to drift aborted, at memories this garden and Kierkegaard: therewith, this bleeding ink, this ruined Versace, as looking for crucial this understanding: to cut garlic, to mince onions, as if time stood still: those reckless cries, those moistened glass-deaths, to crystallize an evening of disasters: this longing grave, this intimate funeral, or months forgotten digging into Jesus: at fantast lovelocks, this pistol mentality, this morbid Officer—as hit with shrapnel, to arise screaming, while friends sipped his blood.     I need proofs, I need our experience, I dug for digging fretting ghosts: this brain-war, this reborn yogi, this claimant analyzed by mystics: to ask his life, this musical koan, this failing kitsch: those desert eyes, this planet to spar with, this congratulated loser—to sense affection, to read his travesty, while cursed for shackles: those seconds crying, those minutes wailing, this floor with memories: or linchpin mania, this winsome whisper, or those tales where Love was paranoid: this granny looking, this filth in guts, this survivor too frigid for normalities: as children laughing, while mother passions, to force a conversation: this door flung, this ceiling choked, or mirrors falling from grace: at maniac composure, to imbue this fireplace, at Love a bit tragically: if but ingratiation, or dead reviews, this censored academic: to hate his guts, for Love was quiet, to pretend that wounds speak in tongues: that craving disaster, this long-come argument, this terrified family: if but to try aches, if but to trash cocaine, where behavior is just by sameness: these rabid offenses, these childhood indiscretions, or this rebound opinionated trait: at foolish prayer-wishes, or guts thumped through hearts, or spiritual direction—at sanctum cores, or splinters to relations, while fueled for grievances: at paths feeling insecure, at difficulties closing our mouths, or steady for impending emotions: this thing with compliments, this needed exchange, as two embark afloat Sunday Mass: this remote fireball, this luminous keystone, this border-line between pathos and ethos—as drifting this lot, aflame in logos, while fleeing into mass-machinery.     (…open his intentions, read his obituary, and witness three days to resurrection: this bible dictionary, this scriptural encyclopedia, to ask concerning, Tamar: our bowels scrutinized, to outsoar depression, while this visit measures his minds: this rose-patch, this daisy reality, or this ant identifying his bible: to lean by messages, this inner compass, these mental tetras, or pieces missing too many years: those cultic waves, this certain frequency, as Love evolved and died: this rising misery, to gloat so high, while feeling so humble—this froward emotion, this pensive insanity, at sacral ingestion: our tears, Love, our wistful hearts, or this reality outlined in mud: at caves scribing, at petroglyphs your pain, at Jesus disguised as John: where remorse drips passion, and ink trembles, at veils, veneers, and deep risks…).

…we exist this way, our nib-musicals, analyzing our media mentors: those fabulous blouses, this rich sandcastle, this dream forever—as dying in goodness, or aflame in badness, our brains at fantasts battles: or fatidic cries, or long this pash, where Love disappeared a traveling continent: our mystic egos, our yogic overseers, or our Id shamans: to sense this existence, as pure consciousness, to again this forgotten journey: where thoughts are today’s, and intuition belongs to yesteryears, while seconds are rarely déjàvu: that exact increment, those exact eyes, or this familiar dynamic: to meet something incredible, to share figs, to cast out feelings: our insecure pleadings, our natural disasters, or Love so aglow our nights feel forbidden: as struck with thunder, too wicked to explain, and too charged to retreat….                   

Tiptoeing Inversions

…we live as thieves, kneeling upon Arch Bishop’s, drained for trekking purgatory: such latent hostility, such blatant levity, as cries our wilderness….

I vied in you, this chivalrous war-care, those infamous night-clouds: to sense thoughts, those reversible outlines, or ghetto-concrete, and dead-men stalking: our agriculture, our fruits and vegetables, while walking tension: those flower bugs, nibbling at thought-matter, while eyes seeped into injustice: this achy feeling, this vanished emotion, upon return headed by courts: our Sanhedrin, Love—our radical, localized trauma, as men seeking sophistication: at Tyranny’s Doorpost, or arms screaming for affection, or minds reverting to infant cribs: those breasts, and such milk, as ever looking for likeness…this kind respect, this infinite gesture, or years living with an alias—those inner guards, this mental security, to find such loopholes: our dreams, our St. Paul, our prison Epistles: as wild oldies, or flippant women, if but to subjugate chaos.    

I can’t sleep, so infatuated, approaching Our Goddess, Prose: this chirping feeling, this Indian Owl, or this rabid composure: so drenched and winning, so drunk and losing, where Love appeared as perfect: those inner sights, this dying curse, to appreciate something dying—or at Love singing, this thought dragged, this heart grogged: as midnight frequency, or a.m. passion, where Love sits cruising a soul’s consciousness: those mental women, our padded resilience, or this interior Us-party: as abused survivors, or crushed insistence, where mother gave an alibi: this grown gorilla, this squatting infant, or our Soul at nightmares: that Kingly dream, to fit with insanity, to cringe this existence: if but acceptance, to finally see self, while wrenched for panicked: such teargas windows, this skyglass pistol, if but a shimmer of light: this pigeonhole fire, this midday love, or hearts destroyed and sent to jungles: our primate cousins, our primate women, or something so raunchy we seize it.

…we need as rewarded, we die as living, and we confess vulnerability: those remarkable incentives, this painful gut, or eyes that spoke Jerusalem: our minds at hells, our memories at paradises, if but to club with insanity: this last success, this first lose, where Love felt a bit paranoid: to sense his mug, to dig as chugged, or digging for dug: this bold endeavor, and this was life, our block too hot for grandparents: this pusher, this thisness, or radicalized cages: to feed our palms, or to eat such dirt, for life is disobedient: those fabulous wings, this knowhow woman, this tried for trueness: as mobile reclusion, or public reclusiveness, while father returned to share customs….

…it’s complicated, to arise before dawn, at thoughts where wilderness runs: to catch a glimpse, to sense family orient, while chasing Prose: this interior balloon, this reckless damsel, this interior survivor: where Love pants glory, to see such genius, at seconds to desire eternity: this subjugated incline, those red-bush shrubberies, at mental games, or polite exchange, where a second validates a legacy: our purple moon, our turquoise ocean, or jasper falcons—at leniency tides, this black sunrise, this slant upon straight parallels: while teas are sipped, and judgments are passed, where Reality has little to invest: this mental pity, this deep sympathy, but muscles suffer from atrophy: indeed, those glorious arcs, this terrific enchant, this torturous night-care….

Swans Scream, “Mercy.”

