Hook’d His Soul

...where heaven vanished, this saffron lad, as Chevy as grandfathers: our ghosts shivering, our sandcastles laughing, this box a bit silent: to skip math, lingering church-grounds, as petit as priests: as evolved souls, a bit for converse, too mental a palace: our sickle’d soil, those bar roots, at ladders tugging God’s ankles: these beastly fires, this beastly grave, arriving seven tiers early: at Love with ability, our diamond crosses, our blotted agitation: those halo thighs, that halo pocket, those high-rise attitudes: our guts moving, our intestines giggling, while filled a dark night: that inner seesaw, those sandy seaweeds, our deserts flipping oceans: our Tibetan thoughts, our Eastern charms, where Love became a yogi: those casual deaths, to loosen something filthy, while tugging something muddy: at ego slime, this inner portrait, a man with hurt feelings: this Ransom with wires, this hook with tentacles, at years perfecting a phantom: our rooms to midnights, our grooming(s) reluctantly, our daughters a bit infuriated: this aged soul, those tribal ribs, this sabertooth pleasure: at fires chanting, at waters invoking, at caves scratching moths: to move forward, those old eyes, that young figure, these inner classifications: absorbing travesty, whittling oaken diaries, at Love as one scribing insanity: those treasured instincts, those slight glances, or this methodical broach: as both office and officer, where demons obey, while inclined to believe in spirits: as familiar ghosts, or railway monsters, where Moral awoke speaking Japanese….                             

I shift at feelings, amazed by ink, if but to re-thread those memoirs: this small stature, this familiar inheritance, about as sane as Jesus: at winter huts, ensured about invisibility, running through forests: this naked category, these rabid emotions, while cold but warm this difficult exchange: at high standards, while attracted to mud, where three-day voyages feel appealing: our tender alligator, those caiman genes, or radicalized beige eyeballs—this firebrand, this undergrowth, this inner music—at deaths with pride, at life with seasons, at something too beautiful for passion: this crazed man, while seeking immortality, or a dozen pianos: this habit in brains, to lay claim to strangers, where reality feels a bit repulsed: that deep reproach, this battle for clearance, while located walking through Europe: this mini Africa, our days to sunlight, at cameras capturing imperceptibility: while Love would die, while rinsing mud, where mud became a project: those inner macaques, this leaping frenzy, our weeping hearts!

…years became minutes, this economy of mysticisms, thereto, this war for roses: our strained vision, perky to feel us, and eager to heal us: this Fool’s Paradise, those colorful birds, or electrical incense: at terrible wits, exchanging repertoires, so uneasy it becomes endearing: those serious matters, those contingent suggestions, such emphasis upon destruction: our days to excitements, our seconds by doubts, where something dangerous feels constraining: this hoop symbolism, this American attraction, or that burrito at Taco Bells: in truth, to laugh, this forbidden luxury, while concentrated upon heart-chakras: those small feet, trekking through inheritance, treading upon serpents: at filthy feelings, a bit depraved, a bit amoral—if but to perish, while filled with ecstasy, a state meant for paradise: our musicality, our inner haven, where instincts need to adventure: thereupon, those soothing tears, this realized beauty, this painful trophy….

Dust & Dirt & Bone

I tear upon gravel, immortalized in riches, while dying, nonetheless: this furious canal, our mother’s womb, as giving this son life: at treasures received, at earth a nuisance, while trickling through cavities: to banister a kite, to knead a dynasty, where psychs feel hell and knowingly: that last bail or that revoked bail, our years treading crazy monsters: while gritting and grinding, where horizons blaze death, this challenge to awaken: such minutia, this edgy milieu, as money harvesting maniacs: to destroy life, while cornered by poverty, where holy endeavor spreads by chaos: those pistols laving, this metaphorical catastrophe, where mother would cringe: our guts, Aunty, our ghettoes, Cousin, while glens seem appropriate, Love: this death, Peggy, this miracle, Alpha, while Bill is out to lunch: for havens seem just, while free-spirits appear distressed, where hell seemed a redemptive legacy: those tight waists, those long legs, in so much, a considerable majesty: therewith, those blueprints, this dotted line, where excuses seem foreign: our alienation, to work with treasuries, as a man where resistance became anger.     I gut life, I trot beyond sanity, for life is pure chaos: that beauty to bipolar(s), where calmness seems false, while adaptive to creative inconsistencies: this coffee for dysfunctional(s), this liquor for mother, while infused by purchases: our touch agendas, our radical fly-traps, indeed, our sentimental horizon: if but to perish, at love ensconced, while harboring this gutted integrity: our clashing morals, our evolved leviathans, while so-and-so seeks a link.     I split in halves, as cocaine’d by uterus, our glassy eye-triggers: this phenomenal woman, as searching for something, and promising deaths—this quiet storm, those inner fences, while falling and claiming indifference: those cold children, this African maniac, while courage seemed so swell—to dip in traffic, a bit snug in seats, at eyes with something frantic: our slice to home, our gutter-lane majesty, as assumed alone in this vast universe: as accused recently, or recently diagnosed, where reason failed her enterprise: if but to music, looking for perished, to walk away from tombs: those gray skies, this nacreous sunrise, while tunneled by fuels.

…low bass, high cymbals, as cold enough to survive: that inner tickle, our airwave lungs, puffing a room to smoke: our guts giggling, our women laughing, while filled with petro: this liquid flame, this trucking silence, while removed from situations: our grannies at liver-works, seated in sophistication, to smile with approval: our costumes, apropos once a years, at 3oo and 64 days of combat: this loud ass mirror, this screaming ass membrane, or that resistant amygdala: our tears at rivers, our bowels to salmon, where death was sweet enough to live: this gravesite, those tombs, at terror laughing with spirits: that last sip, those torrent adventures, at Love speaking in riddles: our sweaty glands, our heater hearts, or souls searching for semblance: this deep reality, this biblic enterprise, to become pure spirit: those flutes those Blues those confused sages: as one punished, condemned to earth, at a thousand years to unlock—this feudal mind, those rebuked tendencies, to witness apparitions: our baby catastrophe, this child a young woman, that atypical magistrate: to dip further, as lost to membrance, at facial recognition: this command chain, those deep pits, that terrifying grenade: in army fatigues, and running into warfare, close to a million commanders: our achy brains, this flippant mentality, and those tragic letters…while accustomed to miracles, or slithering in silence, or running with Sonic: that Heathcliff charm, those bantering lies, our dreams scattered across battlefields: our names speaking, our souls uncivilized, our armor imposing order: at something chaotic, as living with breaths, while fused by agonies: that gray sunrise, those tragic gray eyes, while affixed to one last dance….                    

Sun-Root Under-cast

…our ceilings, about blasted to ribbons, staring for tripping into debutants: this trifling legacy, this ghetto of survivors, that lady too charmed and blushing: our initial feelings, smothered by dialogue, to grip, grab, and release: those young seeds, picking for choosing habits, a bit explosive with philosophies: our daughter’s cry, our agonies stripped, our noise butt naked and dancing: at terrible cadence, our mornings by trapped thoughts, looking at door spiders: if but with luxuries, this blind-spot, our Northern Kingdom: at Nebuchadnezzar, our filthy nails, our bloodshot insanity: to scream upon Elijah, to father a nation, while so reserved we barely heard…therewith, those sad bowels, such irritation, to pop a pill: this fool with literature, this half built island, our ships carrying new species: such by cargo, these brutal seas, at Judge speaking my vernacular: our dear Exercises, our pardoned Green’s, or monks too horny for monasteries: this small feeling, this killing sensation, at Smith proud about blackness….

…we’re dying but writing, we’re rabid and sane, our great grandparents—our ancestors laughing, plus, feeling good, to perish for something becoming socialized: as creatures distorted, but close to lines, where yoga birthed a treasury: such to energies, such to hearts, to reread and feel: this inner wisdom, racing for blossoms, to bud and pebble and resurrect: that winter fire, those summer angst, while so to anxiety it’s hard to secern: our guts, Love, invested for dying, Love, while territories pace in army formation: that man to sins, that mother to loyalties, to wonder why so many cut left: our orientations, our father’s sincerity, to wonder  why I need to get close: this terrific rift, this hysterical cloud, while God is wheezing: our last bottle, our treasured flame, our poetry leaking into angelica: those cold Figurines, this Cartoon Empire, our children rained upon fires: those cages, as becoming friends, this antisocial priest: thither, by curse, as birthed to roses, to account for terminal pictures: those lactescent daisies, to need something deadly, but too evolved to subjugate: this fear in men, this need to conquer, while committed to blueprints: that mass suicide, this outer spacecraft, to imagine one selling such recklessness: those tangible ape-eyes, those intangible ghost-vibes, to feel as something rises: this black purple reality, those red yellow tulips, as abandoned and feeling fantastic: those radical faiths, this inner Quaker, while so mystic it felt hell to kiss goodbye….

