Angel Swan

…softer winds, and dying gently, accused of treachery: those beige screams, that dusky voice, those internal draperies: our mental tapestries, our gray clouds, if but to win while losing a dynasty: this small man, this large spirit, this daily with fire: to court a miracle, to wait out debates, or wrangle about concerns: those adolescent crushes, this thing about love, at skies listening to old memories: at psychs confused, to explain our anguish, we die looking furious: this dead man, this living soul, this bodily massacre: our purple shirts, our winking blink-math, or a nonchalant hello: at graves mixed, at geometry seeking, at wilderness reviving: this isolated soul, this father at prose, this night to long passions: at granny praying, at aunt a bit desolate, at cousin a tear this understanding: or old professors, at memory-banks, our glands pilfering philosophies: or those tired nights, this nightsong, this nightingale: those songbirds, this psych, as plaguing inner violins: to swing through traffic, to pause on Imperial, or to visit my second home: those treasured thugs, this gangster island, while smoke clouds our investments: this fragile sinner, this sick but somber, or days walking through avenues: our Pasadena sights, our Valley merry-go-rounds, while it felt good to adore something imaginary: if but your eyes, to sense your guts, where love seems third base: as first we dialogue, and second, we vet, and third, we come to terms….     I adore a myth, I love a swan, I chance a miracle: this fuel in Jesus, this wrath in Christ, or this Jewish warzone: those Cajun brows, this Cajun flame, those Cajun roots: to know inheritance, to become human, to carry our parts: such chemistry words, such blue blazing balloons, or pitted passions petrified: this black/white cable, this satisfied and disturbed, this path mommy didn’t ponder: our fretted friends, our fair fancies, or frigid farewells: to die this legacy, to impose upon cleverness, to recruit our nightmares: as running forever, to return forever, at Negros debating our intentions: this inner grandpa, this Rico Island, at Betsy relaxed enough to exist: those rubric sentences, this inner ruler, this charming professor: as giving little, filled with personality, or something quite personal: but hell to science, and hell to lies, while we entertain our private preferences: insomuch, a nightcall, at red galaxies, to dip fully afraid: those churning corners, this Cornerstone, this rhine-creature: at daughters laughing, at mother frowning, at stepfather high with appreciation: this granny enterprise, pausing at Liquor Stores, at conversation with over sixty years: those taupe appraisals, those otiose statements, or a clever sentence hitting its mark: to float through traffic, stabbing through lanes, adrift and a bit negotiated: to ponder a swan, those early years, while hating this deep deception: to wonder about life, as living with decisions, while so heavy our friends gossip: (but Love was sweet, even generous, but lonely and deeply cut: this open wound, those failed friends, this hope to be accepted despite human frailty: those cries, those acidic tears, this drip into existence: our first this, our second that, as nothing is always bad: those father figures, that one avenue, that man too much possession: but this belongs, and this must die, and Love must confess: this coppice of animals, this wolverine mentality, this lovely, dead, and regurgitated soul): if but our course, if but this moment, if but our deep prayers: to go to Promise, to dwell in energies, to suffuse a particular emotion: this vague language, this photic delight, those aphotic night-hells: as father was lost, and mother was dedicated, and I couldn’t accept certain destinies: this mannish passiveness, this king destroyer, at too many years with non-resistance: this scheduled path, this Taoist Dream, but reality causes for aggression: this minimalist excursion, those Buddhist Cries, this Christian Mystic: or souls we can’t embrace, but filled with their presence, where years multiply intensity: at manic memories, looking at indifference, confirmed as one imbalanced: those tragic cures, those tragic invoices, or our first letter to God.

Tragedy or Stillness or Both

…it becomes life, staring, glaring, and filming inconsistencies: our big built souls, our Serena stars, our Venus cries: at deep allure, at deep panic, attempting to satiate a giant: our gut wars, our laughing intestines, our bowels gunning: our grandparents, that folksy wisdom, those folksy graves: at particular thoughts, feeling balanced, reviewing me heart: those classic, solemn songs, at deep inconsistencies: our aches bleeding, our faces swollen, our livers liquored: at crying frenzies, feeling resistant, or complicated, our inner person fringing: (those wild souls, those terrific souls, at Love a stranger to me guts: that broken grin, those shaky fingers, those stinky toes): perfume to mane, powder to privates, going through insecurities: this lively force, this power curse, those ruby red eyes: our intoxication, our four hours, while rest seemed inconsequential: our running guts, our fueled brains, at Love aching for a stranger: those radical thoughts, our future selves, as if it comes this way….     …it seemed a thought, to become obsession, to frighten something normal: our deep instincts, close to filthy palms, close to closed eyes: to imagine difference, this delicate daisy, this delicate machine: our fragile fragments, our fragile freezers, our fragile fences: at color with pains, at Love reversed, to find Love as unattractive: denial, negotiation, and acceptance: or trial, destiny, and conquering: those blue ribs, those black dynasties, or this strange, odd community: this fragile child, this awkward student, as considered a genius: our trippy head storms, our algebra teachers, our destined for life professors: our nuns laughing, our Jesus playing billiards, our Marvin Gaye’s praying: (at young instincts, this old magician, giggling with a diamond rose: to have women, to desire one, to crave insanity: Pantene and poses, this fear of damage, to desire a pristine womb: at delicate souls, this man as floating, this grin as slipping): otherwise, as perfect, those opaline features, those deep configurations: at plain conversation, to shift suddenly, while Love thought of souls: this blood/green stomach, those remote regions, to slip, dance, and feel tragedy….     I loved music; I ate romance; I pondered ways to make Love giggle: this old self, as now a lunatic, asking too many questions: “Like Damn! we need affection, we desire laughter, we want deep seated concentration”: this inrush, this maniac lover, this crazed man: pulling for tugging, biting for thrashing, or plain too sensitive: at gremlin appetites, to want more forever, as something we can’t escape: that insane lover, those gnawing, scratching instincts, while so tugged it’s hard to breathe: (at Love aching, at roses nibbling, at salty flesh partaking: a silent scent, a silent waft, a talkative lover: as quiet listens, as hushing yells, while too much seems to become weird: this rolling curse, this generational woman, at literature to imagine something so generous): at such burning, this heart-wave, this burgundy diamond: driving in private, lost about us, remembering those years in high school: that heart shaped derriere; those perfect sized breasts; those long, exaggerated locks: to die with us, to need us, where we’re unequipped: this symphony, this beige pain, this dirty orange horizon, this lost to dungeons: if but a child, our wild cries, while true love makes us better: nonetheless, such intense tugging, such elasticity, such dying to exist: those charms, or sitting after exhaustion, while cushion gripped gently—that foolhearted rebuke, this foolhearted woman, at tats and scars and deep vein wounds.     Five Wounds, multiplied by five, this man gunning: to revive in hell, to meet Mr. Satan, to wrestle and win gently: this deep lose, this complicated attraction, this man’s personal problem: at mother with fondness, at father one memory, to imagine how women stick it out: as mother’s son, as father’s daughter, this wealth sick with psychoses: at mother a stranger, to see her comatose, while barely a thought in her: to water eyes, to side a sinner, to see something quite adorable: that first thought, that ruby memory, while Love aches to Kill Bill.