Imagine our guts, those sworn barricades, those quasi-upheavals: or patient particles, those outstanding therapists, our extraterrestrial insights: this man as father, this father as losing, this warmth as dramatical: to endeavor for science, this otiose feeling, this gutted reservoir: therewith, this incredible sensory, our passionate arts, our inner museums: those sugarplums, those sugar-apples, or that touch of too much glucose: that sweet-tooth, those sweaty socks, or that human odor: to rinse in paradise, to dine by havens, or to pray for one longing sentence: our woodwork, this hemisphere, or radiance where beauty seems reluctant: this mental opera, those inverted charms, this traumatic theater: or such brief art, your mother and I, where relation seamed into nightmares: this caricature, this fine strategy, while realizing that mother is semi-ingenious: those playful, stern eyes, that background of suffering, or this tear falling while asking for hope: such animation, such shrill by behavior, or this left feeling as if nothing has occurred: to arise and weave, to arise combing mane, or to sit passing into dreams: that fair curse, this longing frenzy, our fire lotus!     I pine softly, eating Asian fruit, videoing different feelings: those salmonberries, those dragon-skies, or this sense of loving a stranger: those radical abrasions, this dream in London, or furious arts at some Academy: this bleeding hue, this remedy cartoon, or this dear hatred as long as breath is popular: to hold his scars, our father’s legacy, where it kills to sacrifice dignity: as unlike apes, and more like humans, where said examples are cultivated: this ethical compass, this slight and late outcome, or this bloodlily: to arrest our voices, to reboot our hard-drive, or to tamper with our software: such heartwine, or threshing dedication, where daughters worry incessantly: this crooked design, this subtle slavery, or unjust realities: if but to perish, painting blanketflowers, or dying for arising in marsh terrain.     …upon begonias, this felt insanity, this reason to test your eyes: this sage’s scream, this swami’s destiny, this yogi’s second to pause: as living this life, upon alpine asters, while fiddling memories: this failing enterprise, those winning outreaches, or sheer embarrassment: those dreamy lenses, this African tulip, this watery upheaval: to die while flying, to parachute our ghosts, while catapulted into dungeons: those green apples, while feeling secure, to have abandoned miracles: this sheer imperfection, this solemn death, while wishing times were better: as men running, where women are shooting, at desperation to lift a son: if but to reminisce, those seconds seeming pure, where a daughter was quite aloof: to savior our secrets, as told to say nothing, while yearning for salvation: those scarlet realities, this letter as abused, this feeling as impersonal to science: this world of runners, this chasing Coyote, where sex has become more by sport: unless for love, unless for marriage, where sheer contradiction enters our living quarters: indeed, Love, this complex, agitated world, where rules are meant for other persons: as values filter, as souls become lightfast, or imprints are buffed away be newcomers…that world of personalities, this shift in moods, or that precise second: where mother was nursing, and father wanted music, and others wanted mother…such heart-gin, or pragmatic catastrophes, where one needs a family while open to myriad liaisons: that acapella Baroque, that chorus concerto, plus, duet encores: hereto, this undercurrent fugue, and, thitherto, this slight pleading: as secrets die havens, or havens die intrusions, where it sickens to search our mirrors: those hellhounds, this garb of treachery, while skating through life acquiring more infractions: this vital place, where we just can’t stop, or sudden upon a deathblow…this Greek motif, this opus-conscienceness, or this hyena’s prelude: while art becomes tragic, or mystics seem alluring, wither, one falls into delusions: this inner sickness, this cautious vessel, or eyes needing certain levels of intuition….

Opera Flames

At idyllic dreams, we invest in fantasy, for reality seems imperfect: our mediocre routines, or whimsical passion, filtered by strong insistence: our beating larks, or that inner whistle, where energies tug with perceptions: those deep lagoons, this flushed witness, our torrent tides: our days by reason, our encounters by logic, or seconds confessing our chains: this difficult tragedy, this reception to fawning, our curious needs: at years through colleges, at nights with dreams, or perfected as one standing aloof: that inward protection, that mental projection, as one vibrating pure sensations.     I’d perish by high school—at differentiating souls, sipping cranberry juice: such youthful eyes, this insistence for tomatoes, our shared sandwich: those aphrodisiacs, and that vine of grapes, and this greenhorn admiring a wild-rose: as months become familiar, where others are vying, where souls need disasters: our green onions with eggs, our sausage with syrup, or those sugarberry cries: to live with motion, to approach with beliefs, as dying so early: those feisty moments, that constant tension, or a woman that never argues: this plight by souls, this creature of times, or darkness such insanity.     I became saturnine—lunging into landmines, attracting wild sorrow: those poison berries, those shapely voices, while churning clouds with this Scorpio: our daily papaya, our opal plums, or our almonds with chocolate: a slight variation, a devastated existence, or souls proud to carry chains: this deep belief, at time as bars, where each person carries tragedies: those kiwi souls, reading Langston Hughes, or wrestling with religious documents: that longing heart; those longing cries; and such desperation—as mother advises, where aches are dramatic, while strewing seeds from havens: such pineapple love, where persistence moans, while minds travel insatiable valleys: this chase for satisfaction, if but protection,  if but this knight willing to die: at born friction, or sophistication, while out-measuring her options.     I come to life, imagining paradise, and roaming through categories: those blue daisy chambers, this fret by nightfall, or hours sensing something like oceans: this watery danger, this luxurious sky-map, or someone’s pottery: those paw prints, embedded in experience, where one needs accordion behaviors: as feeding our graves, or lavish at arts, while perfected as this clone: those similar words, those reborn petals, and that familiar outcome: otherwise, we re-stitch seams, and unthread disasters, while interchanged as therapists: those wailing aches, this familiar stranger, or claiming our neighbor’s calamities: to sing to dignity, to salute pride, to give all dying our course: or lights to brainwaves, this religiosity, this reason to believe: our guava with wafers, our midnights with vulnerability, or sliced and ruined by beliefs.                

We long for sophistication, to outwit condition, if but to lay claim to something cultivated: this fair existence, those probing ants, or this glass of mango juice: such glucose deception, laughing with feelings, and gazing upon Reality: those minute shifts, that solemn insistence, this habitual dynasty: as livid souls, or broken harps, or radiant survivors: to dine with beginnings, or to flute with seas, our crosses warn upon our flesh: such powerful passion, such radical intimidation, where men review their philosophies: this inner fig, those weaning cherries, or nights too stressed to close our eyes: those soft palms, that encouraging voice, those trickling fears: where emotion impassions, as time evaluates, where two carry this unquenchable resilience.

Ghosts & Habits

…it’s an unusual space, or conscious air, or attempting to re-dream: thereto, this private reality, or analysis concerning havoc, or stress evolving into heaviness: as dreamt to expel, this estuary of cries, where thoughts attempt to outwit circumstances: our warriors at wraths, our lawyers at documents, our maestros at orchestras: this thin umbrella, filled with pinholes, as acidic rain trickles across our knuckles: such ambivalent designs, or sky-haven disappointments, or dispositions that belie inner anxieties: that garden of fish, those few hummingbirds, or an excited host: as souls running, if but for closure, to realize brains are opening: this velvet resistance, this inner persistence, or this need to begin a reluctant project: to witness formation, while becoming intrigued, to arise hours into such journeys….     …while nibbling fruit, I noticed a gnat; I ignored that gnat: as washing palms, our inner cups, to examine closely this growing hypocrisy: such feudal fruits, such dynamic resilience, or driving daily to win: at hard-won practices, effected by practicality, or anxious to draw water: this radiant damsel, at father’s well, and chosen for marriage: moreover, our deep decisions, at war with habits, where personality is difficult to revamp: those private disgusts, those repeated practices, or wonder to why we can’t refrain: wherewith, are scars, and pervious charms, while souls churn over threshing-boards….

I remember travesties, existential whales, and metaphysical giants: this wealth of habits, this lack of resistance, this flowing tragedy:

…as born with ghosts, listening closely, but hearing little: this subtle nuance, those required particles, or foreign filters….

…we rejoice softly, while palming our ceilings, while creating our images: this phantom surprise, this glowing indifference, or sudden upon humility: attempting to rekindle, or attempting to re-bundle, where we sense a certain disconnection: our wires floating, our dreams haywire, our valves negotiating: this fleeing feeling, where self outruns thoughts, where mirrors remind us of our habits….

I revisit gnats, I write about things, I sense this relation: our faculties excusing, otherwise fleetingness, or, thitherto, this alienated behavior: our bodies moving, our minds ejecting, or two at sync distressing our societies: as casual realities, or manual philosophies, or growling habits: at prowling feelings, or academic emotions, where spirit glistens in turmoil: our frisky lives, our inner strife, or caricatures mocking our morning dew: this rule for love, this slight variance, or that paradigm for deviation: as pulled souls, or clinging insistence, or abandoned to ploys.

…our mind-felt miracles, our needed protein, or that tablespoon of Folgers: as living souls, hanging by shadows, but alive those seconds: that windowpane witness, this slight retaliation, while sensing something needs alignment: those running passions, this need for desire, or playful banter: our jesting abilities, our accidental involvements, or thrust into this world of ethics: this deep rivulet, this raid upon sentiments, or this carry-along mirror: those bags of luggage, that neat briefcase, or that torrid memoire—where life is debauch, this corrupt feeling, at wonder concerning such discipline: at miles to justice, at inner funerals, at weeping passions….  