…something is screaming, literature is destroying, where something has evolved: this tale of sea-grass, this blasted facial, our mud becoming mayflies: that inner tadpole, this leaping frog, our audio blaring through ocean green wilderness: to perfect with deaths, or to die with Wang, our cuts filled with helium: that rescue in balloons, this dynasty in bottles, or this ship lodged beneath eyes: at secrets writing, at Mechtild a bit crass, indeed, this element in brute beasts: to move like snakes, our bodies contorted, to climb trees attacking sloths: that ridiculous outcry, this ridiculous man, while so fervent our nation is cringing….

I lost potentiality, I gained an intimate friend, and It was hell to perish: but Love was sick, this fear a past Love, while transference blossomed soon as of late: this wretched sloth, his wretched intentions, to ruin for damaged and scared of life: that penis trip, those hounds, or purposed for intelligent ruins: this birth in Queens, this death in Kings, as gods took certain jurisdictions: this body rocking, this muse too beautiful, this fool pulling backwards: to achieve insanity, where Love is insane, to have pleasure returning to mediocrity: that famous Dictator, that comfortable Ambassador, our miserable luxuries…!

Dead Roses

I’m glued at night, staring into orbit, accustomed to esoteria: this welkin machine, this lethal addiction, those webs as channeled: those spidery legs, this crawling tarantula, this baby centipede: in truths, those wellic snakebites, those terrific poisons, at thighs and arms and something innate—this creature of sentiments, those moments too enthralled, while Love has become uneasy: our gremlin appetites, our monstrous ambition, while accused of being indelicate: our Hozier instincts, our appeal to phantoms, where realized this accent to dying: at casual converse, peeping dictation, amused by verbal knives: those sick encyclopedias, our sick abasements, while running and running and running—this black moon, this bloody sun, as venom rains upon earthen-souls: those beautiful dreams, so innocent to minds, as needing this perception: our first encounters, our harlot virgins, our inner net-probes: if but by Church, or but by Bibles, as mystics infused by grandeur: those mixed letters, this pot of beef stew, our metaphors for making something sweeter: the best in us, this tragic insanity, this broken, delicate, mis-fathomed delicacy: at ruins laughing, while seeming normal, where something is deliberating: those alien aches, this alien soul, while so removed from our daily tasks: as climbing higher, aware of Sexton, a bit envious of Bugs: this feral demand, those feral charms, while Love could give two maniacs!     I scream and awake, I die and giggle, it felt good to live—this math at brains, this geometry at spirits, to think too deeply: this head-war, those vibrant, energized attractions, as using in order to breathe: our reluctant ties, this tryst in dungeons, while sipping so low we damage light: our games with salt, this vinegar for wounds, while enthralled in domination: the best in us, as kleptomaniacs, or kamikaze lovemaking: our gnawing sensations, our hearts by guitars, or that radicalized, super vibration: this inner galaxy, those cobra fangs, those Cambodian calves: to scream at something, while reaching for damages, at laughter it hurt so good: this fool in me, this drama in me, this mother in me—to invest as puking, to guzzle as livid, while sincere concerning this atypical sobriety: this mad scientist, this mental physician, where secrets have become automated: those tiles bleeding, this ghetto leaking, while running and running and running some more: our Lancôm appearances, this mad blue horizon, or that shifty, intricate, remorseful smile: at souls with clearance, at séance with minds, or at Love with such heart-screams: this masterful rose, those red green blues, or something so determined it felt good to perish: at aches and running, at war and running, at Love and gunning: this feel high plateau, this rising orbit, or that slow southern milky-way: at dungeon whispers, those lavish brains, while so crooked our lines are straight: that Twilight Zone, those creased khakis, as so clean they miss the tragedy—our arms yanked, our guts speaking, our necks with hives: that black reality, this white travesty, where souls meet at an instance making tear-love: indeed, this rich occupation, those few with dire confusion, at chaos and feeling good: our craving meerkats, gunning for scorpions, but allergic to something whistling: our algebra, our algorithms, our due-for-dying equations: to watch Love dressing, to admire configuration, while sunk for doubts: or reaching for certainty, allotted a ghost, where Love looks ingenious: this nape dripping, that line between breasts laughing, our eyes for dead coming into life: those spiffy Clarks, those radicalized hip huggers, or something so off-base it appears demonic: our souls needing elements, this crucial cry to wolves, while aware this causes our deaths: to drift with passion, or gutted for demented, seated somewhere giggling with juice: those geese watching, that feisty duck, those intimate ants: those lazy moths, our aye-aye satiations, while never to sleep gently: our Kenya women, our Asian women, our European women—while desperate to succeed, as needing something pushed away, and dying to rocket afar a death with roses!

Draw Pictures

…a few rituals, a few hearts, a salute to something ancient: this series of gods, those Japanese cartoons, this deep, rich, interrogation of energy: those few at determination, this loyal aircraft, while this airborne evaluation: our seeds feeling existence, our mothers cooking meals, our fathers to garage projects: as mother watches, pokes a little fun, while more supportive than religion: our base in knowledge, our supernal activities, or fond of something esoteric: those cherished responses, this enveloped integrity, or those nacreous characteristics: our fused guts, this airwave communication, or those days to dying softly: at radiant feelings, this joy those replies, our banter clearing orbit: to sink into Neptune, or wrestle with Minnie Mouse, where bedroom behavior is sought through clouds: that rich fog, those glassy eyes, or un-indicative attitudes: this beating heart, those ruby rescue souls, or lactescent thermometers: to chance persistence, to become a bit mean, while mother would suggest a different approach: this formable woman, this docile mirror, while lethal for deadly: our chess with grapes, our intimacy with resentment, where life was two at struggles

…those torn debates, those years at deliberation, where time seemed inconsequential: our Riddler faces, our Batman voyage, a bit concerned with Robin’s: that inner image, that Catwoman outfit, those media intestines: as assured of silence, while reserved in happenstance, where reality is pointing at Daffy Duck: that beak blown afar, those wits as missing their mark, where souls are accustomed to compromise: those few professors, dying to impute, where nights are long and days are too short: if but to fly, this world of roses, seared with total abandonment: as casual attendants, this American Airline, while seated in our dens: those bold captures, this fleet of engines, to announce as arriving but seated in doubts.

…we adore passion, those redemptive souls, our minds tiptoeing eggshells: if but immediacy, if but its duration, we come to taking our pace: this inner dream, to walk with grace, to face life with open receptors: our catnip Simone’s, our extravagant Monroe’s, our extra-ordinary Librarians: this fetish in men, those blocks in humankind, where intelligence becomes intimidating: our Penguin attacks, as rift’d asunder, while mourning our instincts: that sudden second, to chance existence, a bit taken with clearing our ramps: those chiseled, professional, emotional souls: those clairvoyant, demonstrative monsters, while hanging mid-city as Scarecrow: if but those charms, those chromatic charms, our legs locked in deep existential(s)…this fool astringent, this Garnier massacre, or years to fretting this soul: as knowing for literature, this seldom catastrophe, where one yearns for something they can’t keep: this needy conglomerate, this Lisa Monae, or better, this thinking, manipulative vessel: our screams in climate, our respect in initials, or this boot thrusting our livers: as souls drifting, our minds to magazines, to experience life a bit saddened by life: but media kills, as media rules, our nation looking for something too beautiful to last a week….

…indeed, with hang-ups, while staring provocatively, where tense inconsistencies mandate approaches: this curious soul, this curios ambivalence, while surging into planet hero: our heroine vines, our Sexton poets, this tall, lethal, delicate enchantment: while chained through biblical(s), or dying for freedom, to happen upon dregs: this inner civilian, those rubric calendars, or those agora enterprises: at Sanhedrin courts, a bit petrified, a tad bit enlove with wombs: this deadly woman, her sword drown, our souls to winds…. 