Experiential Embers

…by sheer mercy, this power curse, and coerced to feel emotion: those lucent movies, played in our minds, forced to see lights: those thin layers, our polychromatic lives, while pouting becomes lethal: this unreachable tear, this gagging, repulsed, and devastated creature: to read us, despise us, with anger wrapped in corals: those mental trophies, this wife by merits, this tale by Sheriffs: our itchy faces, our inflamed rashes, our achy, sore, and demanded apologies: to cross vineyards, to placate our valleys, to disappear into a public’s loudness: our typing anguish, our dazzling, homespun, sophisticated roses: our pruned existence, as longing at points, or feeling complaisant: our weeping complaints, our proud children, if but those souls: or mockingbirds, to kill a pigeon, a bit askew but maintained: our eccentric daughters, our women-crazed sons, at mothers discounting their evenings: our washed this, our cooked that, plus, incessant housekeeping: as so included, this career driven machine, this refulgent priest….

…we perish fantasies, while interviewing sanity, baked and seared: this long chain, those priceless links, as we grow into intimacies: our Joker demons, our deep struggles, our Batman champions: those scarecrow images, our haunted beings, or plain disappointed in something special: our winning positions, our flamboyant silence, our easy, pained happiness: at vaults occasionally, at thumps sudden an evening, or so charged it’s difficult to rest at stillness: those lustrous gestures, those recriminating eyes, our patience doctoring our woes: that estate for few, while waxing gently, at persons soft but incredible: this mixture of wisdom, this self-feeling agent, attempting to capture our daily intestines: at black this, or black that, while black is remarkable: this feudal machine, as tapered with chimes, our moments meeting fireflies: those opalescent creatures, attempting to jog imprints, attempting to tap into something familiar or latent, a dream to a soldier, but tears for poets: our scenic prose, or psychological prose, headed somewhere too frightening: those giving souls, as so adjusted, tugging our humanity: our eggshells, opened with dignity, as we shed but knowingly….

…at once, we appear, buffing our shadows: those haunting eyes, those sultry dresses, or plain admiration: to meet by strangeness, to feel peculiar, to possess some sort of kinship: this place in intuition, this old familiar something, as we walk back into our boxes: at steel pushing, at gravel debating, at oak resting our minds: those spaces, soon trespassed, while we churn needing more: this thing in us, this clock abandoned, while something tugs at indifference: our protective armor, this impassive reality, where we desire to fly…our awakened moments, to glance with intensity, while neighboring chatter dissipates: that compelling mist, those wafting aromas, this romance in Gotham: if but to relax, if but to sing, our souls heavy with battles: those higher instincts, this baffling occupation, our hearts rabid about such stillness: as introverts running, or extroverts bicycling, or young souls disrupted by silence: our troublesome feelings, our magazine empires, or thoughts becoming pensive reality: as tension rises, or one visits, to thresh, debate, and hack at depression: our longer days, our inner Holmes’, or distressed about something minor: our pet-peeves, our dramatic libraries, our trips seated in wilderness: those graces, those faith-cords, our moments to effacing doubts: our sorrowing letters, while glory sung, to have for someone feeling passion: this remote cuteness, this treasure as hidden, or so far distracted it’s hard to feel intimate: those mundane rituals, while needing adrenaline, while changing the faces of others: at plants and fire, at soil and water, where true happiness is developed: those readymade packages, our longing delights, while willing through teachings….

Own Self/Realize Principles

…our excellent masks, our excellent recoveries, our excellent travesties…those love-wounds, as full pledged participants, at jaded realities: our mousse-faces, our inner tournaments, this tennis racket: at tyrannies negotiating, while perusing reasons, if but for sanity: this prison in souls, while experiencing luxuries, where existential dice plague our quarters: those executive smiles, our cringing responses, our jealous estates: as needing richness, as longing for character, plus, our cravings for celebrity: at all night studies, reinventing skies, at excellent mathematics: our geometry grins, our reality upon our flesh, or so disguised no-one sensed it coming: at fields with shovels, destined to build, but soil is overly soggy: our caves in Spain, our dreams in Europe, our genetics linked in Africa: this daily bypass, this interior unmentioned, while we must find something to believe in: this niche with antiques, this recited encyclopedia, or this memory for literary art-pieces: this song in architecture, this study by landscapes, or such feral passion engrossing souls….     …such silky mud, such silky feelings, where rain becomes intimate: those long hated lovers, to have explained life, while many are skeptical: applying mallets to ink, erasers to space, while failing to examine inventory: those preconventional years, longing for something legible, or postconventional habits: at guilt with pains, at initiatives in vain, at both industry and inferiority—speeding through intimacies, racing through challenges, with little recognition: this mirror concerning rules, this thing we see vaguely, while many are unable to articulate moral values: at minimal, we obey, at maximum, we understand why we must obey: but sermons aside, and life to wings, involved deeply in epistemology: this sin concerning certitude, this harvested moon, this skeptical plate of lasagna: our sauce with breads, our noodles with meats, our seasoning as main ingredients: our hundred dollar lights, our filled tanks, our revving hearts: to dissect lettuce, to renegotiate tenets, at precepts with forks and knives: this gut war, this suffocation, those revised blueprints: at thoughts dependent, at studies independently, while seeking comfort in an agreeing nod: indeed, with eternity ahead, and racing closer, we examine a heap of internal luggage….     …those screaming walls, this talkative ceiling, so successful, so stagnated: those buildings seeming immortal, this questionable despair, our minds running avoiding havens: this need for stimulation, those few held friends, and parents, if living with privileges—this inner dynamic, cleaving to speech properties, or listening for improper phrases: this essence concerning life, our departed grandparents, to sense certain edification: while why lingers, this rough root, to realize the why behind our behaviors: a man as womanizer, touched by failed relations, struggling with identifying a woman’s dignity: or a promiscuous flirt, unidentified by father, stressing to overcome another encounter: this pain with life, acting unbeknownst to self, while longing for answers: it becomes a riddle with time, or studied by determination, to articulate the why behind our actions: those sullen states, while filled with answers, where remnants spent too many years in our basins: as changing chemistry, altering thoughts, and becoming a part of our existence….     …at memory in-succinct, at development sort of fuzzy, at tender ages sensing myself: those confusing roles, our deeper influences, our struggle with this spacial identification: at walls listening, at shores pitching soul, at reality needing a firmer grip: at thesis and guts, at mechanical reactions, realizing something is mingling: this fence with poles, this water with mud, or this person with persons….                