Born to Bronze

I sipped a screwdriver; I puffed a flathead; while nursing bolts and screws: this living monastery; this walking zombie; this metaphorical lotus—as dying legends, to master realities, by tender this mercy: to see us dancing, this fuel for thoughts, while kings pay tribute: this conquered city, this warring color, while abused by personal beliefs: those flatirons, those curly locks, those rosy dimples: wherewith, that northern charm, our moving intestines, our blatant cries: ignored by men, or capitalized by men, or dreams screaming for freedom: those raging instruments, this blaring guitar, where Love painted orange a skirt in Arabic: this chase for passion, this vision for dominance, or alienated for wisdom: as set apart, or ruined early, if but this trenchant intuition: thereto, this sullen brain, this sullen heart, this feel-good adrenaline: if but to perish, if but by rubies, if but this last mistake: our minds gleeful, our eyes watering, our knees to screaming rugs.

…we bent nails, tugged and abandoned, our limbs carried away: those centipede feelings that poison grass emotion, or those stingray instincts: while screaming this lie, this whole universe, those pragmatic controversies: to remote this agony, to kneel for justice, to sweat abandoned to fire: this road afar,  this deep impasse, or this life-altering confrontation: to realize morals, to chance our ethics, to behave with ought while suffocating softly: our selfish friends, as watching deaths, but comfortable while in their favor….

…our skin laughs, while causing harms, where surfaces appease our insecurities: our psychic scissors, sawing into paper-thin emotion, if but to un-stir webs: our passions mounting, if but to frolic, if but to grin—through such anguish, through metaphysical studies, or knowledge at random our inner ransoms—to scrape fiction, looking professional, if but this inner island—that rabid secret, those rabid cries, this field running affected with rabies: our cotton brains, our mahogany pleasures, or this established concern for Kerry: and never by sights, and never by consideration, or even a gallant mistake: our breaking news, this morning’s travesty, or deliverance through TBN: while finding Jesus, or guzzling aphrodisiacs, or churning a conservative grin: that mad spoon, or that crazed vein, or cartilage too soft to sneeze: this born winner, this losing sacrifice, if but upon high to myriad gods….

…such haven meadows, to discover mirrors, to indulge in glitter: that pond face, this diving for self, this shallow demonstration: this sinful shrine, this mental glimpse, or a bit startled at wee hours: those thunderclaps, this ache cloud, or winds roaming our interior: such dreamy content, such impish apologies, or contemporaries desperate to uproot science: this perplexing jaunt, this fencing frenzy, at blazing bosoms: presumed as Truth, to imagine this drive, or murderous eyes: this thin composure, this surface authoritarian, or worse, this social oligarchy—as men raging, if but for permanence, to imagine one in debates: those sky-wings, this under-earth sulfur, or brains sensing something extra: those sound thoughts, as one trespasses, or sudden a visitor during meditation: those screaming winds, this fueled legacy, or cries for Love as Love dies: our held palms, this curious gazelle, or that reborn adolescent: our daybreak slumber, or years to seeking, as but to find something unique: our churning arcs, our drumbeat souls, where Love apologizes for seeking Africa: those few sins, that life haunted, or feelings that rebel….          

Mental Marsh

I ponder about loses, feeling gritty, or slithering slime: at church laughing, this listless unreality, this feudal scientific: this tatted maniac, this fearful feature, our rolling eyes: this dog-life, this cat-atmosphere, or days by control feeling secure: that uprooted island, this treacherous ba, or ka to existence: this bird coop, that ocean flame, our haywire fences: this bold heart, this warm wrath, at curses ruing your slavery: as ruined adolescence, this roof of missiles, this gutted intestinal—as more for tasty, this clear damsel, or years to fatal destruction: our bowels dripping, our masters dying, or rapt’d for clinging to mortal concrete: those abusive liaisons, this crippling attraction, this angelic soil—while mother dangles, this mental portrait, this dying son: if but for resistance, or hailing rain, as built a second by loneness: this abstract confidence, if but this lonely room, to cross paths crumbling at seduction: this high horse, this Crazy Horse, this galloping churn-fire: at white oil, this night of thieves, or that silent hello: to give life, aching with tyranny, to enter thrust into sheer decimation: this battlefield, or withheld adoration, while flogged for devastated: those reaper fringes, this immortal personality, or features becoming infatuated.     I die a notch, looking at possessions, a bit weary concerning satiation: such comely tallness, such rounded astuteness, or so young working physicality: this abandoned maniac, that creepy word, while none inquire about mental pegs: this trained feature, this ruby wine, or those tetras alibis: moreover, this birth, to need acceptance, while denied existence—feuding with human desperation: those hypnotic lenses, this casual response, such anger demanding immediacy: to floor this plan, and feeling goodness, to realize this rapture indecency: at dalliance in private, at gestalt walking his crowd, or ruined for her brains are incessant: this thought for reason, to ask concerning purpose, while ruined in Eros: our gorgeous heartbreaks, our mechanic replies, or too deep to fully satisfy immortal balance: this chief for honesty, this chief for deaths, this miracle laughing while reneging.     Oh God, this weakness, this claim upon sanity: this walk in capsules, this deep enclosure, this motif ripple: our abandoned membranes, this cerebral warfare, or days to having but not fully possessing: as casual maniacs, or features mourning, or grandiose nonsense: this inner falderal, this mental positivist, or this church hound: at religiosity, praying this damsel, at eyes sensing this religious body: our guts for holiness, our hearts revved, or indebted to one too far to congratulate: as ever crying, and wiping eyes, if but those tomorrows: this bleeding theme, this screaming woman, or so deeply alone it feels good: that oxymoron, this scarred place, where God knows her name: this crafty specimen, this diligent genius, or this woman so far in hurts it has become hertz: those reaching mystical(s), this cleaving mythical, or cities to marsh to become indelible: that artistic spin, this graffiti in emotions, or feeble attempts not to melt.     I darken solace, sensing saviors, or mental to caterpillars diving too shallowly: this metal gate, this inner Jerusalem, this die to life theologian: this mere man, this human vessel, this kiln off for flimsy adoration: or egos protecting, or women laughing, at that second falling to tiles: that sought mental, that sought anklet, or years chasing this spiritual tassel: to feel awkward, while forced to function, a tear girt in muddy sands: as men falling short, or women partly deranged, where dementia has become compelling: those shifty lines, this radical damsel, those realized insights: this damage about Love, this lobby of apparitions, or days crawling this skin in you: as strangers possessed, while chasing faces, to come to solemnity two miles to our arrival: this gutted flute, this wedded temporal, or those saffron greetings: where Love wears purple, or Love wears blue, or Love leaks a sleeveless alimony: to cut grills, to die language, as to rush for grabbing filled with inner antipathies.                     