Purple Gravel

It mustn’t be bad, for life streams, and I saw a smile: this feudal perspective, those rose beads, or apricots in bloom: while kneading existence, to persist as aliens, in so much, a scar: this death infestation, this walking miracle, while accustomed to gold plated bars: those lenient eyes, as abused by rulers, a woman three children and thirty men: to live by curse, to extract by wisdom, at grounds pillaging tombs: that star grieving, this screamer dying, where times are harder to satiate.     I panic ice, at love with steal, reciting our twenty third Psalms: this fire engine, at radical conclusions, to sense as something damaged: those dreams, this curious creature, this world of uneasiness: our portraits distorted, our images forged, our exospheres so far: to tiptoe clouds, searching for our rockets, at torque digesting helium: this floating car, this cheetah in vain, or animosity those eighth tiers: this kamikaze jet, those kamikaze ear-posts, to retreat headed into foreign territory: this infant reading, this kitten laughing, those hyenas watching: as innocence is cultivated, while needing tiger instincts, where reality has a common thread: this feud in souls, our parents debating over literature, in much distress.     It seemed peaceful, broken in parts, and needing a savior: this feral incline, this dungeon in men, while needing this typical appeal: to save like thunder, to reap benefits, where strength begets voyages: enough with that, and more with life, while searching into dark nights: to swoon so gently, those sweet guitars, or that sweet essence: in so far, a mirage, those captions in print, or days beyond retreat: those realized thoughts, this tragic bastard, those whiffs by candles: our shattered lives, our tragic bill, where it felt good to hurt innocence.    

I regurgitate life, a noetic intuition, a rapid impulse: our shrubberies, our city highways, our court rooms: this crazed activity, in Downtown Los Angeles, and those crazed eyes: that old territory, this terrestrial trial, those Divine properties: to turn this way, as she churns that way, where a child stands in stillness: those fake apologies, as assuming courses, while evermore pointing at damages: therewith, this want for goodness, while pleading spirits, to realize that no one is listening: this tall building, that fatal clash, where one says something insensitive: that Stewie Empire, those long miles, that filthy, convoluted road: this map region, those trenchant vanguards, while threshed and feeling unholy: while it meant little, sipping fig juice, and lunging into traffic: as jutting violence, or juggling silence, while jousting with ghosts: herewith, those gray thoughts, our stinky thoughts, if but one last tryst: to ask for belief, to retrieve belief, to feel terribly indebted.     We pinpoint faults, We ignore reflections, or We pause feeling discomfort: at ends unraveled, our leaves shedding, our loosened souls feeling suffocated: at terrible highs, or attractive lows, shifting through deceptive matter: such pseudo-science, or pseudo-metaphysics, at pseudo-poetry—this mental galaxy, this craved license, those crazy ass demons—if but to fly, negotiating contracts, to lose while winning: this great force, those tepid eyes, to wish his ultimate abeyance: indeed, to grin, thrashing into tornadoes, and greeting something un-treated. 

Working in Halves: Something Mocks Internally

…to perceive fog, we dwell interior fog, while dying to escape: this light raving, this heathen pleading, to flit as swarmed by bees: this camel, that eye, as crawling through: our bowels, Love, our ethnicities, Love, while hybrid children are ignored: or death to Santa, and death to Phantoms, while infused by ghosts: this morbid seed, your morbid smiles, while consumed by right vs. wrong: but hell to reason, and hell emotional blackmail, while siding with logic: this informed damsel, this unstoppable anger, while fakers beg for insistence: this sidewalk stalking, those years in college, while old knowledge is instructed by new knowledge: such wild skies, such catering glory, or repentance at ten years to age: our dying hearts, our pleads for invisibility, while hampered by hatred: this stranger at needs, this daughter at loyalties, where something feels un-ordinary: those small fevers, those fevered horizons, this inner chapel: to hiss with silence, to pet a petit monster, while others seem content: those legal escapes, this pampering from family, while old behaviors have become our new millennia: to shock existence, to hear those dreams, to rebuke those behaviors: this perfect remorse, this perfect curse, or that perfect classism: indeed, this perfect lemon, those perfect screams, as detached that old life and feeling good: to hate memories, to loathe a friend, to link in total embarrassment: to own a new life, running from inner techniques, while failing this new enterprise: where men whistle, and men walk, and men carry this perfected image: to lie with grace, to fall to floors, where it must be true: that tiny laughter, that mental railway, those incessant behaviors….     I speak at rivets, I hear as sensing, or something has palm-prints: our battles with sons, our sons dying, while, nevertheless, we feel good: in a subtle sense, in a permanent denial, while Love is acting grayly: our intuition, our kaleidoscopes, our lying wisdom: for it shouldn’t be true, this wonderful angel, this sinister angel, this proud and civilized angel: something polychromatic, this wealth of colors, this present heat: our scratchy necks, our itchy flesh, where it felt like heaven: so spicy and deadly, to become defensive, where punishment is alienation: those graves, as feeling intense, where one would acquiesce: (but yours is understanding, if be it an offense, to close shop and look forward: this strange language, these strange poems, this strange man): where opaline essence dwells, and opalescent dreams linger, at iridescent charms: our arms so short, our prints as deadly, where a gesture uproots portions of sorrow.     …it was light to sense us, those lucent seconds, where families are unaware of thoughts: this catered flower, this reticent sky, or this talkative art: at refulgent beliefs, while held captive, as announced to a chosen few: our blue-blood, our resplendent dynasties, at trenchant disgusts: but life is normal, as normal would attest, while abnormal creatures should be destroyed: our passionate, perfect castles, those others to dregs, while volunteer work is for those searching: as found as perfect, as born as perfect, where God is repenting: at waves stressed, at tiers leaping, while hung in spirit: this favorite fool, this frantic fleeing, as failing forced to suffer….     I met Ingrid, I died mysticism, I disappeared and returned: I met a heathen, I felt at home,  I died a heathen’s allotment: this confusing drama, as one for the other, where respect seems unimportant: this motley of madness, this varicolored nightmare, or this number three trophy: where men perish, as women die, prepared for that final interview: our lies trump-tight, our language petrified, where reality is unexpected: those years to purgatory, this intense death, while never-again to remember: our conscious souls, as ever at life, but unaware of pass consciousness: those birds mocking, this soul swarming, to break into particles: (as those eyes reach, deep into concentration, to remove self from idiotic(s): this mild man, this wild man, this dinosaur man): while life is hectic, I need to participate, despite those deadly secrets.

Love & Logic

…we taxi brains, a bit livid with dynasties, a tear concerned with mother: her treasured soul, those verbose intelligence, or those sharp, stingy insults: as men flying, and looking morbid, in dire need of Neutrogena: as little pups, laughing at profanity, too close to mother to call it normal: those young figures, blatant with cries, and repressed deeply: to know for love, this abnormal creativity, or leather belts to bottoms: our dens aching, our lions with mercy, our Daniel’s fleeing into grandiosity: those fervent dreams, those torrid allegories, our literal interpretations: to float a star, to grip a moon, to engulf our Son: such heavy obedience, such steep resentments, while mother was oblivious: our harsh dynamic, our harsh words, those introjects unto ruins: to meet mother, alive a lecture, those golden god-eyes: this bad liturgy, this Apostolic, tongue weeping, maniacal monster: with pure compassion, or a pint of something, or a gram of literature: while minds run, while hearts gather closer, to feel reluctant while drawn to such caprice: those rabid sayings, our children laughing, as daughters mourn loses: this insanity at fountains, this cursing sailor, those times doing ninety down freeways: our father’s joy, our neighbor’s irritation, to sense something open and naïve: that green, knowledgeable instinct, that deep fawning for chaos, or this option to retreat: those dangerous souls, our skies saluting, our Lord a bit challenged: as days would shift, those three a.m. arguments, or this abandoned wit: to yell at traffic, to reminisce upon walls, or to glide as partly apathetic: our cut ribs, our nightly woes, while rooms were quit intimate: if but to surrender, while one seeks God, to adore this mystical element: our yogic hearts, that swoosh come ten p.m., or travesties morphing into pure energies: this young smile, or that old soul, at an origin centuries into our awakening….