Journal Entry

…such tender mayflowers, such rich pollen, at midday cancelled and debated: our fluttering drums, our silk sullen skin, our territorial sockets: as pulled, needy, and isolated: or yanked, controlled, and feeling loved: this intimate empire, this crushing reality, while molded for counseled: our furious dreams, our furious canvas, so many paints—as fire eyes, alive and dazzled, or running for frightened: those aesthetic weeds, those aesthetic vines, our tiles dancing with shadows: to imagine our absence, an unseen table, while pleading existence: as perception is existence, while conceit is pride, or unsighted leads to non-existence: our film by whispers, our souls by impunity, our cymbals by symphony: as mere mortals, or Socratic inquisitors, appealing to particular methods….     I fumble often, permitted to struggle, obliged to feel: at incredible curtains, unveiling pieces, and distinguishing puzzles: this shrubbery maze, this internal vineyard, those blurry paths: if but by name, to retrieve a fountain, to re-mix Eternity: this Paradise, this cooling water, at tyranny and pride: those few misfits, as we frown with dignity, where one was struck by compassion: our executive office, our executive feelings, while a hint seeks approval: to hear mother’s voice, to sense father watching, to seek by thought and find a raft: this fumble with time, this lime/purple horizon, our naïve natures scrambling to find family: our biggest goal, our lively aches, our treasured concerns.     …as mainly an entry, as seeking for finish-lines, to reestablish jubilee—or gunning art, or abandoned to stage-life, or soot to soul and dusting plates: such resistance, our rebuilt engines, as revving through capital islands: this tugging insistence, this planetarium heat, where many are examining mirrors: to buff faces, to buffer ideals, to re-support an old challenge: these realities with time, this clock as mental, our reality by aging: those wiser souls, those young sages, while running into resistance: if built we live, if rebuilt we’ve died, indeed, a whiff of heaven’s solace….

I sense something, this place in chimes, this persistent reach: as moving in sequences, shadowed by emotion, our interpretation, therefrom: such quick dismissal, such lightning eye-sockets, at peace with questionable behavior: or rebooted souls, churning through deserts, so emphatic to see: as engines sparked, or transmitters digitized, at something too crazed for silence: this kick-start fire, this art mural, this returning image: as good at times, while purchased by integrity, to differentiate right from wrong: this tugging current, those crystallized meanings, or this chase for adrenaline: at sluggish disaster, or something cavy, to appear to self seated upon a couch: our midnight mornings, our midday darkness, while redeemed and seriously at battle.

Dungeons & Freedom

…this day to cries, as lost but revived, as sluggish but mobile: our empire minds, those by luggage, attempting pure balance: such moody shadows, such confrontation, such deliberate appeasement: this cold feeling, this noisy box, attempting pure balance: at public countries, at public art, noted as one with imbalance: this chattering symbol, those demanding lights, our glasses fogged by facts: at preparative winds, pulled and tugged, while conformed by childhood trauma: this cryptic cycle, or repulsive chimes, while another is studying responses: at moons speculating, at axioms deliberating, such lively maxims: while taking courage, this itch to shutdown, where one self-motivates: as torn creatures, battling ventriloquists, or reapplied nightmares: to cushion something growing, to have setbacks, to play our trombone….     I know pressure, this intimate presence, walking through valleys: to sense shadows, even three or four, while forced to shift towards one: our winded mountains, our gardened molehills, or our souls deliberating: this shift in time, this sudden feeling, such regurgitated remorse: where thoughts dine, our tuna with salad, our juice with lemonade: this fragmented picture, wrestling against desires, while needing distraction: such by sunrise, this inner instrument, this caged countenance: at structure and breath, at subtle heaviness, or something believing in tears: our college courses, our classroom peers, or those days to figuring that many are without guidance: our purposed tutors, our spiritual intakes, our booklet mentors: as creatures gnawing, searching for abbreviations, or reduced to acronyms: those relearned habits, those readjusted realities, or so close it begins to run.     …at motion with harpoons, tugging at iron, divested of normality: those chasing feelings, this intimate edge, those few with stock in our lives: such beautiful souls, asking pertinent questions, while supplying a different perspective: but easiness isn’t easy, while love withstands its nature, where many suggestions irritate: this fortunate man, this fortunate reality, while we wonder about others: those perfect outfits, or perfect makeup, or that perfect suit: our watered minds, flushed by others, where thoughts reward feelings: or emotion lingers, atypical sadness, while souls are too observant: aligned in pure thought, or hard-earned balance, while feeling perspective slipping: this inner drilling, this constant shifting, while readjusting something seeming inconsequential: our math with instructors, our part-way physics, at something mainly in our brains: such soft overcast, such heatless climate, or wrestling some internal habit: if but to fly, as gentle souls, our minds would create perspectives….

I lost something, this carefree examiner, thoughts became matter: this deep reality, this deeper perspective, this revised pursuit of love: to need qualifications, while requiring something lighthearted, or something so trenchant we reappear: that heightened self, our localized hearts, while flushed by irritations: to shift in mid-motion, to go from angry to sentimental, or so charged it felt life to grow nearness: this place in time, this music in roses, or this symphony in pure dialogue: as rarely something mythical, but ever something mystical, while tugged by former magic: our minds computing, our spirit-computer verifying, our pauses seeming sufficient: if but with life, this song made successful, our media proffering diamonds: those few mentors, those few demands, where reality seems artificial: such relative thought, such deep irritation, where we sense something moving by anxiety: those inner microphones, this long advised feeling, at something so intricate we carry it for days.      