Dungeon Flower

I like certain panties; I relax in certain women; I dance at chance a certain personality: this falling gate, this rising fence, those boiled eggs: this inner mourning, this flippant sinning, those abandoned blouses: as fueled and dying, peering at wining eyes, to feel permanently infused: that strong, sexy gait, those geisha wits, this outer clarinet: at chimpanzee instincts, or ape calmness, at that second where humans blend with primates: that gutty woman, that charming daughter, those remorseful mothers: this winter clash, as so good that year, if but to vomit out redemption: our moving minds, this sinning psychologist, or better, this world void of sin: adjusted and lying, or lying and adjusted, where morals bleed nonsense: our souls laughing, our countenance stern, and this overseer at shrine’s-desecration.     I admire bras, a bit childish, where women desire power: this cut in men, this lively curse, as Love would die to please a strong character: this boat racing, this yacht decimated, or our Titanic afloat a dream such romance: to disappear, to drift with Jesus, or to ask concerning certain khakis: our macabre magnets, this beating arc, or music this wavelength: as writing slowly, while craving cigars, where three images probe my cerebral: that fair business fire, this sudden wheel-wall, or this Jewish disaster: those seconds at death, this feeling with humans, or crashed for sudden that universe: our broken livers, our dehydrated guts, or our bones pressing through sinews: where God is casual, or God is waiting, while unsaid culprit blasts his brains.     I love fever, I die fever, I address fever: this foolish soul, this strong vessel, this losing sound-cast: as souls fretting, or hands drifting, or forgiveness with motives: this fast speaker, those gesticulations, to wonder our calamities: if but to impress, while more to rise, where scholars recognize other scholars: moreover, to sin, or drills destroying, while at destruction flimsy as sore mosquitoes: this lantern flickers, this woman digests, this diary is read before our audience: this cringing soul, this dying woman, this inner alcoholic: those beige blemishes, this mental tangerine, or those garden nectarines—as lives a dead-man, or this sipping maniac, to lose everything his soul mended: this gut in grandma, this feather in grandpa, or worlds perpetuating slavery: to giggle a sweet tooth, those high heels, and that varicose vein: to sentence to deaths, to muscle to breaths, as alive standing in kef: to worship Jesus, this loud feeling, where God must respond!: as dependent upon velocity, or ravishing in cities, to sacrifice laughing for feeling good: this inner professor, this mental psychiatrist, or this beautifully dangerous psychologist: at grains giggling, at stress babbling, or feeling this sort of way running home to our spouses…this Sia Wreck, this Sia Ghost, this fuming catastrophe: those bubbling plums, this ravished existence, or those violet scratches!     (I try to speak, failing horribly, at wonders about your voice: this frigid world, this frigid soul, or years to sacrifices: as church-bound, this testy discussion, those million pegs in tithes: if but our address, or but our identity, to ruin something good with little to thoughts: this innocent death, this glowing miracle, our mother’s footprints: as worshiping dramatics, or blazing our carcasses, or framed in voiceprints: this lavish insanity, that promising vessel, as years become dungeons!).          

Mad House Pash

…we play mischief, at terrifying wavelengths, or casual drags to smoke: this mental smaze, this throbbing kitchen, our bowels at war-houses: this churning music, this bloated pash, or tears for sudden that reason: to feel good, if but those remedies, as accustomed to feeling sore: this inner station, this longing frequency, or channels to souls unbeknownst: that pail of turtles, this internal castle, or those childhood memoirs: our parents at trespass, our mores so relaxed, or anger to father his guts dripping….     …it was hell this fitted lie, as reasonable creatures, or elusive scoundrels: those pale legs, those brown eyes, that slender provocation: our years at souls, our bodies at curses, or this Amazon wife: to cut his mind, to loosen ethics, or crunching morals: this field of academia, those loud lies, those fuming souls: to fret Jesus, as to sentient arms, at daredevil accolades: those running tumbleweed, this dark grave, our crawling atmospheres: where Love said, Heaven, this drenched mechanic, at fears our daughters have died…this robotic box, our casual faces, those talkative thighs—at deep forgetfulness, if but to persevere, listening to tall babble: this story concerning eternity, this raunchy derrière, this raunchy, classic armoire: as deviled machines, so sick her brains, and so slow his arts: this mad adventure, this massive capture, this sip dipping into her hemispheres: as hating our guts, but sick to gossip, or thrusting for failing looking into dungeons: this blighted woman, this perfect catastrophe, this lenient genius: at mathematics, pushing adolescence, and wearing seductive wigs: as mice nuzzle cotton, or snakes dig deeper, to arise seated aside leviathan’s sister….

…we hear monsters; we love monsters; we dice and mince rice failing to love clearly: this failing man, this winning woman, our thoughts concerning longevity: but Love is sick, and Love is love, and art to bone our canvas screaming about Love: this bowl of liver-works, this soul of fireworks, or those landmines so fueled with seduction: those scheming brows, that African nose, or those European brains: to see veins, those running lines, this color made imperfect: to disappear, as lost to complexion, while falling into desperation: this casual lip-print, this casual pinch, those cocaine teeth: if but for ruins, this island chin, those locking jaws: that yarn neck, that sleeping apple, or those remarkable shoulder-blades: those Jesus pieces, this flannel war, those cold disguises—to ask of knowhow, to wonder and wander through zoos, as sick with thoughts—this fueled blinder, our fueled guts, to partake and come back to living: this sea-torn damsel, this rich melancholia, if but our sickness unto desperate loyalty: our raging hormones, this child our guns, this myth our tyranny: to dine with images, to sense a perfect person, to die laughing with sorrow—this vex those abilities, to create a sought man, while Love hopes for fair simplicities—this river of rhinestones, this shaman dancing, and our child strewing petals…!   

How to Repave Debris!

I know for names, at love with vengeance, and married to fantasy: this local genius, this mistreated fire, or pouches filled with fairy-dust: this knuckle bleeding, this metaphysical knuckle, this yelling mother: at straits with justice, or Cheers with mourning, sensing Diane in myriad women: us classic fools, at love with patience, or forbidden from Love.

We feel different, a bit lonely, a bit intoxicated: this brilliant daisy, this craving soul, while feeling, hooking satiability: those rosy icebergs, this love about prose, or this miracle motorcycle ride: those dead, beautiful women, this deep neuroses, those kleptomaniac curses: as feeling distorted, this carrot of insanity, our gorgeous catastrophes: this breathless odor, this odor by womb, this deadly inebriation: or days longing, or nights breaking loose, to arise during morning pondering those names: this rabid sensation, this dribbling athlete, by ages looking forbidden.

I die skiing passions, at honor to resist our souls, while tending to sour our castles: that remarkable lens, this crafted pixel, or years to becoming a woman’s friend: those raging sensories, this cacophony of relations, where aches creep into owls.

…our cries invade China, our ills trespass Europe, and our sickness seeps into London: this fool in brains, this dancing hijacker, those extra-ordinary missed missiles: as eyes clinging, this inner winner, while lose abuses our losers: as cussed for screaming, or dead for living, at one with criminal abandonment: those dreams laughing, this sniped deer, those adders laughing: as inter-lies, or intra-cries, while assuming our characters: this home-plate, this cosmic controversy, where we resist proprieties if but to endure ourselves: this captive feeling, those exceptions aflame, while rules of conduct appear loosely: this pool of agitation, our contorted faces, to realize this created universe: as sipping ink, or slicing paper, or composing too close to reality…this localized scream, or uncovered silence, while becoming liquids.

…our perception wavers, as felt by pure authority, this need for submission: to carry on as different, to believe as normality, while tugged eluding capture: this felt realism, this nuance by persons, if but accepted by this tragic consensus: this unfair battle, this placemat for lies, as walking while counting disappointments: as misperceived, our closets opening, our laundry beneath kaleidoscopes: this space of behaviors, or this perfect response, while dungeons scream for closure: our zombie attentiveness, or miracle arrivals, while clutching our inner centers: or sober cries, or sober attitudes, or hatred for self while sober….

I have a dilemma—this crazy perception, as misinformed concerning motives: this mental traffic, this moving by lanes, this red light: to pause and nibble a chip, or swig a 7up: this realized attitude, this realized person, and those realized insecurities: as indicative of rationalized thoughts, this protected hut, this fortified mirror—as needing trespasses, if but to feel human, while secluded within an alternative cosmos: our building debris; our deep intolerance; while strangers lurk nearby: indeed, to create a problem, as deliberate necessity, where one is partly predetermined: this casual presence, while pursuing self-interests, while selling altruism: that wrench twisting, those pliers laughing, while internally our group is at mind-wars: this resistant heroine, this juvenile delinquent, or this radiant glow induced—where agony is at home, as children possess this malady, while said heroine is learning to fix a ruined highway.