…we adore mother, we loathe mother, we demand fathers to subdue mother: this maniac contestant, this freebase armor, or that puffy, sweaty face: to garden something dysfunctional, or traipse desert islands, where something could erupt at a given second: that reading woman, those deep glances, that all night, weekend catastrophe: at pure liquor, and talking raunchy, a bit intimidated by whites: to know this history, our cherished background, or those wilderness thoughts: where office was misery, and chancellor was sorrow, and ambassador was Faith: this day to glory, this marvelous mother, this misguided, dead to us, remarkable woman: those sunbeams, those open doors, to invite a son to meet our Holy Ghost: as ghetto is, as ghetto was, this place for deep worship: our aunties crying, our cousins feeling good, our extended family at prayer: this light abused, this treasure abused, this step-father feeling a bit towards repentance: those forgiving tendencies, this monster poet, his fair mind: at lab-work yearly, at disease daily, while exercising something told to psychs: as a nomad, condemned to passion, or a tiny patch of eczema: that teenage lunatic, that teenage queen, our teenage profanity: to gaze at sophistication, mindful of portions, where stories are partly told: this owner of sections, this self as debated, while a number of hypotheses circle our cores: at mother with love, at mother with anger, at mother with tiles: this mathematical flooring, this reformed son, or that recovering mother….

…such social location, or theoretics, or plain misfortune: to sense a paradox, our steepest hostilities, where musicians, poets, and artists erupt: this pianist, this violinist, or this drum kicking psychopath: our torrid relations, our harbinger cries, our determined mothers: to apply pressure, while dying softly, afforded one last chance to victory: those tarnished wires, those discolored fences, or those experiential libraries: while daughters mingle emotion, and professors write essays, and scholars tend to our universe—this fire in dysfunction…!

Sunday Hydrant

…it’s a bit chilly, reminiscent of adolescence, snug tightly in a smelly quilt: watching animosities, re-threading kilns, with purpose ignoring certain feelings: that fair horizon, blue, red, and burgundy, upon a hurricane: such darkened glimmers, such radiant darkness, our murky emotions: those years floating, those days by new motion, our dreams further in hind-view: as men pedaling, or women jogging, we see this testy resilience: to anger by countenance, or to become chameleons, while distant enough to remain objective…such intimate thoughts, while searching for something obvious, where abstracts serve with syrup: our casual greetings, those steps towards freedom, or this poet missing pinpoints…if but that feeling, if but enough to fly, or to maintain an ironclad link: to keep us hostage, as loving our captors, while interchanging our pistols…that rare scent, that rare beauty, those life-held greetings: moreover, a feeling, moreover, a scream, while most are carrying something we must tolerate: where resistance is brutal, while insistence torments, whereas, acceptance becomes sullen awareness: that pensive nature, that solemn countenance, where people discount sub-surface chaos: our fluting agendas, our inner jurisdiction, or to lavish one with adoration: such soft music, such beads of integrity, at orchestra a silent contention….     …we see our world, through pure experience, and our reach is only as rich as those interpretations: that is, our experience becomes wisdom, our wisdom becomes filters, if but our clarity in alignment with reality: such dependency, such cadent resonance, such inter and intra activity: those stare-good flowers, those root-joy replies, as accruing subtleties: at clever eyes, or primitive instincts, looking at something magnetized: our curious loins, our Inspector Gadget souls, pleading for something born to several facts: our kleptic hearts, our thrusts through life, or pure fantasy proving its limits: to exhaust and move, to move and exhaust, where reality seems to exist through perceptions predicated upon experience: that nail through coffins, those rubescent appetites, or years to sorting through adolescent minutia….     I smoked a clove, given to unfairness, feeling a bit indignant: that righteous anger, through an unrighteous person, at thoughts, those days, where reason gave up its ghost: that complicated language, this bout with creativity, those eyes reaching into turmoil: this sad person, this need to exist, those playful puppies: our similar experience, if not too harsh, while wrestling with parents: our compounded confusion, our clear sights, while tussling with logic: that fair creature, dependent upon distance, as ever to instruct our intuition: as removed from self, in order to locate self, becomes ironic: but days are leaping, time is crucial, where reason must resurrect: to have such faith, those years at battle, while culprits tend to disdain inclusivity: wherewith, this subtle truth, to need a certain reception, where lack, thereof, proves an inconsistency: that selfish position, our selfish hearts, where many are mutual receivers.

…something screams inside, while standing in calmness, a bit alert to this truth: our daily funerals, our catacombs, and our tombs misrepresented: as men running for glory, or women running for power, where both are interchangeable: such wretched design, or wretched feelings, while wretched enough to forfeit liquor: this tale for today, those bars for tomorrow, while rockets strike tugging lamps: that torn earthquake, to stand in stillness, while something interior is reverberating off of several people: this thunder through souls, or that shunned darkness, to realize its participation: as summer grins, or summer travesty, where existence seems to surf on by: this man in dreams, this quilt getting warm, this night-come reflection: while daughters rest, and old feelings simmer, where one never wishes to meet eyes with one that knows: such to giggles, such to rain, while feeling a particular universe….

Uneasy Atmosphere

…too subtle to chance, too liquidated to dance, and God knows!—at loosened tendencies, at bricks mourning, at mother a bit dry: our gray horizon, seated and thinking, where goblins appear as shadows: those blue-hazels, those green-limes, while pacing uncontrollably: this last glass, as knowing aforetime, while spent for glory: our natural froes, our forks for combing, our fists to skies: those political vines, those political times, plus, that political mercy: to see an epithet, and die that language, while so forgiving cooking royal nightmares: this losing frenzy, this coming back, while worshiped by uneasiness: that inner drilling, this thrust through life, to plead that palm for assistance: as noticed a scent, this palatial atmosphere, while cornered by proprieties: as souls unravel, to ski skies, or found tripping into mud slides: our square mountains, our square atmosphere, our clouds as plaintiffs: to giggle a bit, to languid our roles, where one day freaks a whole nation….     …too much of us, too much of them, as plain just too much!—our trenchant deep darkness, as opposed to good waves, while daily we wrestle this floating gavel: those treacherous years, to envelope such treachery, while redeemed from seconds to minutes—as changing zeroes, and plighted with woes, at similar behaviors searching for different outcomes: our shoulders roughly, our brains maneuvering, at team-shares cursing: our bunnies looking morbid, our chocolate stars crying, while life has erased ambitions: to fiddle a box, this metaphorical night-gaze, where arts sing about travesties: this uneasy existence, this deep anxiety, this unconformable converse: this paradise, alas, a bit sarcastic, and those crosses tattooed: our blank music, while others are dancing, and seeking access: our death-diamonds, those indestructible prayers, while reaching numen ears: indeed, fully at faith, clumping bluegrass, and running through interior forests: this uneasy easiness, this casual difficulty, this common sophistication: as more to life, this tread of penchants, those wistful galaxies: as pensive monsters, and churning in circles, to associate thoughts with reality: such cursed rewards, while petting our demons, to evaluate this existence—where life is home-base, and reality but an extension, while filters are looking at parents: this distorted image, this textured process, or those elated exercises: our minds as flawless, but interrogation is faulty, and compasses are missing essentials: our dreams as sightless, to engulf darkness, to feel light: this trickling lake, those dried lagoons, or those frogs leaping and translucent….     …we chance relaxation, or forge our castles, standing aside seashores: that large white bird, this rich intensity, those calm waves: as soothing with lights, at turquoise overtures, while stippling our symphony: our deficits languish, our hours dance, where souls are shifting, easiness is spotted, and life feels indifferent….

…kindness is uneasy, harshness is uneasy, and love is heavy: a few claims for existence, our premises are experience: this indebted anvil, this want for intimacy, while requiring a taste of freedom: or something unusual, this deep comfort, while needing this existence: our California waves, our Down South courtesies, and our Northern competitiveness: those frozen feelings, as eating their interiors, where one seems angry: those truths unto tears, those tears as rinsing hurt, while angry that such matters still persist: our needs outwitting our morals, our souls outweighing diplomacies, while our airs deceive our masses: this touch of humanness, those inner notebooks, or that ornament of sorrow: to reach through mire, to dance with terrors, while forced to rekindle daily: such ember flickering, such horror insistent, while chancing freedom…. 

Mastery has Its Graves

…we need that aura, we plummet in chase, to arrive realizing loses: intuition stronger, analysis richer, where romance is intelligence: our wells dancing, our hearts in approval, our minds missing naivety: to run through deserts, filled with emotion, becomes too spontaneous: at souls unraveling, at tears tasting sodium, at pet-shops musing upon bluebirds: this subtle essence, this link through antiquity, plus, an omic truth: our minds filtering input, our hearts chancing radiance, while love is so orderly this way: to dismiss something mawkish, in exchange for something serious, while men need this reality: such cold lovemaking, while our bodies are satiated, our souls are raging for that phone call: as entrapped, enwrapped, as people too disgusted with anything else: or that kind respect, that furious intensity, tugging, nay, devouring heaven: such womanly amore, our hearts shooting through traffic, our minds an holy discipline: those songbirds, while laughing at Jell-O, attempting to plant asters in our freezers: this ransom for pain, this totem for love, our fiber appealing to our senses….