       

Ink & Boxes

…acres of pride, dedicated to winning, up against opposition: as destined to fail, or outwit fatalities, as cultured and moving: those blue eyes, destined for winning, those brown boxes: to die forever, looking for palms, and lifted by something internal: such plight and blight, such terror and solace, at something irregular: those aesthetics, this chiming miracle, our destined guts: at Love with patience, at life with patience, while losing patience: this swallowed camel, this flippant gnat, our filthy, rubescent cups: if but those charms, if but our chambers, such ink-stained note-lives: this paradox, this living curse, to wander this vineyard: our grapes and wines, our cheeses and crackers, filled with such contempt: our solar attraction, this velvet green turmoil, to realize something disdained is something tolerable: such sweet radiance, such fluid internals, to touch as born to die: at rivers dreaming, at Love aching, if but one death this sweet aroma: such lunar insanity, to blame it upon something, to reinvent a particular wheel: those damning conversations, or this impeachment, stenciled as a passing vision: to adore you, to die in you, to lay claims to you: something exclusive, carrying depth, while Love was reborn: this happy face, this glowing empire, this winning dynasty: our soul-child, our memorable collage, our chiseled encyclopedia: our choice words, our laughing revivals, our etching into feelings: this flicker fire, this deep sire, or aborted for dusted laughing at orgasms: indeed, so sick with it, this maniac lover, this tire rolling down Crenshaw: this lady in traffic, those nights before, while some watch in pure envy: that first blast, that second drink, or this veteran loyalty: as killing this child, to arise this man, where Love is intimidating.     …those blood diamonds, this Penny & Brain, this Inspector Gadget—at cartoons thinking, at children looking at responses, at daughter filled with this dreaded fear: to die his guts, to restrict his guts, while Love has watched for over a decade: this one that was, this one that dies, this woman too afraid to fail: our bowels needing freedom, our freedom needing chains, where mother died alone: at voiceprints, or abstract admiration, to have met you ten years prior: his woman laughing, his woman giggling, while men watch needing cultivation: this constant war, this moral soul, those deep anxieties: to cut loose, to retract, to redeem a slew of unethical ethics: this flying kite, this floating father, to have lost more than containable: if but a ghost, flights to success, this fire at brains: those hearts, Love, this flame, Love, while I thought to a sudden miracle: this Christian empire, this biblical hour-dance, while cut for ruined and bleeding acid….     …are we there, watching mudslides, and nibbling inconsistencies: this fool with beasts, this lyric with Precious, this maniac lover: to choke and die, to pull and yank, to ask a dozen questions: indeed, mother’s son, father’s name, and running chaos: this basin with tears, this windowpane exploration, those butterflies laying stillness: this daughter at sunrise, this daughter I forsook, this daughter we need: as gunning through traffic, this deep chameleon, while changing at every light: in tragic gains, while tragic was fair, to emit a certain essence: this arrow running, this cupid laughing, at psych with trepidation: but hell to reason, and hell to facts, I needed more guts: this flight with police, this run through ghettoes, leaping for jumping a fifty dollar bill: to erase privilege, to sip remorse, at money with something dying: this large bill, this throw with dice, to hit and get rabid….     I met my face, I tore ambition, I shed inhibition—this fool with it, this manic nightmare, this full pledged conservative: this contradiction, this loud music, this interior Sade: as swinging to Malibu, or trespassing Newport, while headed to Watts: as livid a curse, and losing friends, to renegotiate with this inner leprechaun: those towers, this watchful brother, as unknown and tailgating: this rearview, this night-balance, this last glass: at Love observing, to imagine her husband, as Love saw, sought, and developed Eternity!

Storage Boxes

It becomes tiring, such endless battles, such irrationality: to imagine this world, as designed to fawn, where one is free to do anything: this unlikely agenda, this feudal domain, this resistant society: as men destroyed, as fathers dismayed, at something destructive: those private blue tears, our mental carnivals, our wheels churning: to perish insults, to behave with sameness, to ostracize those that know: so embarrassed; so ashamed; but refusing hard-won changes: but this is existence, our whiny objections, where color is forced to survive: this small matter, such grievous indifference, where many have traded culture for external serenity: this small vexation, our flexible agendas, while anger simmers into a tumor.     We chew discomfort—We gnaw upon damages—We fret while integrity is pilfered: (but yours is different; this planet of possibilities; or this war against homespun truisms—as young fires, thrown into reality, acknowledged as a contradiction: such pride in something foreign, such pride in something dismissive, while others are concerned about your disposition: to sense disjunction, to rethink axioms, to become something enjoying your heritage: as media appoints passion, while cameras sit in our living quarters, where slight damages are tugged snuggly behind curtains: this fortune in homes, to possess destructive chaos, while nudging others to pay less attention: our dyed vests, our dyed brains, our eager activity: to work against morals, to disvalue ethics, while pointing towards carte blanche: to churn souls, to damage souls, to run while laughing in tears: such sickness, where others are demonized, while father is oblivious: such stressed behavior, at tender concerns, to review this merry-go-round: those same infractions, those similar mirrors, while everyone else is demented): heretofore, this depressed state of affairs, this imperfect reality, our deep frustration: as flustered fires, formed in a beast’s belly, or this attitudinal bestiality: to dislike reflection, to chime, pay bills, and demand blind horizons: this daily fear, while building ladders, where each step is a photograph: our souls forked, our brains spooned, our butter knives dull: as winded creatures, screaming at flying birds, somewhere at a Wilshire Hospital: as strapped for dangerous, as drugged for freedom, singing farewell to friendly distrusts: therewith, this angry soul, ignoring counsel, for nobody fathoms pure viciousness.     …such rants, such absolute nonsense, such reason to dig deeper: this pregnant hatred, this raging lieutenant, where others agree with said behavior: our bodies decaying, our minds shifting through seas, our souls regurgitating established behaviors: as trying harder, but something is pressing, where we utter, Incorrigible: such damages bleeding, our carpet testifying, our walls winking at pain: this inner phone, this guilty indulgence, as tugged but desperate to repeat familiar practices: our eyes growing, our faces narrowing, our battles becoming mirror-based: such rich silence, so immersed contention, such adamant positions: our smiles for rent, our happiness gambled, our thrills in something that brings paradox: (or subtle a creature, such Church Existentialism, bleeding axioms, rebuilding daily: those refined habits, our Lord’s Hearth, this internal Furnace: running for mad, at feelings at flights, living by chemistry: this deep imbalance, by a balanced soul, while repeating contradiction to those moving winds: to love at this time, while distraught at those times, to ground in color while compassionate towards others: this sad person, or this elated disaster, while holding that children are ahead through travesty: this controversial, for some utterly perish, while others become a bit too witty): those private realities, this private valley, made privy to something underrated: at pragmatic lenses, relying upon something eschewed, where innocence is underprivileged, while cleverness is esteemed, where reality requires both: hitherto, this deep trench, this leaking faucet, this retiled roof: to request our souls, while souls have become forfeited, where we ask of others those things they can’t give!