I spark tobacco, lost in water, and finding laughter resistant: this edge for some, this clairvoyant catastrophe, this mirage of mirrors: this lucrative dynamic, this trespassing army, or years at abeyance: this blackdamp, this siphoned soul, this leaky persona: as men dying, or feeling good, our mornings returning to home-plate: this inn about minds, those ghosts about chimneys, even this crush about loyalties: our Christmas aches, our New Year’s resolutions, or days to sitting in limbo: this casual affair, this insidious debut, where hope wavers in either direction: moreover, this curse, at months creating friction, while staring at an inner stranger: this need to fix, if but this bypasser, in order to feel redeemed at home: or casual routines, followed by casual outcomes, while one becomes disgusted by casual existence.     …there’s little resolution, and seldom undifferentiated redemption, while souls argue our defenses: this world of treasures, this angle for domination, while losing interest in conquered pursuits: this agitating reality, those charming bracelets, as indicative of our scars: this urn of insistence, those years of warfare, or something near normal feeling unsuitable: our damaged perceptions, our culprits needing redemption, while inner realities tend to remain defensive: this slice of indifference, our hypersensitive agonies, while forgetting our established behaviors: where passions are distinguished, or inner sources are construed, while reality serves as reminder of failures…our ticking clocks, out trespassing sorrow, or this particular thought—where children seem aloof, or preoccupied with judgments, if but to release those experiences: to churn in private, or to excuse self, as but this needed mechanism: as blaming for freedom, or resistant for liberty, while saddened deeply by images: our winning society, our captive behaviors, or fire and barricades….

…as a human soul, I harbor hostilities, and anchor positive perceptions—if but to survive: notwithstanding, false realities damage—this otherwise melancholic vessel—while others are frustrated, peering at something indelicate, as accustomed to certain patterns of interaction: this radiant design, notwithstanding, intentionality, and responding accordingly, nonetheless: this vague enterprise, this life-giving force, or this reason to persevere: as acclimated creatures, while others are stagnant, afforded this chance to behave as normal: indeed, after decades at war, to meet sophistication, and sophistication demands that you catch up: furthermore, sophistication demands conformity, where unsaid anomaly lacks training, while sophistication becomes this pinch: our years to understanding pain, this forfeited reality, for unsaid soul seems different...!   

Butterfly House

…on trial internally, whispering pure redemption, and so much for dying: this acidic feeling, this acidic tear, and years at torments: this phantom lying, this ghost laughing, our aches to koi-fish—and dungeons rebuking, staring at justice, to mimic a scoundrel—this cosmic voice, this inner arc, and those loud cables: as pure pain, our thrust for Africa, our years in Europe: this stand-still America, those Asian cries, or purple as something intimidating: our guts by music, our beats by denim, or Prada esoteria: where passion is tender, this bag of fish-feed, or this package of admiration: our achy spines, our laughing women, or reputations dependent upon hiding skills: indeed, those closets, this mental armoire, and terror as wombs to cut through oceans: those bridal eyes, this internal war, to give life to one under-graded: our diamond tours, our Versace pearls, and, moreover, this delicate creature at wars with militias: our tatted membranes, our gutty alibis, or tears to windowpanes: this curious butterfly, this ragged dragon-friend, or threshing(s) peering at golden rakes: this poison in grass, this nibbling maniac, to awaken to Love screaming: this igloo ache, this igloo heart, this hut raging through Vietnam: our mimes whispering, our pantomimes puffing, or days at limbo: this park-bench, that straightjacket, or those padded rooms: our child’s embarrassment, or pure elation, while tugged for failing and feeling good: those statuesque eyes, those elysian eyes, those inquisitive, talkative eyes: to infuse Jesus, as nearby exhaustion, our apologetics for something unseemly: at gut battles, or diarrhea, or spitting up phlegm: those remarkable legs, those undercurrent thighs, or years to hating your guts: this running dead-man, this intervention, this doggy dog existence: as dogma laughing, our country simplicity, our Grecian features: otherwise, at treachery, or laughing with Madonna, our inner world quite personal: this professional sex, this lavish life, or years too young for authentication….     …we’re sick creatures, provoked and dying, if but three nights: at mnemonic kites, or Rihanna lies, while tugged by resilience—this tarot faith, this carriage of feathers, or days so gone speaking with Elijah: at no-where prose, feeling at something split, where Love laughs while killing a daughter: this fugitive voice, this hostage heart-keep, or this terrified kidnapping: at voltage regardless, at treasures, despite whispers, or feeling good writhing internally: this aphotic Alcatraz, this attractive inseam, or this California panacea: our unknown selves, our inner encyclopedias, or this life-giving inrush: to see a picture, and feel a stranger, where psychs are head to swords: those steep regrets, this aesthetic redemption, or immortal etiquette: where passion dies, as purely analytical, while suffering desiccation: or erectile problems, looking at inner demons, or a second so engrossed Fed are running: this package of pills, our ineffable dreams, or lacing for puffing and crying their caskets: this gift to souls, our mortal goals, while hating for Love despises herpes: that tore lullaby, those quiescent voices, or passages to graves enslaving our beloved: this lilting Lilith, this academic woe, or present resistance: as erstwhile creatures, sipping Levert, and blazing our liquor—peering at costumes, our opalescent women, so involved with desecration: those scented blankets, this gift for seduction, while a man runs deadly attempting to court Calypso: that dangerous woman, this selfhood phantom, or that inmost cinema….

…we laugh with timidity, we ghostly a spell, at evening eyes—those lizards gunning, this machine-salt, this winter’s curse: as blames thrown, but character lost, while onlookers percentage a scent of reality: this fine music, this fine damsel, those controlled legs: our nuclear Holocausts, our Jewish gates, or this New Jerusalem: as discovered song, this rivalry sentiment, those anklet cries: this aglet muzzle, this moving magic, or tears to love a bit chaotic….        

Crappy Chats

I can’t remember subtle, at evenings worshiping, Subtle, by means alive this subtle atmosphere: our Pakistan Brides, this curious creature, and this echoed profanity: moreover, a curse, gazing into beauty, or laughing for far so immature: this needy creation, this independent creation, where a man feels awkward: our brains to rescues, as feeling secure, where Love is quite to wavering: this missed ship, this crying igloo, or days to hating our guts: thereto, this missing balloon, this wailing kettle, this glorious summer: at angry fingers, or tips brewing vodka, or memories where Love was quite indecent: those road beetles, those deep abrasions, this similarity to longevity: our selfish replies, our needs for attention, as centered this Asian furniture: or laughing with Love, this eternal stingray, this precious, soft material: as swollen eyes, and pints of cognac, or nights wrestling for a decent climax: this future Washington, our skin-tight deaths, or German fevers—to arrive at time, or to resist for success, while tugged for yanked crying into ceilings.     I centipede venom, I dance like July, this man taken by belly chanters: that whelmed century, this revolving pistol, those pages of energy: to hit, destroy, and earthquake a soul: this up for lights, this down for darkness, to realize souls are watching: this provocative lizard, those hind legs, while nibbling poison grass: if but to live, or furious at flights, to have, possess, and keep through existence: our crazy ideals, this winning youth, or minds meeting at tables: to churn worlds, our cubs grinning, our souls at thoughts: that beautiful this, that glorious that, or trials to come: if but to flourish, this flippant morality, or guts striving for indecencies.     Such salty lakes, those elegant lies, this soul chugged by strangers: to arouse a feeling, to die those rivers, as dressing his ocean: that potent loudness, this thrust for deaths, or passing upon a lively birth: at tales laughing, at privacies crying, while treacherous a notch repenting: this world to songs, this ant to battles, this cactus as metaphorical: where Love is grimaced, or tending to perish, where two walk separately: this crucial junction, this daily ritual, this treasure passing upon train-wrecks.

I visit psychoses, this eloquent language, this mis-pursued psyche: as both to rhine(s), or both to curses, while avoiding our brains: this dead man, this living soul, to adventure taboo crevices: those cultic islands, this gin with wine, this far too glorious damsel: our weeks at passion, to come to reality, as Love retreats into exospheres: those dying pleasures, those fond memories, to arise an enemy of his feelings: this chiseled element, this intoxicating axiom, or this failed fantasy: where less is more, as potent as chronic, as purple as Cush: that maniac gaze, those maniac inducements, where one meets us at our gates: this sickly feature, as retrieved by psychiatrists, where we sense this deep contradiction: or oxymoron(s), or deep resistance, as crushed by dynamic talents: (this friend in private, this warrior at public life, while desperate to cocoons: those hazel-brown pears, those deep intoxications, or this world so new to old souls: this prehistoric link, this village of inclinations, or this hard won singularityJ): where souls become normal, this rich postulate, or minds become wholeness—this tender delicacy, those years at brain-wars, or this faint ability to bring features under submission: an element to wildness, for this threshold lingers, where one can be tampered with: those genius souls, cutting at subliminals, while educating this inner receiver: our trenchant successes, our brandies with ice-cubes, our women as faraway believers: this chant to energies, this wealth within Jews, or eyes to Australians while re-gifting our sentiments: this London Cry, those Dutch Ambassadors, this Mystic Unreality: while agonies grow limbs, to induce this split, while two walk this valid vex: to die as losing, to lose as winning, where features train in acceptance of being received.