…mayflies as short examples, our lives painted in delicacies, while reading Thich Nat Hanh—this variable seeping, as living its course, our exchange for mastery: to peer at youngsters, such animal kindness, such animal luxuries: our aches traveling, our disasters a bit radiant, where one sees this internal war-screen: that mental pirate, or pirates repenting, to witness as life evolves our behaviors become civilized: as mere a gesture, speaking to certain social groups, where arts become individual expression: that torn abandonment, those hijacked emotions, where most analyze grasshoppers: that clump of grass, that red ant, those squirrelly squirrels….

…snap a wishbone, as illuminated by hearts, to fancy a piece of self: that marvelous intellect, this reason for admiration, or tears dripping with hostility: our jealous tendencies, to need that aura, to chase that aura: our impulses chasing, to glance over yonder, to witness love manifesting: that other chase, those immortal musicians, indeed, those cello examiners: where resentments come, our father’s pushiness, our mother’s docility (or vice-versa): our charms by exospheres, our dreams as captured, where our hearts have analyzed Faith: at joys with reason, at terrible isolation, while our quarters are fraught by fabulous things: to arrive at passion, despite our intellects, where something shelters our uneasiness: those hard won legacies, those violins silenced, but trumpets are blaring: those rabid feelings, that rabid curse, while nothing is complete: wherewith, are frustrations, to fly so richly, while needing something simplicity offers: those sophic ladybugs, while apt for love, and so astute and perceptive….

…awareness breeds solutions; where intuition guides talent; while we drift admiring animals: our primates as civilized, but ever to alertness, for something wild lives, therein: our glow as demanding, our hearts thumping baseballs, our glasses rattling: our parrots whistling, our mothers apologizing, our souls adrift feeling sun-rain: our midwinter heat-storm, our pure denial, or those missing links while standing firmly: this principle in souls, to reap from harvest, to plant our dynasties: this life for riches, our souls for love, our minds for knowledge: this triad influence, to sift our jewels, while racing through our deliveries: our pelted survival, our glorious networks, our glorious subtleties: where life is eyewear, and thoughts are numerological, our brains carrying scythes: to glance left-wise, to see rapture, to believe in more…!   

Entrance: (Hard Won)

It becomes difficult, those winter wishes, those mental camping trips: to awaken in memories, or addressing mirrors, while realizing agendas: that steady pace, those ingested foibles, at something believed upon as a miracle.     I fiddle a dream; that loud music; walking into carnivals: to witness damage, or fevered makeup, at terrible feelings: our vinegar candy, our inner electricity, while chasing fame, while grieving fortune: armoires have changed, feelings have deepened, while walls have heightened: our category behaviors, while partial to some, where others come through performance: this world by rules, by social classification, where ostracism is looming boldly: those cages by reason, those adjusted quirks, while something is rising: our pitted bellies, our picturing eyes, our days with too many images: or lost to good moments, such fair converse, where self-consciousness abated.    

…carrots are dangling; souls are reaching; where few are capturing: this long road, that sudden passion, at life by a second glance: those fulfilling crevices, this inner understanding, to realize a good life doesn’t exclude us from thoughts: those vestibules or that maze of doorways, with something nailed shut: at serious thoughts, peering into habits, while feeling mirror-pressures: this vast galaxy, those rapid responses, while growing into a person: our glowing souls, our rippled souls, or that sudden rivet: to watch water speak, to have a revelation, where reality aligns for a moment: our intuition, screaming through our brains, to alight sorrow: to gallop wildly, to return to stillness, to return to something unfamiliar: at candent paradoxes, our memories carrying this life, where something latent revives our hearts: a tear for a friend, despite, this haunted house, notwithstanding, our self-absorbed fears….                                          

...moments pass afar, as our toughest critics, those critical junctures: this ‘thing’ as habit, this habit as confrontational, our screams as muffled: those years passing, our breaths slighted, this chase for something in there: at seconds with comfort, at scars with insight, while wrestling to maintain focus: our swaying minds, those portrait impressions, our scattered imageries: our chairwomen, dating chairmen, or that medley of romances: this touching person, our mirrors afire, those realizations: but life is voyage, this sprint through existence, with much ado about experience: our motivation- factor, our caught eyes, where alertness comes through clearly….

…a career of criticisms, inching closer to our critics, if but sheer acceptance: this space in hearts, this inn deep our souls, at casual glances: or threshed at recognition, a bit moody, or agitated quickly: a bit vocal, a tear demanding, with life winning castles: such pressure, “To be”, this sky-crafted museum, our leagues clashing in battles: those miracle miles, our miracle huts, while surfing deep into our craniums: that inner critic, those inner critiques, while demanding a criterion for assessments: those singing realities, our treacherous inventory, or those suggestions concerning our freedoms: as men chasing, as women creating, where life is captured….

I long for something, a particular utopia, where interaction becomes a bit more fulfilling: but many have those friends, where love is conversation, or love in deep intimacy: those few with charms, that dance with lights, our footprints upon synaptic gaps: that song with icing, those dreams with support, plus, a few insecurities: by mere design, this rubric mirror, by a friend’s empathy: to fly with art, to chance with prose, to adore as inflated: those creative worlds, those diamond memoirs, while living a social novella.

Our Capture/Our Grin

I’m at life, this blatant fib, while reserved in something good: this thinking vehicle, this sly ability, if but to absorb esoteria: at bowels watching, at money relentless, at psychs paying attention: this field scholar, those pedals thrashing, this zip through traffic: to feel substance, as living this life, or accursed for helping: to reach out, as one aware, to know he’s indebted: those flavors, those inner actresses, or this mental cable: as so alive, to feel something celestial, where sadness sudden his brains: those spirit habits, this call-off, if but this war call: at feelings can’t explain, at emotion too over-outstanding, or guts too insync to describe: at call-downs, at glorious passion, to feel where death has called: our blatant disenchants, our liquid economy, where it felt pain to erase you: this close friend, this dying legacy, while reality showed a false foundation: if but to die, as aloof to life, while cornered by said life: or ensure to me, this luxury come death, where Love would adore a singing spirit: to educate, to grin softly, while professors stood shaking their brains: this hung blemish, this killer surprise, at mirrors debating weirdoism: this sullen water, as nothing prior, to imagine Love lodged in his eyes: as needing charity, if but too harmless, while dead for alive peering into sky-beams: this man running, this gage churning, this plow to senses: that coming dream, those gunning visions, a man running from his mind: at tore reflections, battling something reflexive, to admit that every deed comes back to haunt you: our hearts, Love; this mission, Love; as mother keeps a particular balance: that man killing, those waves churning, while seated at earphones: this milky telegraph, those channeled demons, or a woman so provocative we must lock with key.     I’m at life, Love—this lab-work hillside, where every moment becomes a quest: those green blades, this foliage empire, those American Gangsters: as something disenchanting, where goodness has to do with love, as respect comes from normalities: this pregnant soul, as swollen with pride, to feel deeply ashamed: those split dangers, this failed reality, those academic on-seers: our laundry to friends, those questions as difficult, while hesitance would have destroyed us: (I’m scarred—attempting a miracle, to ensure that Love isn’t scarred): those blank dreams, as stippled by imagination, while reaching angers our souls: for father was lost, while mother was suffering, and only if father was here: to acquire solutions, to adjust our thermometer, if but to add film to our camera: that lovely woman, as so tender but so kind, to set pace as realized, This is life: but humans switch, where death becomes passion, while a single drop becomes something to hate: those eyes, Passion, those cringes, Passion, to imagine this language, Passion.     …we dream about outcomes, while reading Lancôm, at mental campaigns: our elbow grease, our enabled programs, while embedded in incorrigible habits: our mother’s enemies, as my enemies, while at deep islands: but it means so little, if swans are crying, for we require obedience: this family of owners, these few assistants, as daring to call us something epithetical: this edifice in skies, these remarkable problems, those aged re-apathetical(s): this hit or miss, this life or death, while serious concerning my seed: if this is magic, or release this fool, for mother was active: indeed, that mean theologian, this capital missing, for time has removed this ideal: those bottles for fame, this daughter as drifting, while words have become something important: that wife watching, this brook shaken, or mother flippant with pure indignation: to write lately, while ruined lately, to adopt to something uncertain: this planet of noises, this white-noise castle, while a few disagree with this course of action: those airport feelings, those camping emotions, or candy so sweet it becomes sour: this twist by casts, to feel perfect, where valleys must repent for analogies….                                    