Let it be Gentle

…amidst a crowd, an Invisible Man, staring, plotting and fighting proclivity: such medium magic, such Danish Laws, such draconian warfare: our vampire instincts, gnawing for cleaving, trapped in this body: our rewards, our women, as sung an old tangle: those webs, this future, this Irish Gin: as sinning Satan, as loving Jesus, as trusted to fail: this mental easiness, this mental shallowness, this psych to brains: this feminine hygiene, this sad river, this Buddhist Colony: our daughter’s cries, our son’s anger, as afforded one last death: our mythology, our ontology, our dreams convoluted: this bass line, this rhythm, our interior cadence: if but to love you, if but to adore you, if but to lose you: this film replaying, this thought rethinking, this gut rewound: at Ray’s Creek, stumbling through ghettoes, so manic an audience is glaring: those terrific, demonic, angry eyes: that intention for violence, or seated closely sensing an absence: this hollow, hallowed spirit—this full pledged robot, or this sad, dejected infantile: as purely absurd, protecting secrets, or coddling a woman’s ego: our last thrust, our first departure, at closed eyes praying with prosaic(s): as but a seed, our father’s matrimony, our jasper, red/green diamonds: to perish daily, to St. Paul this gurney, or beheaded for preaching something foreign: at inclusive rites, at deep distress, while carrying boulders: such uphill violence, such determination, and here Love came to journey this Cross: at lagoons with ducks, at squirrels and nonsense, at beavers laughing at queen Delight: our tears, Love, our dreams, Love, our potential to devastate, Love: if but a scream, to shatter a mirror, to feel as spirit pops….     …this facial element, this heart element, this man so fragmented: those parts to Precious, this death to God, as one elevated to penetrate devils: our darker cousins, this man I met, this stance as pure realization: to dip with Jesus, to blaze with Jesus, to dread-out and disappear in Jesus: this fool by clocks, this day so uneasy, this night with churns and turns and soulquake realities: this heavy feeling, this damn guitar, as one unable to jam: our consecration, this Hebrew Alphabet, our silent volume: sipping and trying, sleeping while awake, stranded with alibis: this inner rebuke, this jettison feeling, while emotion laughs: this soft music, this soft damsel, this inner sylph—as walking brains, this topaz excitement, to touch as born by virginity: this Mother Mary, to know for parts, to arise and scream, It’s your time: thither, this liver, thither, this base, and thither, this gut-violin: those enchanted phones, this cellar by midnight, a car load of terrible youngsters: this mailbox agenda, this government war-care, or this blatant attack upon Mexican America: at easy silence, at pure rage, while attitudes come through by cultures: this interaction, this song maniac, this foolish addict: to rant and rave, as mother knew science, to thrust and tug and ruin resurrection: this monster pushing, this calm disposition, this eyesight reality: to chance eternity, at this Jewish liner, while paranoid afore a group of Arabs: our sad reality, our body bombs, or this curious and delighed and overwhelmed sylph: those blue/green eyes, this beige particle, to pull so far back Love is at wonders: our concerned postmen, our infuriated postwomen, or this lantern with barely enough oil for morning light: our loaves sufficient, our importunity scattered, our dreams, Love, our bowels, Love, or this mystery popping into pianos….     I know writing, and this isn’t it, for those concerned about humility: this rushing element, this inrush of personalities, to blend midday a thought to this reality: those arms, those dreams, this screaming internally: at something messed-up, this bless-ed-curse, while Love is wondering about agonies: this long range attire, our jeans with spunk, or this damned introject: to realize trauma, a vein to a toe, or this line to infinity: at bruised intellect, pushing daily, as but a charm-bracelet—those remarkable lines, that beaming forehead, those threads locking his insanity: that reaching hair, that subtle perfume, our screams and visions and such that just couldn’t cum: indeed, a bit risqué, at interior séance, or running for late to this performing rendezvous: our screams by passion, this canvas so Locke, at empirical data realizing it lacks humanity.

Africa Ink

…by truths this sun, by lives our gun, at psychiatry like adolescence: our freaked mothers, our fragile fathers, looking into dynasties: this bad soul, this good soul, this in-between blackness: this quadroon, this burgundy ton, alive and damn near deceased: those terrific eyes, that long neck, our dinner with mushrooms: this fabulous life, this fabulous contradiction, this fabulous kiss: at Love lying, at aunty too reserved, at Lords speaking with laities: this tragic curse, this fabulous curse, as built something dying: this raving man, this rant and ruckus, those sickly psychotic doctors: this trust fire, if but to live, while taken with such disregard: our courage raging, our brains as diamonds, our images burning: this well disgraced, this face with beauty, this body its language: to form logic, to rebuke logic, if but a second this heartless ass existence: thereto, this gorgeous African, this sexual Latin, or this pensive European: as Austria gunning, to hit life, with a coin filled with rhinestones: this money frenzy, those electric guitars, at ankles yanking away chains: those blood/blue damages, this field of alimonies, or this sexy Asian lawyer: to fret his brains, while pimps push puzzles, this deep contempt: at Sufi magnets, this air dervish, our Muslims winning: to die with Love, these heavy eyes, our gardener on vacation: to prune this rose, to grip this feeling, to wipe eyes, type, and remember errors: if but to relive, if but to revive, if but that runaway self: as much has died, and much has resurrected, plus, this man old with years: to dance with venom, this anger thing, if but to resist this dying thing….

I casual us, I die in us, I live through us: as never this love, as never this inclination, while slipping into liquor: this gunning fever, this heated mentality, to realize bull-crap: but Love was sexy, and Love was aggressive, and Love looked upon with essence disdain: this fool with memories, to live in islands, while mania was afraid: this heavenly curse, this irruption in time, where stress is deeper than oceans: our dreads testifying, our hairdressers screaming, our business women happy to engage: at millennia damages, at tents and huts, at guts and ruins: to evolve with passion, to climb through Asia, to arrive through Africa.