Well-prints

…such haven born loses, abused and ruined, our children repeating our experience: those sweet or sour loquats, our mental temperature, or souls too lost for rapture: by resilient ghettos, or restricted habits, to have for dreams something unique: those battle cells, those warrior cages, while roaming our emotional desert: this running sensation, those adamant bars, as unfastened principles: steered into chaos, and sprouting violence, or collecting our screams: this infant essence, this scrubbing insanity, or doorways collecting dust….     …this mighty pressure, staring at glitter, where it felt good to admire: this tender trumpet, those resounding vocals, this hinge  absorbing vibration: our music empire, or sunlit personalities, to fathom such sacrifice: that small linchpin, or that petit rudder, or this woman at three trimesters: our future imprint, those trees above clouds, or this chorus to witness anxieties: our closed remorse, our hurt sensations, our webs speaking Latin: as bought for sold, or picking cotton leafs, where anger builds against passions: our lonely agony, our antique frustrations, or women too proud to deign….     …our busy minds, our diamond centers, or to sit engulfed that koanic womb—as buoyancy gripping, our minds to shadows, this soul so close I must cry: this trove of hairs, this flamboyant rebound, this man three days at ecstasies: to manumit self, or slavery for purchase, or high rise masters: this thrust as ruined, this bone as swollen, this entrance as intoxicating: our great grandpa, our greater grandma, at gates speaking with Lazarus: this last talisman, those immortal gestures, when all she cried was a breath of dejection: that soul engendered, this ache ingratiated, and those kites cut for freedom….     …war by fantasts, or stargazing dreams, or ignescent generations: those circuit eyes, this inquisitive soulprint, or mandolins suffering isolation: at love-lot cities, or such physics by amore, at romance with sheer mystery: this fugacious resistance, while never our touch, at lyrics reciting our dirge: that aphrodisiac; to blind souled colors; this alchemic oxygen—where love shivers, as dead to realization, her arms wrapped at centers trembling: as cloudy estates, or paradise screaming, while a little son holds his mother: those tiny ligaments, those emotional lesions, or typing six words a minute: if but to imagine, as but to exhaust, this pool of ambitions: those extended straws, this choice in life, as unmentioned this destined calling—our breaths wheezing, our guts to flippancies, or to see with lights this running configuration….     …we dote by inscriptions, we dine with misery, we tear Dear God to shreds: our futile Nike’s, our esteem through Versace, or L’Orèal mistakes: this line of soldiers, this whip in womanhood, or supple eyes pleading our courage: to die for grieving, or to grieve for dying, afraid to master ambrosia: this foolish man, this distinguished gem, or seconds to meeting eye-to-eye: our enfolded pleasures, our measure by profanity, or secular cues becoming holy trinkets: that opalescent character, or this slight disgust, at windows scribing our whereabouts: to ween about Love, this deep inspiration, but never for Love our good mornings: this plangent feeling, this melancholic noise, those melancholic eyes: as spinning for culture, to announce upon arrival, where years become awkward….     …our oceanic passion, this loving island, this reverberation: as taboo friends, pleading this undercurrent, while scathed by thoughts: our shunga minds, or fresco paintings, or this thought to living inside of portraits: our Ukiyoe Dynasties, our neophyte hearts, or this recurrent theme: as motifs dying, or winsome sounds, where Love scribbles an ink tall building: this subtle cue, this tillage of souls, or architecture slipping at its fulcrum: this revolving pivot, this falling scream, or mnemonic devices proving a fatal touch: those infused waves, this running arc, or water falling into well-prints….              

Grasp as Living Empty; and Such Fullness; and such Thunder

I pop my ears; I hear my throat; I see your courage: this vessel speeding, that slow pace, that calm womanhood: as faces spinning, or losers winning, or darkness sinning: that clairvoyance, those Cardi B tendencies, or this stripper’s diligence: our guts to Lopez, our thwart frustrations, or unthawed existence: to come through deaths, where rules were excluded, while heads-to-heels this extravagant love: our photos laughing, our knuckles breathing, as life before death our philosophic(s): as technical dungeons, or hardcore women, to evaporate slowly looking at genius: those smart professors, this incredible disappearance, those mental faxes: to ingest insistence, this place for ruler-ship, and that need to decipher for our mirrors: our blue-blood falcons, or oxygen to wands, those burgundy nightmares: to care so little, as to forfeit billions, while holding to another soul’s reflection…this pool’s dragonflies, this inverted tawny, or this remarkable imagination: at years with racism, at moments with humans, or around this world meeting indecisions.    

I saw you gently; I died with thoughts; I resurrected in smiles: this unforgiveness, this livid light, our personalities: as beauty to souls, this Islamic revival, or courage to exist: this magnificent rose, this dying marigold, this blooming daisy: alive with curses, as spoke our dreams, to have what we barely see: as mental participants, and spacial indigents, while crucial a sudden entrance: as trancelike albatrosses, or ships gliding offcourse, at insistence this fragrance wafting nearby: our broken hopes, our florid imagination, or make-believe elixir serving by justice: to sense marvelous, that hall of banquets, or this speaking incantation: as but looseness, or hard for facts, while, nonetheless, as worried as hell.     …it’s been leniency, or miracle dreams, wending to Jamaica: our supernal minds, our early mornings, our restless nights: to want you and tripping, or to solace us and tripping, where Love is wrecked and tripping: our itchy-sweaty-scalps, or brains pursuing missions, to hear but whispers: this inner hissing, or this sound angel, to filch a second by gravity: this woman as folklore, this feeling in allegories, or tenets supporting but twelve months: those dying instincts, this photo of Love, or places where money becomes shy…as irrigated passions, to exaggerate your womb, where such becomes distressing: because life is Love, her body and gut, as one picklock’d by pure Reality: as rapt’d in essence, or bleeding Jesus, to affront Yahweh: that inner shadiness, this moonish collar, this pound of sea-garbage—as Love would perish, or tremble a ghost, while so deep at penmanship: this marvelous drool, this fabulous fool, or nights feeling abruptly schooled: this terrible tendency, this remarkable inclination, or this grip freaking out his intestines: to arrive lately, feeling offcourse, and smitten by pure genius: our nocturne demons, or Junoesque renaissance, or rebellious affections: this running cheetah, that grand splendor, to awaken laughing and screaming: where brains are permanent, and kitsch is fleeting, to realize this need for chances: as retreated a soul, and gutted a rule, where passion seems rootless….

I greet in illness; I revolve as pistols; and I offer nothing but few experiences: this ensemble bleeding, this emblem reviving, or mantras taken a bit higher: to misknow self, as incorrigible beings, where Love is want for clarity: our hieratic(s), this guiding vehicle, this inward compass: to ask our guidance, as influenced by emotion, this question seeming inappropriate: as indelible creatures, or impassioned creatures, our mornings filled with harbingers—or insoluble attics, while committed to agonies, where love has become adjusted: this need for passion, this reckless poet, those reckless eyes, or (thoughts reckless at another person’s webs). 

Dear Swan: Our Orange Robin

I see doors, Love—as some are shut, while otherwise open: our daily hassles, our leaping hearts, or those few fugitive(s): our bones speaking tribalism, our guts whispering discontent, or our marrow seeping into realities: as old for young, or young for old, around corners brandishing fire: this lady in silver, this wretched torment, those miracle women: our Gwen Stefani, our lights for machinery, our axioms for long-division.    