Armani Quarters

I grabbed a magazine, I thought about seconds, I chunked it to trash: this remote feeling, those incessant particles, this horrid reality: as beautiful compliance, our Virgin Mary, this boot made by Depression: such Silly String, or Versace nickels, or pennies in every transaction: our graves awaiting bodies, our colors parachuting, our simplicities rising to each occasion: this Doctorate’s Vocation, this easy going classroom, or sick with roses: those frozen petals, those air-tight zips, those chains and cuffs: to pant gently, to misspell Adoration, or to confuse intensity for passion: those rabid concerns, as living this life, while burdened by un-barren soil: this sickle for anthem pain, this threshing for reality, as opposed to unwavering insanity: our children with eyes, those balloon investigators, to ask simple questions: our whereabouts, our states by minds, while peering into our countenances: our mother that glass, our father that nose, while stealing little Penny’s lips: to sense wildness, in turn, to give them back, while so entrenched in silence: moreover, a dream, to want it badly, to resist science: our psychic physics, our mystic maniacal(s), therewith, those vines reaching for pedals are thrashed: that revving machete, stored behind brains, as mother chases his synaptic center: this feeling in souls, those cold replies, or this dungeon fretted but intimate.     I’m not an angel, but gifted for sins, repenting for Love: to remember Job, repenting daily, for sins that might occur: but a second, to gain or lose, where real rapture is forgiveness: if one should trespass, you would see self, maybe, doing what you couldn’t tolerate: this shifting locality, to need utter loyalty, while disloyal to self: this casual illness, while another pops pills, where it gets hard to realize our mirrors: that quick glance, those zippy rooms, or forged enthusiasm: for Penny is growing, and Roger is grown, and Roger is indifferent: as rarely about converse, and more about solitary, plus, that one girlfriend: to open his door, to purchase his condoms, to argue with neighbors: something trivial, this thing with parenting, this chase while last night things were heated: our radiant nostrils, our lazy bodies, or self, a bottle, a pen, a computer: as Love points out something obvious, or said author chuckles, while Love opens into character: those remarkable traits, as minds drift, to realize Love is human: this feeling-fighting, those tales said to self, while behind curtains something is shoving: that small frame, for one must wrestle, at winter a bit more solid: our giggles, our love, while debating this thing called, Love: our pedantic castles, our whiplashed intellects, or reasoning done with diligence.     Imagine our faces, upon something accidental, while roaming this light: that small smile, those small toes, those half full lips: indeed, a giggle, indeed, a slight, indeed, something meaningless: this sail through valleys, those valleys in cages, those cages in brains: this pushy location, this irrational harmonizer, where thoughts are intentional: while speaking about logic, this internal overseer, where each line is written softly: our needs as monumental, our souls as gravitators, in truth, we create such reality with boundaries: that Golden Calve, that frozen cactus, or those warm, impassionate eyes: as sensing attitude, those deep charlatans, or one arriving prior to complete training: as vajrayana centipedes, or precocious adolescents, where a little became too much: to sing with passion, our daughters as Wiccans, our mothers nodding to and fro: thereto, this sighted feeling, to sense its arrival, while seriously unprepared: this cadence in souls, those rosaries at computers, where something holy becomes compelling: this slight error, where allure becomes station, while we sully good intentions: that slipping resistance, this thing for confession, or this Light peeking for entrance: our angels watching, as Love feels pressure, to invade an island of virgins: furthermore, this core reasoning, this public mirror, those public shadows: our Square Biz, our wrecked souls, our punctured faiths!                            

But a Second

…“you must be good,” this prayer to self, this kef with embarrassments: our charms harming us, our charisma spackling us, our deeds so sweet: to envelope minds, to open facets, to cleanse tiny holes: this branch in women, this torch in men, as belittled for compassion: that trickling tear, this wild island, our guts infused: at blue ivory, at red ivy, while intending one last embarrassment: those terrific lies, this lawyer with child, or deep for dead attempting to breathe: our facial makeup, our intricate blueprints, or at thoughts those abstract feelings: sudden to water, as non-provoked, to realize someone is reaching: our portrait skies, our ambrosia wombs, while many are waning: such deep insecurity, such feeble cries, to invest as lost while Love adores your guts: those salient ribbons, this trenchant anxiety, to stipple pictures (our daughter’s laughs, our mother’s potentiality): those serene addicts, those serene moments, to find self acting so long it became principle: our chateau minds, our chateau souls, while it felt like heaven to dream: at savior enchantment, to savor emotion, while grandiose enough to reach forward….            

I didn’t love you, this thought with remorse, as coursing through time: that intimate letter, that distant response, this seeming into acted behavior: at grotto liquor, or matinee laughter, feeling but good: this get-high woman, those get-high eyes, as wine has become integral in our lives: as but for him, this tale in dreams, as confused as Houdini: those gloomy moments, those sullen heart-screeches, this hesitant, I love you: to resent what we adore, to adore what we resent, while wishing for ligaments: at prophetic love, at prophetic guts, or prophetic whispers: listening to Al Green, streaming through heart-thumps, but realizing it meant nothing without Love: out thoughts to Moses, those wires through lights, to feel sprinkles and denote a particular source: as tales are told, this truth to brains, our ‘transmitters may deceive us!: as men chasing, as women feeling, our mosaic sacrifices: this ephod bleeding, or this person’s grimace, while another augmented this journey: our serious mind-caves, our intimate chaos, at treasures attempt to evince something esoteric: to dance afore you, too faint immortality, while gutted for sentiments.  

Psychic Anchors

…we exhaust something, we flutter in experience, and we wrestle conundrums: something empyreal mocks, while something human doubts, where reality clashes with experience: that facial entity, these nudges in arts, or seated kissed in spirit: our bipolar minds, our manic reasoning(s), and our blurry reception: (at islands your face, at memories our jurisdiction, while wandering great lakes: to sense disjunction, our minds meeting, our bodies running: at sunshine laughing, to sudden upon mood-swings, where something inferno lingers: this deep hurt, this miracle in shades, while too engrossed to unthread psychic-fences: our works towards nonchalance, or tender our concerns, thither, this deep puncture: our ghosts at whispers, or death as inverted, while wrestling particles of emotion: those esoteria, those mental bowers, at trenches palming earth: thereto, that countenance, as screaming for distance, where one is apt to listen): or such charm, to hear something unsaid, or grip for dying to enter softly: this incredible music, this mazelike horizon, while running so close moving apart: this seal cut, this leaking wound, at one too passionate for fainted souls: (we never won, we never lived, we merely died): this crucial picture, those hanging intensions, those protective devices: at deep incisions, clamped by reasoning, and abused by morality: this chasing cheetah, our inner phone, to answer with sheer abandonment….

…years harass something unfit, but days are gentle with pain, and months drift into focus: particular hunches, or shipwrecked imagery, or this exhibition through Perdition: those fiery pigeons, those intimate dancers, this stage of un-attentive actors: for life is distracting, this otherwise glory, where most are daydreaming: as this for that, or life some other person, instead of mastering our allotment: (it was good to feel you, but wonder struck a nerve, to interrogate manic memories: this life of shames, or persistent disregard, to wonder about psychic cadence: this bounce through lights, or names trickling asphalts, where hemispheres tug in certain directions: indeed, a dreamer, to reread his works, while actively dislodging emotions: at flowers mandated, at rivers carrying nuns, or lost in wilderness asking questions: at few with facts, as, nevertheless, with facts, where one trespasses something difficult: those lost cars, those lost women, our motion daughter: to happen upon a sight, this miracle struggling, this miracle as a master by design): our soft cadence, this person at wonders, where I’ve met so many: at seduction his mind, at chorus her intellect, while pulling where strength has given life….         

…they say, Transgression, this elusive sphere, while writers need a taste of dying: those manuscripts, our delicate trespass, and our internal worlds: this fevered minx, this casual sylph, where it never mattered much: (all those nights, all those mornings, and Love carries on: as never a heartbeat, and never a drum-kick, but more, this abyss of skeletons): our deep remarks, as needing Eternity, if but that naïve, delicate, insatiable attraction: our souls shivering, to ask if we could, indeed, such furious maturity: at fire dispensing, at pharmacies receiving, or this exchange that sits in us: such mythical creatures, such powerful brains, to invoke a particular appeal: those windows rattling, those grasshoppers talkative, or this clump of yellow grass: to hear a silent disdain, to feel so foolish, for Why do we adore pain?: this tale in Shakespeare, those tragic traumas, and our years chasing similar experiences: to remember you, seated in eyes, while so disenchanted: to happen upon memories, to sing to deaths, while encouraged to let freedom—this dance in relics, this anticipation to breathe, or days seated afore his audience….            