…watery eyes, wailing lungs, floors and pounding: this small frame, this lovely person, while too hurt to hug daughters: our brains, Son, our guts, Son, filmed and delivered: if but with hell, if but this demon, as God was Satan’s Father: to go so deeply, to weep with Jesus, while evolved a bit beyond normal: to imagine repentance, this casual affair, mostly for humans: (our terrified hearts, our terrified logic, where it felt good to imagine: this gymnastic maniac, those poles with essence, this ring with remission: as Love dies, as Love revives, as Love sacrifices): this cozy death, while left alone, where he visits if but by demands….     …in truth, it was very nice, but inferno is raging: to want this soul, while needing to leave this soul, where our souls are so cold: this freezer mentality, this warm pomegranate, or peaches speaking at idiosyncrasies—while death was lovely, and death wrote prose, and death evaluated poetry: those cinema eyes, this daughter’s intestines, this person so destined: if but to fly, peering into gentility, while brains gush into skies….     …our hurts at motion, our drills falling short, our workouts spacing into torments: this mother love, this father grain, our stepfathers losing appreciation: if but for sanity, if but for secrets, a soul forced to eat humility: at sullen collars, as destined for passion, at slumber wrestling dreams: yanking this necktie, adorning this teardrop, at something deeper than kitsch: so freaking numb, falling to floors, and gripping carpet: thitherto, this reborn monster, fueled by hatred, but loving through compassion: such contradiction, such rabid paradox, while nibbling droplets of terror….

Petal Feather

I suggest passion, or laughing agony, given three dances: I suggest life, melancholia, and joy: this moving planet, our mica ritual, our gorilla hearts: as mere lads, sipping raw liquor, filming an interior death: those stressors, or candent concerns, as so many contested: heretofore, our guts rumbling, our stomachs aching, our souls, immaterial forces: such knowledge, banded from society, discussing weekly gossip: our children watching, where time is sudden, our wings nailed to pavement: such deadly lights, or common palaver, at purple passions: our swanic arms, our cagy charms, a bit taken by fancies.     (…as so by death, this resurrection, at thoughts concerning your mind: this tale for games, this board as social, our interaction as timid: such fragments, such nooses, at this snail’s pace: our inner turtles, running against bunnies, or floored by inhibition: this rabid creature, our needs for stiffness, indeed, our needs for angelica: this fragile monster, this attitudinal machine, while sickness finds it demanding: at God listening, even something silent, while sudden upon meditative: such cold exterior, protecting a fretted arc, where reality seems quite indifferent: unnecessary this, unnecessary that, while unnecessary is quite attractive: this soul with dungeons, this daughter our age, this feud causing damages: as to ignore plight, or to demand normality, where some are just watching: incumbent neglect, and we impeach kings, handing our violence over to women: this man so big, this man so small, and never to realization….).     I’m unshod today, a bit low and thoughtful, where we wander this atypical energy: those gallant souls, so charged by existence, as dear extroverts: or this inverted, silent soul, so captured it hurts, where Love might satiate our mental requirements: our stirred bellies, our stirred charms, our vocal indifferences: a fortune to some, a nuisance to others, as likewise, a curse to blessings: this mystical myth, this loser winning, or our winnings floundered: this attractive countenance, this mellow maniac, at such glory living as a fire: such glistening lights, such inner baptism, or such Masonry majesty: as tethered souls, running for restricted, to need Love if but for growth: this pained episodic, our stoic emotion, at ascetic envelopes.   

…it’s been some time, longing and listening, infused by contradiction: to try softly, this age of fast sex, this dance for rarely a night: such random chaos, such late redemption, such gesture by indecisiveness: or foibles yearning, our days something there, as right beneath its surface: such mishap wine, such as losing big, as everything against us is bad: such pigmentation, such deep denial, while feigning this balanced plateau: our moving brains, our sunlit souls, at terror with easiness: as conditioned early, this thing concerning normal, while stressed for abandoned: where few are listening, or required in earnest, this place worthy of attention….

…those sky-clad whispers, those trenchant brown souls, as multiplied in quadroons: this terrible inversion, by something so dear, as would to life a certain insecurity: those candent drums, those tribal instincts, those haunted coffins: at myriad valleys, formed in beasts, living for something indistinct: at tales and souls, or wandering dilemmas, or plain relaxed and at existence: this likely charm, those unlikely faces, while chased seated in stillness: that penchant for novels, or chance by interior, to float scribbling a few internal lines: as mere spirits, or phantom ghosts, hailed by winds: indeed, this carnival warfare, this tale by innocence, as many are intimate with details: to listen and nod, to knock a knotted fable, as one kicking air: as imagined mindstates, to sense something deeper, where we believe in feeling good: those recesses, this beating lump, our agonies concerning with pictures: but little to life, while constructing images, where we desire perfection: this contraction, this failed enterprise, where behavior is assessed based upon its reflection....    

Building Against Deserts

…it becomes stress, this galaxy of obligations, our hard-won futures: this galaxy of angst, those silent seconds, at needs proving our souls: those tender petals, those velvety leaves, this life of prose: our delicate/fragile dreams, screaming while kicking, easily vanished: this planet of visions, those fuming regards, peering at something intricate: this maze of valleys, this cave of demands, where life meets determination….     …those unspoken flutters, those jasper feelings, upon a jasmine rose: those concrete ideals, vanished by abstract realities, while fishing for solid footing: at memories with thoughts, this interior whirling, leaning into vipers: our seeking minds, to witness dynamics, if but to harness those dreams….     I wrestle gently—this spacecraft furniture, this in-between spacial: such pushy particles, even thought-matter, fueled by genetic splices: running with scissors, addressing this laundry center, seated upon eruption: as someone smart, or something cautious, or someone guided: those flesh eaters, situated in brains, with secular demands: or disappearing, into this private lagoon, bathing in algae: alike to vacation, alike to running fast, alike to returning quicker: this planet of dynamite, our luxuries with addendums, our souls inculcated: this slow process, this involuntary process, where suddenly we feel jaded: our tender objectives, our works in season, our minds by irrationalities.    

…this inner film crew, distressing photographs, at bridges looking to cross: our battles with instincts, those open characters, this watching for flowers: to witness budding, to harvest existence, to love and laugh and play and perish—as frolicking warriors, if but this scream, where life has met with happiness: this space in parts, our mind’s realities, while so close we fail to see: even at arts, missing pieces, and never quite certain of intention: those floating mirages, this sky-caricature, or this multiplicity of sources: to settle here, while she settles there, both arguing over similar substances: if but those wings, to arrive in that Kingdom, while fretted by happiness: this slight insight, as familiarity is troublesome, where we seek different intensities: this soul to silence, this world to religiosities, and our minds to indexes….

…becoming sentience, living in awareness, as it becomes its seeker: cleansing our wells, excavating our planets, arranging our coppice: or standing courts, afore caprice, laughing ironically: these small things, this trenchant reserve, this electrical reservoir: to possess indigo, or melancholia, or some variance of rich deepness: as souls charged, reaching heights, to happen upon a reflexive examination: our personalities, if but chance we see, at something alarming: those flailing thoughts, our extra weight, or our metaphorical diets: this cycle by life, our rubric sensations, if but to purchase by sentimentalities….