I’m lost for address, this bland language, or this mute channel: nonetheless, I dance clouds; I’m up-side-down; while stressed for relieved: this trying secret, this disenchantment, or years to three tears     this soul scythed, those scissors leaking, this faucet dripping resistance     as men seeking salvation, if but her eyes, if but her miracles: our changed dispositions, or rapturous thoughts, to imagine justice, and thereto, become attached: this filmy vision, this kleptic demon, while reality points to mental madness: this detached attraction, this livid calmness, or those tinted glasses: this window yelling, this psych administering, while nuns undress deceptions: that cold power, those long nooses, or this gnarm barking with dragon feet.

…by Rites of Passage, Love—to have insistence, where souls are boiling: this shark at home, this shark to spines, this daughter as part shark and dragon     those inner movies, this deep confession; To travel where thoughts produced realities: this foolish cello, this crutch for Love, this ruling fever: as arranged by chaos, this typing participant, to realize that shoulders are carrying opposites: that precious test, those analytical eyes, or that niche for business—while reading knowledge     or collecting data     or speaking tongues with hummingbirds: this mocking song, to lose a lung, to rebuke a friend: this travesty music     this loyal penguin     or leopards rearranging spots: our parents to souls, our daughters to marriage, our children running into ponds: those meerkat mathematics     this hungry mongoose     this deceptive cobra: as feeling reality, to sing by passions, where rolling eyes become endearing….

…we agitate excitements, where dreams are forbidden, whilst Love saunters magic: this webbed spider, this last figuration, our existential Incredible Hulks     as wrestling screams     to assist something normal     where reflection wonders of its slice: that portrait, this picture, this tableau—as gunning through exospheres     while seated in esoteria     as analyzed this Japanese reality: those shaded arcs, this dismissal for some, this hardcore anger for father     whereas, it feels important, if but to express, such reaching loneliness….

We subject ourselves, while lying as but normal, to pass an un-credited dream: those rabid foreclosures, our crashing stock markets, our inner demolitions: where professors dance, as psychs wave wands, while Life is there for deconstruction: to participate, Love—to dance so freely, to paraglide with spirits, to create turquoise fire     that red lava, those cherry picked eyes, to give this essence you’ll receive: our grannies mourning, our fathers dying, where we persevere laughing at strangers     that morning’s raccoon     those starfish and sea-stars     those red deer panic buttons     at savannah cheers     at lizard mania     to realize snakes are repenting: this island of miracles, this churned realism, or tasmanian-song-glints     our bottled noses     our blue duck rivers     or tomorrow painted by impassivity: indeed, Love—to adore is easy, but pure imagination is excruciating     as emeralds chance, or songbirds flip, indeed, this hidden language: our running guts, this beautiful swan, to write and feel music.             

Matrix Butterflies

It’s been its length, speeding through vertigo, or realized in visions: this prophetic art, those prophetic eyes, or that endearing person: to meet so early, while unidentified, at least to this mirror: this examination, racing through corridors, where neck-ribs blend with gut-eyes: this small travesty, this great tragedy, or neighbors casual with goodbyes: this princess tragedy, those years to debating memories, or righteous and overzealous: this portrait rendezvous, our souls interlocking, while agony walks away: that perfect living-room, or carnival realities, while traipsing this haunted house: such blurry tentacles, or bandit binoculars, as reaching for dreams: those azure lenses, this pot of bisque, or late nights watching Roku: this Roca feeling, as bent through webs, to admire Dr. Ambiguity: this forced thought, this pillaged conscience, or years to vying for transference: our troubled inclinations, our radical misprints, or years to relying upon something forfeited: this gambling maniac, this liquor for resourcefulness, or sober lights speaking its insanity: those constant layers, this strata of liars, or remorse for one easing into home-plate: this tall tree, those perfected tiles, or body at joints breaking bad news: our cyan faces, our camouflaged feelings, or this exhaustion coming with tugging at whales: our English language, as underrated purely, where souls are desperate for palms.     I shift and twirl, peering at glamour, where said glamour feels horrible: or radiant a curse, to permit such beauty, for ugliness appears tragic: this heart of firebricks, this tale of firebrand, where friction becomes intimate: this constant application, where I must for breathing, if but to avoid an intersection: those grave intra-vibes, or this impending impasse, while to emerge as greater for sacrifice: this pillaged dream, those radiant gavels, or this feeling in chains as if all is protected: our fabulous cries, this aesthetic professor, or years to philosophical apologetics: to lose this life, awaiting this grand deliverance, where participation is mandatory: our indigo souls, our reluctant passions, or fantasies so rich they lead to orgasms.     …our linen filthy, at medium blue feelings, while fluffing our orchids: our minds clear, if but that infraction, while human tendencies lead to excitement: that musty rose, that misty heart-curve, or this angular portrait—as souls revving, or Chevy’s gliding, to sip a martini and olive: this man to fashions, as garments arrive, where Love is heart-to-brain in mere a t-shirt: this pale turquoise, this Puma play-passion, or Nike’s running into pure admission: our submitted souls, this marigold allergy, or allegories running into realities: this esthetic levity, this rejected advance, or this man to thoughts that demand examination: those filthy rulers, those puffy peaches, or this Asian nectarine….     I saw sea-green tides, as to encounter steel-blue cries, while attempting to fix something that requires psychiatry: this fool in men, this thistle as underrated, or years to researching undulations: this Jewish maniac, this righteous disposition, or this Irish nun bleeding resistance: those seventy years, those seventy smiles, to realize this defective analyses: as wilder obsessions, or too far invested, while neighboring monks are envied: as wild animals, struck with purpose, to feel this absolute insanity: those sessions to screams, this subtle indoctrination, while one dismisses pure agitation: as something minor, as ever it is, where tropical beauty becomes extravagance: those aqua remissions, this rectitude encyclopedia, or years to figuring just enough to remain confused: as livid iguanas, or paddling sea-turtles, attempting a test by mandrill realities: this curse in souls this must for identity, to realize this complex vex called, Psychology: that intra/inter, this physiological response, or those Hoatzin voices: where Love is agonizing, as time is revolving, to recognize that decades have tortured us.           

We Love for Courage

…our reachless arms, our psychotic intoxication, or sisters searching for kinship…this lucid loser, this caprice princess, or hours to perfecting pure fire: this feeling as nuance, this knot as wilted, where graves seem homely: that woman’s eyes, this subtle charm, to realize an emotion screaming about legacies: those sawed brains, this deadly damsel, or years through Mexico: this Trixie affair, those burning nebulas, or mystics revving this current excitement: where women hate, aforetime, to love, while sanctioned for ruined running through Greece: if but to fly, wrapped in agonies, where rivers run stagnant: those noble realities, this noble curse, or brains to barrows laughing insanely: this cage for misfits, or this mother grieving, while our sons are eating bread corners: our aqua sensations, this tug as richness, or our tingling palms: of course, her eyes, of course, her cries, or days to Dallas building an Empire….     I’m sickly with passion, to designate a muse, while so deep enlove I can’t whisper—this friendly desiccation or this raffled execution, while so young he became a legend: this quixotic curse, this thirst for danger, or this picture perfect opening: indeed, he dies, as lifted by leaves, where this army built queen desecrates immortality: that woman’s tears, as wiped with acid, or three lines to set our pace: those cuffs grinding, if but against flesh, at half an hour she found new Love: where men lose sanity, if but this exclusive seed, to realize that lies encourage Empires: those fine  wings, this exterior Love-shark, or actresses built for long-range—at puffy hearts, or trickling spiders, while mixing vodka with scorpions: that churning sensation, this gutted mystic, or kites to Jupiter those isles: if but with illness, or this beautiful monster, to inquire about winning loyalties….     …we exhaust pleasures, lost in reveries, and deciding upon our foundation: this mental edifice, this seduced creature, or this sultry fox: our dresses torn asunder, our bodies bleeding perfume, and our guts becoming bowling intestines: those revved warriors, those vertigo brains, or parachutes striking through ghetto consciousness: as heads spinning, or engines within arteries, while shorn for perfect as alone we thought: this feeble soul, at Love with vengeance, to arrange a Persian wedding: those bald lies, those bold replies, this burgundy pint of sin: as losing wilderness, to arrive in summer, while mythic mystics hide closely….