Brain Matter

…it has become me, such intimate dialogue, such hostile whiplash: at brave junctures, debating his mirror, to oops upon silence: this typical menu, those atypical cliffs, at turns too much riddle: to hear pins drop, to shiver in stillness, at memories those formative months: our broken paddles, our leaky rafts, whereby, it felt life to experience: those talkative moments, those eerie breezes, while passion becomes this tournament….     I peek at silence, I believe something lives, and ache those churn-like examples: at core values, made privy to existence, where agonies anticipate ruins: those peaceful cats, while looking around, to sprint at once: those nosy canines, sniffing carpet, and barking wildly: as souls outreached, this need to ingest life, where reality contradicts our teachings: those tales about goblins, to happen upon something facial, while persistent those mystery chants: our tides ebbing, to wander something psychosomatic, while too churned to believe otherwise.     I haven’t a clue, to pair experience with fact, but, in belief, something antagonizes our souls: those flying particles, this neat behavior, where something has tugged our attention: to examine self, to art for goodness, and to repent for misdeeds: those small things, our larger sensories, or this confusion concerning universal control: our meddling minds, our sounds through motion, to happen upon a heartbeat: at yoga sensing our bodies, at passion running our course, or such music in something experiential: those esoteric cries, this neat notebook, while kneading over subjective truths: those valley thoughts, that farm of puppies, our clocks ticking to something that races: at casual spins, too real to ignore, and too foreign to scream out loudly.     I glance at time, a bit hostile towards time, and a bit thankful for time: our churns through existence, those entities smiling, and those few in touch with extra-energies: to peer at skies, but symbols and crosses, while wrestling something prophetic: our visionary hearts, our awestruck brains, or this radicalized dream: while insides are watching, negotiating correlations, while guiding behaviors: (What is there to us, How do we evolve, lastly, Does it require resistance?): thereto, this intimate scar, those deep meditations, or something extra: indeed, with tyranny, something seeming otherworldly, even something with sheer attitude: at thoughts flinching, as I watched closely, to shiver at a thought: our pushiness—at wee hours, nudging an occurrence: or this need to disappear, as never another experience, while healing diminishes such realities: this semi-proof, interrogating its subject, where passion is determined by inner mechanisms.     …we singe erasers, looking into motives, while abandoned to escaping our brains: or masters by arts, or angry monks, seeping deeper into madness: as minutes evaporate, as seconds speed by, where energy appears: by subtle measures, to conjure a miracle, while something inward desires certain thoughts: those long races, while encouraged to race, where our finish-line races into dark tunnels: those gates insistent, those cliffs gawking, while something exotic is mocking life: as never a scent, and never a whiff, while racing backwards: our mental movement, our torn elation, about something fleeting….     …we fail to discuss it, it becomes elusive, plus, some things are better to experience: this inner lighthouse, those broken wires, this gaudy gnarm: our fangs dripping realities, our souls sneaking through terrains, to notice our dreams seeping into our daylight hours: this sheer feeling, those shorn thoughts, at seconds, to notice a stammer: at multiple emotions, majestic about life, and wrestling an oracle: but life is mystery, while we doubt experience, to avoid disorder….        

Prime Integrity

You appear so simply, those extra initiatives, that silent gait: as aloud a miracle, so in-tuned with feelings, and so aware of behaviors: that psychic mind, those psychic instincts, but so sentient life is hurting: our gallant sparks, those trenchant tsunamis, or this envy for our eyes: where others are penchant, even delicate, while discernment flushes our converses: you spin with glee, such a cheerful example, while burgundy souls admire kleptic emotion: those short legs, those rubescent thighs, at radiance where breasts are a second impute: those remarkable insights, too gifted for Divinity, while threshed and boiled by Divinity: our throbbing mind-tiers, this trenchant in Sarah, at vaults unpinned like dynamite: at terrible concerns, to see souls perish, to teach a three year old: this isle of passion, those gritty palm prints, where favor seems to ingest you: (I die in feelings, to admire those feelings, while swarming swamps: that sure fever, those fiery amplifiers, or that spirit of turpentine: you’ve become memories, as one destined to fly, while remorse tugs upon hearings: that mazelike personality, that quick temper, while softened by something inconsequential: that shocking brain, those shocking wits, while inching towards sacrifice): that life of phantoms, this bent where I’m concerned, or sheer jealousy disguised by academics: that sly question, our sly responses, as to imagine Love has seen something intricate.

…at life in you, to carry confusion, and warped where decency is observed: that bottle of wine, those teary eyes, where one falls abandoned to resurrection: those gritty ear-prints, our fabulous nightmare, or this something haunting our progeny: at laughs and features, a bit indebted to passion, where Love aches for survival: that ramming instinct, those pushy staircases, or that deep ingredient: to flip with violence, to remodel our bookcases, where we pause to picture underlined sentences: that atypical fruit, those atypical replies, this newness in newness forced to evolve: as casual fools, on occasion cringing, while onlookers are seasoned with hostility: that classroom of students, those debonair suitors, where Love aches to return to fire: our fingers to chests, our reversed circulation, where emphatic electricity strikes a response: our agonies, Love, this fool so lost, My Love, at tyrannies laughing at insanity, My Love: if but a daisy, or congenial artwork, where one must admire your character: this flight into madness, this genetic misfit, at treasures adoring your brows: that voyage to us, as best of friends, to rebuke for damaged and pardoned for sin: at casual moons, or beach-house pains, where length of days promises a few infractions…our reflexive symbols, or years at poetics, to redeem but justice…!

…you struck a chord, those violin nights, those sable-fused eyes: this squall and koan, this mystic in beats, or this talisman our purple tides: those redeemed intestines, this figure belonging to beauty, those tender imprints: at troves with splendor, this Ghost his Bowels, to event in nightfall such glory: those relics spinning, those eyes reflecting, as time stood in abeyance: that graveled passion, those abstract attractions, to scent a bed in memories: that Lexus Bentley, those chameleon revivals, while one is so close hurt would be overlooked: indeed, this friction, those bold eyes, those trenchant lullabies: our powers invoked, our silly banter, as cherished before horizons: those rapid volts, those replied endeavors, as perchance a victim of deep languishing: as now a maniac, so gone days are blurry, to rest, eat, and starve for Love….

I die in you, to find God in you, at twilight pondering something in darkness of you: this delicate, rough creature, those few refractions, where deeds proved incumbent an enchantment: that hammock of cries, this hammock of deaths, to fiddle, demand, and receive!

You Deceive Us

I lost us, so early in development, as crucial to survival: those rehearsed cries, this falling and laughing, those tormented armors: our narrow escapes, flesh burning sensations, or tears muddled with mud: our droopy lies, those casual underpinnings, or feelings where nature has gone awry: to chance a fever, and always heavy, while Love is smiling: our discreet existence, to ask multiple questions, to investigate sanity: our sexual heater, this ‘thing’ as universal, to imagine but moments with participants: that deadly odor, this quivering nature, to feel sheer anger attempting to rest: indeed, with pains, indeed, with luxuries, as sent to suffer!

I awoke to silence, this shrub oak panel, those trenchant heartbeats: to bestow upon life, this questionable insistence, while ruled for travesty: our Rousseau Confessions, our Kierkegaard Diaries, or this feeling as trekking to-and-fro: those golden eyes, this Picasso portrait, or those tender memories: as speaking to concrete, slashing it with abstracts, to realize total indifference: that stronghold, those blatant sentiments, this regular rattletrap: at hourglass thoughts, or treacherous with resistance, while thoughts have become morbid: our knell-witted carnations, or your silhouette, where it felt embarrassment to keep company: our closets filled with secrets, our mothers fraught with fury, while we imagine a humble castle: this area of concern, this rubric lie, plus, this unborn nostalgia: to tense with passion, to feel a certain spark, while treasured for love.