…it becomes our mirror, this thought-reflector, this piece of us speaking gibberish: if but our souls, so entrenched, and so at vulnerability: if but such trust, while too close for private breaths, while too alive to bleed injustice: this archaic sword, this human need, while too shallow to escape mirrors: our blended essence, our simultaneous hearts, our cages seeming like freedom: our watered seeds, our tilled soil, our mental orchard: as souls running freely, or souls engrossed, to attack elements with vengeance: our arts with examination, our keen intellects, our glances signifying motion: as needing existence, if but those smiles, if but our resilience: while freed by love, or uncaged by emotion, while singing to seas: that fragile sea-monster, this gila friend, our stems streaming across mountains: this desert-us, this flaming exchange, our rooted souls….    

Between Mirrors

I see you, this feral invert, those wild wings: our disgraced image, our prideful hearts, our redeemed cultures: this promise in time, those mental fens, our delicate thoughts—as men running, our women churning, our seconds flushed by joy: to live by dying, to die by living, or so content deaths are swarming: at refined chatter, over China teas, enveloped in ambiguity: those gorgeous curvatures, our restricted ladders, at terrors concerning something intimate: our motion brains, those motion images, our molten lava: to sip remarkable, those rare creatures, while pitching arrows at mediocrity: this fair creation, this minor fact, while a bit trepid: if but our souls, fleeing their cages, our balance would run haywire: if but our minds, at every joy, our bodies would decay: but this is life, an instance of reality, an impetuous mentor: to sense something delicate, this business attire, our robotic approaches: to see you, flying gently, while filled with expectations: those angry legs, those violent arms, or that sky-neck—at vetted consistencies, or an unvetted animal, where angst forms its hive.     I hear you, this cautious, overworked ingredient: those long hours, those chilled wines, your morning toffee: at deeper thoughts, at crispy yearnings, while so close to existence: that partial friend, those partial realities, our hope exhausted mirrors: but some are mystic, even livid existence, at life with both spoon and fork: those intimate discussions, outwitting fate, while creating legacies: at converse with life, debating happenstance, and overwhelming existence: those rare inventions, this rare reality, while soaring into war-spaces: indeed, an inner essence, wrangling over magic, tempered for success: Olympian ankles, mud-ridden, rusty toes, and tattooed calves: this place in Eternity, those songs so emphatic, our resurrection with contempt.     …we would to chance, this life of roses, this internal clock: our misled souls, churning courageously, while buffing binoculars: this space in passion, those clashing appetites, while requesting nothing less: our innovation, our excited presence, those undulations: as fluttering deliveries, our nervous voices, our waltzing charms: as pulled into life, while at tetras with life, so invested in existence: as living proposition, an internal thermometer, running into passion: or aloof and tugging, yanking at pride, falsely reserved: at souls this region, at something for adults, while feeling young: our purple clouds, our enveloped worlds, our taupe and black branches….

…mental taekwondo, or, namely, a curse, where time stands at your stepstool: this marvelous curse, this trenchant brush, or this comb for existence: our remarkable feelings, our wrenching hunches, to relax something pensive: at Marshal Arts, this intellect movie, our interior cinema: that clear face, our Neutrogena, our inside-out skin: this familiar space, where exterior is demanding, while internal clocks are at peace: this year to silence, this gentle, vicious, outlandish creature: to sin willfully, to repent deliberately, to turn, churn and demand something breathing: our forces at memories, our dance with music, at something feeling familiar: those cozy grins, where art has become symphony: that luggage unpacking, this space healing, if but eternity this lock: but more to seeing, this vixen in chime, while removed from existence….   

Half Face/Half Mirror

…gentle at parts, half a mirror, half a face: this chase so gray, those skies our image, our gravel relentless: to rebirth silence, figuring religiosity, decoding perception: our travel hearts, our deep cravings, while living disorder: or wrestling fire, smoldering gently, at eyes so emphatic: those needs speaking, to attain those needs, followed by deeper needs: as never enough, as rarely enough, while captured by gentility: to need an animal, while frightened of animals, or so many court secrets: to talk life, to give life, while controlling life: this death light, those fretted parrots, those runaway cheetahs: our leopard instincts, chasing for gunning, thrust by existence: our cavalier station, where birds are messengers, at half a face, at half a mirror….

…or suffering insistence, while pillaged mentally, at something hooking persistence: this chained silence, or sensing discord, while ignoring nudges: those half smiles, that half mirror, this half face: wondering consistently, to realize such conception, at deep realization: this creature, so small so precious, so capable—those dark blues, this infant curse, while raging into forests’ audience: as saving souls, or capturing souls, for she looked so sullen: indeed, a told saga, a dreamy bride, where introduction frightened mother: so gentle, so vicious, so meditated: if but more flowers, if but more money, if but our separation: a rasp to thinking, a mirror to mirrors, at churning faces: or cruel skies, or artifice spirits, where decency is impartial….

…so statuesque, vying for attention, while something is given: our studded shame, or pure wildfire, relaxed in something unpleasant: apologetic disruption, dying matter, or inanimate breaths: feeling outfoxed, looking to dungeons, our tents our roofs: this kernel nudging, this woman so delicate, our mud seeming like reality: at half a face, at cloudy mirrors, or rusted arcs: such a blessing, if but gentility, if but something at eyes: those mementoes, reminding our guts, while pilfering through cedarchests: those small hurdles, or steep hurdles, our legs climbing insanity: where something smiles, our broken skies, our terror movie….

I laugh in dungeons, our lives dictated, our deepest secrets petrifying: a friend listens, churns her guts, and utters gentility: this fortune in souls, our tethered tongues, our serene hostilities: so dependable, so connected, while such a liar: such oxymoron, such indecent existence, while needing dependability: such barren ethics, while anything ensues, where trauma feels normal: our deeper cries, our inabilities, our forced mirrors: this half face, this chasing ghost, while it feels so normal: our strummed morals, our thrumming ethics, where it seemed inconsequential: our falling clouds, our swooping intelligence, at moments, a casual grin: our captive bellies, this thing to newness, this life with oldness, those gains losing: something listless at motion, something fragile but dynamic, or something so strong pitted in weakness.

We need clarity, as deciding upon temperament, where anything can be worked through: this trenchant hell, those trenchant eyes, as consumed by honesty: but trust is built, and trust is jeopardized, and trust is pivotal: this floating balloon, this pitched ball, those slamming rackets: this Ping-Pong existence, this half empty mirror, or this half empty face: reading prophecy, with pure ambition, while listening closely: such vague cries, such spacial prediction, such need for something to cleave closer: our bad situation, our diehard insistence, as two lost for forgiveness: it doesn’t exist, in this knotted wilderness, while running for closure: so unshod, where secrecy would be fine, if but those would die in silence!