…those gibbon cries, those hyena eyes, this miracle to suggest, I deserve Life: as hearts thrusting, or energies maneuvering, where Love has proven destiny: to pet our sea-lions, or to purchase a seahorse, while perishing softly as a neighboring flower: this garden of daisies, those tropical ankles, or that irregular scent: as machines moving, so lost to travesties, while border-line a bit crude: this velvet dress, those high heeled rebels, this bowl of peaches—where Love is ruined, or where Love is flying, to know this person while ashamed of Love: as cruel messengers, or 300 orphans, or souls raised for perfections: this mother teaching, this father grooming, or years tugging piano keys: if but this life, associated with high-rises, our minds three million miles into jackals…those fuchsia intuitions, or fuchsia intellects, to look closely as eyes water: that dying turtle, that sentimental cinema, or seconds to eating a steak: as lives our guts, this feeling magnet, where Love appeared in purple: our wheels of color, our diamond excursions, or dreams too fantastical to become our reality…those Grecian Islands, this turn towards forgiveness, where a near-souled-friend points at profanity: that masked weaver, that gracile spine, or neck to buttocks destroying his courage: those tawny souls, this quadroon reality, or this mestizo witness…!

Black Sunlight(s)

I felt someone; and I inherited deep thoughts; and life was artsy heinous: those baggy jeans, or tights for yoga, or business attire skirts: this film at morning, this thunder come eleven o’clock, or nights sleeping alone: this busy feeling, this tetras illness, and those loses we called, Friends: this laughing daughter, as caught midstream, as realized disharmonies: this wretched sin, this wretched piano, or fruit-baskets and dandelions: those inquisitive squirrels, or our Getty imagination, a bit partial to Rembrandt…if gods are humans, and humans are immortal, I dare speak this conclusion—as lost souls, or vampire legends, where movies constructed trickle into billions: those jogging legs, those mobile cries, or thighs to stockings a subtle scent: where grandmother instructs, this woman with wounds, if but to reconstruct this generation.     …foxes and fish eagles, or African lions and kingly symbols, to polecat existence, this wild cat mentality, where a man enters his first revival: this parrot mocking, as wild dogs linger, to realize guts speaking tribal passion: those cable-eyes, those sable dreamers, or too many geese to feed: Our Last Supper, Our Empty Tomb, or arts to lies or catacombs those rare experiences: as mother died, racing through vampire bats, or settling in Asian Lionesses: this gutted drool, this mischievous artery, and those red foxes—to meet a psychologist, where days are rough, to drive engines calculating this web of feeble claims: those water-dragons, or jackal eyes, and this pure deception for hearts are warm: where magpies speak, and masked owls listen, while Reality appears a lonely fool: our polar bear attractions, our silver fox mating grimace, as tugging this pure metal Cross: those Eurasian Swans, tugging at life-vests, while cleaving to something familiar: those gray terns, this grey savannah, or this beige pier: as fathers chuckle, to know deceit, but fearing this turn becoming an immortal scar: those lying women, at full with pride, as one excluded from sociopaths: this gutted cement, those abstract skies, or that sudden film playing incessantly: where introjects appear, after weeks of exclaiming, Dormant, where misery attempts to pin a tailed-deer: this swanic magic, this ludic cry, or this feeling where enough has occurred: therewith, is terror, our tree creeper birds, our rivers flooded with Buddhists: to ask a question, this life by forgiveness: Are blacks excluded?

I decoded childhood, codified in attractions, but a foot speeding through thunder: our wing stilt women, this gecko pride, or road lizards a triumph in black culture: those miracle breasts, as seeming a bit crude, while watching where minds simmer in passions: those lemur lenses, those deer runners, or eyelashes nibbling cottage cheese: this pot of greens, this leg of ham, or purple pleasures becoming his torments: as livid fools, or drooling castles, our eyes sensing our parishes…this bobcat feline, this dolphin squirrel, or this delphic/prophetic damsel: as brockets laugh, or that tiny voice, or that languishing whisper—to dance with sights, petting a kangaroo, while sipping Egyptian Water: if but to ruins, this dreaded creature, a woman without one good memory: those jungle cats, or African civets, adrift a curse staring at cape cobras: this linger in shadows, to expel our guts, or hell to earth realizing Jung: this genet isle, those island screams, or wild oceans delivered through wombs: our nighthawk eyes, or coyote brains, adorned by beauty’s presence: this small vehicle, those humming bird wits, or wings so embedded feathers are shedding.       

Wheezing Helium

I rollercoaster, I reach blindly, and dance like Tyson: this fistless fool, this pistol for deliverance, at chances bleeding intestines: those long attractions, as if for difference, as living while souls capture: this left remedy, this senseless romance, as born alone intoxicating a nation of strangers: this one to livers, at nights guzzling water, to urinate past three: our miracles lively, our apes speaking Chinese, or black communists running to Egypt: those driven curses, this revving Lamborghini, or this whisper too soft to discern: our Pac children, those daughters to Swahili, or white mothers tugging pistols: if but to live, as but to incarnate, too young to mention cigars: at thoughts with psychs, or yearning for dramatists, while pictured a glimpse those cinemas—to die while breathing, or live this miracle, where mother became a totem pole…indeed, as treacherous souls, at evenings with menacing, to gut for vomit sipping pure vodka: this woman dying, this song as lethal, our years at UCLA: this doctor laughing, for ruined by wretchedness, to collapse a living-room rug: this thousand dollar square, or this million dollar whore, as running from Jesus: to cuss as deadly, to love as mischief, to need if but twelve mistakes…those leafy rivers, those metaphysical crocodiles, or this diamond winking for falling into another man: as graphed for failure, or mapped for success, as one genetically disposed to Malcolm.

I ingest passion, this acrylic mistake, where Love felt quite adamant: this dead father, this deceased mother, and this failing grandfather—as granny would cyclone, or perish those nights to ecstasy, while Love spoke too many truths: this ruined gut, this filthy mentality, this holy contradiction: this aunt to liquor, this alpha running into deserts, or Maggie to reach for her first black passion: as Spanish Corridors, or French Glasses, where marble windows strike a nerve: this African Kite, this European Mahogany, or years to managing a crucial Sanction: those American Gangsters, this inverted sanity, where certain brains are filled with voices: that small secret, if but to illusions, where behavior condemns its internal clock: as mothers to oceans, this yacht bleeding pigeons, as at flights restricted to groundless waves: that purpose at midnight, this infused manikin, to assume life fluffing our pillows: wherewith, this sightless Ghost, this romantic android, where avatars chance this island of humans.

…we trouble expressions, laughing at hearts, feeling that fools are gruelish: this wheezing helium, those perfect calves, and this maniac behaving as priests: as cold to centers, or raging in nightmares, where onlookers label as dying concerns: this person’s theorem, as built in whiteness, where blackness is deemed as inferior: our same stories, this mistook aggression, or nights to madness seeped into: and, thereunto, this maniac woman, protected by titles, where daily that close to snapping: and, hereto, this mis-enchanted rainbow, those tendencies towards violence, or this mission where violence becomes nonsense: as psychs dancing, this inner psychologist, to realize this need for humanness: this existential light, this paranoid manic, or days to creating something foreign: this treacherous butterfly, this lethal maniac, to shiver and disappear: those measurements, those black cities, those white suburbs: to eject reality, while thrilled for tetras, where many are running from HIV: our mothers cringing, our fathers debating, or granny to blood work…indeed, this life, those fires, this wall too high for clearance: to want something gentle, aforetime, that realization, where such and such misses for longevity: as social misfits, or radical lovers, to hit with patience that sacred location: if but to fear, this woman as vocal, to arrive sensing something akin to passion: those reaching astronauts, this woodblock romance, or this Juliet catastrophe: our Shakespeare souls, our Indiana Jones haplessness, or ponds leaning or shivers at ceilings or realized ghosts scribing our interior.