…such difficulty, through mystical lenses, confused, and absorbing this crystal moon: our inter-directories, our colorful autumn, plus, our tender aromas: at jigsaw roots, as fastidious winners, to resist anything imperfect: our perfect relations, our perfect souls, our rebuilt castles: or once this for that, while now that for this, where memories are buried in teas: those old tears, this newly built sanity, while something shocking is at our doors: indeed, so intimate, indeed, so redeemed, while, in parts, a person only knows but a little: to ask for more water, our topaz seaweeds, this space between purgatory and hell: our thoughts shimmering images, our guts rumbling incessantly, or this guilt for closeness: that wonderful person, as long as dazed, to insist upon total enslavement: our naked armor, our transparent prevarication, or devious symbolism…those starry eyes, this butterfly effect, and those tender lies: as said for love, to imbue with love, or to evade something that comes across as indelicate….

Our jejune swan, this jejune relationship, those jejune lies: our constellations, as perfect witnesses, but remaining silent: those candid pictures, as discarded quickly or our salient skies: that loud sun, as speaking in riddles, and our dreams that life is real: those sidereal pages, this know for seeing, while one distresses our sights: something emerges, this inner theft, to realize those trenchant realities: as better with or without, or torn with wanting out, or merely at needs that something changes: this deep trap, this castle rebuked, while neighbors partake of trauma-season: our shipwrecked lives, to have invested years, while one is angry that scents are wafting: our lighthouse frenzy, our wings to lone-island, while seated six inches to affection: at search for miracles, but something is intransigent, while remaining inflexible: at bent seconds, to seem but human, where egos are stroked for leverage: those pensive times, at wistful arms, to come again feeling secure: this round planet, those meters to scars, or clever to do as one wills…

…while Agony is livid, to sense this disconnect, where Love has a fleet of parasites: or Love is gentle, conforming to times, permitting this round of dice, permitting this open marriage.

Sound Posts: (Doors)

…if but to sing, this silenced profanity, our guts slipping at discs: this wretched need, if to exhaust life, to feel beyond measures: this anxious activity, those hurt petals, those frost bitten morals or silenced while sipping into sadness: such birth fever, or dejected rivers, our mannish grays: those pensive lows, this day as surprising me, for it became simple, outreached, and vague depression: as one divided, while tugged at particles, running through deserts and finding self: this piece this cactus, those pebbles that soul, as guitars are talking wilderness: (I laughed and tear’d, I removed ants and sunk lower, and dear to God a tsunami struck Jesus): our plighted ribs, our blighted gardens, or tragedy striking this numbed violin: those bellicose thoughts, this afoul’d mirror, this perfected nonchalance—if but to escape, an otherwise cruel world, where we sink into cocoons: this child’s temper-tantrum, this mothers resilience, this father’s impatience: as candescent gems, or room-movers, streaming through palatial cries: this pride in hearts, this gliding through spaces, or so tragic to appear losing his grip: that whet feeling, those wet bangs, or vibration seeming a bit different: if but to live, those marble tiles, those marble eyes…as welted and weeping, or withered and growing, a bit torn by agonies: this unlit fire, this lit waterfall, this inner activity: while centered and falling, or projected and jutted, those crocheted seconds: if but our attraction, if but our fortune, where anxiety wraps our Northern Hemisphere: at orchestra reciting, at mental utopia and sad, or at masquerades a bit bolder: our Heart-fires, our seas quaking, or moments at one with an inner lamp: to loosen a part of self, while tightened inwardly, if but to address those sublime particles.     I held paradise, while releasing paradise, to remember a vow that meant so little: at thoughts that wiggle, or exotic happenstance, to meet, meddle, and cause mischief—those games we take for truths, those truths that seldom meld together, while threshed and raw and pleading resistance: those voiceprints, that voice-box, to assail a thought mid-sentence: at soul-fire, or soul-sinking, while adrift a soul retracting into a bubble: at kismet eyes, a tear surprised, and feeling something unusual: that sullen response, those stuttering blots, where tender exercise seems unruly: such by canvas, to artwork worlds, if but that perfect responder: those intimate figs, this chiming light, at twilight havens at twilight fiction: while held to standards, or grated over pasta—those falling pieces, such peaceful dying, to revive at a sudden gesture.     …by nightfall a bit different, by morning a bit relentless, as time shifts emotion: such wildfire water, our waves upon a Good Friday, our souls speeding in fury, as old messages feel imprinted: our birthrights, our burning mystery, while seemingly built for madness: at paradox wiggles, at thoughts redeemed, where sensations restore certain faiths: our choir blaring, our rapacious appetites, or so forbidden we happen to need it: those love-chants, those incantations, or those spurts of something unexercised: where dreams are restricted, or flying is hampered, while mythic madness misleads….     …to do our chimes, to sing our fireflies, or to re-direct our chameleons: as infused mid-waves, to beta-kindle, where Love became something ingenious: those long stair-wells, this immovable lantern, at something that strews injustice: those topical responses, those challenging tidal-caves, or mere fortune proven as harmful: at parties within, to redeem within, while distressed within—those delicate rules, this insensitive news, or Love at gates pleading our entrance: to see it, My Friend, those fervent gems, those contagious outreaching(s): to travel so steeply, to sacrifice everything, to settle for nothing: this ship of cries, those coin-like heirlooms, or touching feelings quite insistently: at bittersweet impasses, or silhouette memories, or at something too rich to describe: our aches for adventure, our souls for flowering, or that partly quenched four-headed tiger….                   

Gun Holster

I sip and get lost; I drive Infinity; this pint, this apparition: to enjoy existence, though trenchant with despairs, at laughs over gravel infractions: this inner taste, or mental wastelands, or damaged but revived: our courage, Heart-fire, our dreams, Heart-capture, if but to lose while winning.     …it comes with passion, it revs through insanity, this vague and absent reality: if but to gut pain, to extract rain, while abandoned to something normal: those caged eyes, this caged freedom, at stars this inner giggle: our privileged empires, our Rihanna fantasies, or lost for forbidden: this winter glass, those frigid barbwires, or this warm crevice: those targeted germs, this market of worms, our newfound delicacies: if but to exist, flippant but insane, or sane but flippant: that loud record, this cursed habit, while granny lied for years….

I’m holding back, and it means nothing, where society has ruled with venom: this small galaxy, this infamous world, at ends tying glory: to grit with pains, to courage with chains, at such unnecessary shame: that pristine person, as never a flaw, while attitude proves delicacies: our pressures, Love, at miraculous deception, where persons feel exonerated: this tricky existence, where anything in normal, while psychologists pose as Apologists: our cries for reality, this pile of dung, where relativism has gained renown: that do all world, those low standards, or this reaching low chakra: our mothers to nonsense, this preacher to nonsense, or years screaming at something selfish: that infant prodigy, those infant wits, or this incredible loser screaming, Mine.

Our lakes are scribbling; our dives are remorseful; and still, pursuing similar behaviors: our maladaptive genes, our genetic wars, while game re-mimics a blackened eye: as bodies deteriorate, where mirrors are less forgiving, while souls must retreat: those broken vibes, this forbidden soul, as realized this descent: those treacherous beaut(s), as losing appeal, to realize upon marriage: or insidious men, where father was stern, to happen upon conscienceness: our eyes, Glory, this fixture, Glory, or plagued where thoughts have established something sinister: this rabid soul, those fretted outlaws, at deep Western battles.  

…it was death’s call, this Asiatic pit-stop, this universal Europe: to die for romance, to do fairly well, and lose as one smiles in pregnancy: those cryptic cries, those cryptic, demon souls, as so alive he missed myriads: that free-spirit, this free-spirit, as never one honest sentence: this heaving insanity, this eternal battle, while too deceased to revive: akin to bad-luck, this fist full of cash, where reality pushes something psychotic: but never for hatred, but decent for trial, where truths may speak at disasters: this picture laughing, this daughter needing uncles, or more, this daughter needing clarity: as exaggerated purely, or calamity a first cousin, to step this or that: to fit guts, to laugh hardily, while good out-forbids this luxurious passion: where mother is champ, singing with little remorse, and dying for new witnesses….

…it felt for goodness those days, while sleeping upon humans, to expect a good person: this fool in me, this stereotypical cry, this reverse while forwarded a curse: that need for porn havens, that one to see reality, while this fool slept: to mistreat, and scam harder, while another is forced to behave as a gentleman: that dark enterprise, those Asian outcomes, where Europeans rejected such majesty: our guts by tornadoes, this moon as livid, while another seems cursed: to exclaim passions, while sharing in semen, where another is feeling terrific: this small curse, this intimate realism, while in actuality, monogamy is manmadeL….