Wretched Indecisiveness

I sobered up, but still I sip, feeling a clumsy breeze.  I ponder eyes, or clever husbands, seized with silence: this filmy residue, this mushroom salad, this old lover: our days as animals, our moments so dignified, our screams knotting neighbors: our violent undertones, our redeemed inner portrait, or inert, I love yous.  We sizzle gently, this fleece of rebellion, or this watchful tower: as religious saints, so controlled internally, while sinning with shame: those transgressions, this bath of warm water, our marrow for sustenance: as mural queens, made with perfection, or too at arms to reach while swimming: those beige mirages, this interior fantasy, as sensing fantasy is knocked out of adults: this cruel agenda, this inveigling plan, while two have met hours in-between: our cushion privacy, our glorious horizon, while sensing a potential wife: this space in men, to assess something perfect, where ethics reside in membranes; indeed, so sick with patience, so sick by love, our days liquefied.  I rethink situations, this common thread, while wishing for something impermanent: our hopes relating, our dear to essence fires, if but this feeling through centuries: those passionate angles, that business attire, or plain too exhausted to play happy wife: this man watching, this soul throbbing, our aches early this dynasty: those hat queens, those hat kings, where love becomes a series of outfits: if but to meet you, if but to emotion rites, if but three rituals: our sexual chemistry, our beating angels, as God gives a pass or two.  Mommy died.  Our brains fled; but life to souls that feel existence.  I remember sassy, I remember a psych’s stance, I thought to this years afore metrics: this tiny lie, this sudden realization, while staring at something distressed; but anxiety to science, this mature woman, those mature approaches: or friendly a second, while removed with distance, as never a chance for ghetto souls: this threshed confession, as needing upper-echelon, or redeemed by something feeling imperfect: our nights with burgers, our fries with sauce, our pains with solemn acceptance: to flee this life, if but those cries, while so enthralled Jesus has appeared.  We rethought passion, alive with friction, sensing something a bit pure: if but exclusivity, this monogamy tightrope, where only I satiate every desire: this tallness, those feelings, this round with tyranny: at ghosts mentally, agaze’d and sautéed, while gripped beyond recognition: those exterior charms, this stiff smile, where one crosses a room to rescue wife: indeed, to insights, indeed, to devastation, walking while churning afraid of desolation.  I feel hearts, something so cultic, something mutilating reality: this interior life, as pure introversion, while existence demands attention: this deep bequest, this living miracle, this daughter’s inheritance: to know for subterranean, to enter subs, to thresh for adored and rising to rainbows: this gruelish angst, this interior black castle, or blackmail seeming unfair: to hate his guts, for acknowledging a spade, while men ought to suffer silently: in pain to mention, this fair damsel, or imagined reality: this crucial map, those feelings with angst, while Love is attached to myriad men: at passion in hell, at something redemptive, while we cover a myriad of sins: at saving souls, or threatened with happiness, if but this mandatory indoctrination. 

I speak as losing, this machine pushing, this mandatory robot: but feelings increase, at souls so afar, or thrust’d into silence: those old habits, this old soul, while needing something motivating: at perfect personas, at perfect pictures, staring at clichés: those miracles in print, this image in souls, to awaken to something and a cigarette: our cigar moments, our rusty vodka, our strawberry gin: if but to release, as but to live, to approach wives with sheer determination: this blackened sun, this benighted moon, or souls feeling privileged to harm nature: indeed, such reckless adoration, for something so gray, where family’s endorse muddy outlets.         

Diamond Tester

I bungee feelings, I armoire life, I love as Superman: this field of demons, this light of deaths, this bolt, this gut, this emotion: those rubies, this science, those recruited motions—as livid insanity, or granny’s omen, while gripping for losing grips: at terrors, this mischief maniac, while Love spoke about forgiveness: at clocks pushing, at deaths recruiting, so disappointed Love is comical: those flippant airs, as yanking sky-rise, to fret our moon-cries: this terrible man, for thoughts were hay-tears, and horses were scared to gnaw: this goad, this Damascus, this road furious with deliveries: our first child, those wild hearings, or so close this running medallion: hereto, this furious bullet, this inner blast, at rounds gutted survival: as one flailed, as one sick, at something concerning distrust: to hate his guts, to hope God’s watching, if but my feelings: irrational souls, irrational deal breakers, while infuriated hating his mind: blood blue, burgundy midnight, this russet gremlin: our bloody faces, our palms with hatchets, to awaken screaming at maniacs: to floor life, to excite motion, at something too clear, I ignore!: pay it backwards, recite it forward, or catch hell while crazy our grimy slime infested guts.     I laugh loudly, I sigh heavily, I jimpy mentality—those hells, those bars, while reciting demons: this inner you, this failed us, while never an opportunity: those waves, those ways, this fool at appearances: this skeptic, this maniac, those humble his hearts: at rivers with Zen, at heaven with Christians, at Krishna with Hindus: this manic lieutenant, this manic psych, this manic universe—to have experience, to chunk a fist, to reverse into our uterus: this product, this dreg warrior, at thoughts catching missiles: (I make it good, I make it worse, I do this name): as running in terrors, as gutted an apparition, to dissect a ghost: at gore and mayhem, to scream into fantasy, while love nudged us to awaken: this fool listening, this calm adversary, while so sick it feels goodness: those loses, those treasures, this more for little: indeed, this sick woman, this sicker man, and having babies: thither, this curse, and thither, this prodigy, and hither, this failed lieutenant!

I felt speedy, I felt anger, I needed elation: this trenchant reality, this long-life, our interior battle: this sad passion, this event in brains, this carnival at arms: our mothers by difference, our deep disbelief, as churned unto blatant hatred: indeed, I lie with angst, I turn with vehemence, and I dislike dissatisfaction: believe this man, and die this man, and forgive this man: or else my guts, or else my Jesus, or else my despise: if but a strong one, if but a lost one, than find Love and redirect this catastrophe: but never to hate, to turn entirely, to believe love is prevalent: our Barnabas talk, our Theca revival, at Leah negotiating one last night: this Esau, this Isaac, this old feeling: as ancient and gutted, as ruined and flying, while lawyers are running from bleach: this miracle bird, this unborn phoenix, this uterus sphinx: at pyramids debating, at griffins laughing, at Love too close for physicality: thither, our yanked souls, this flippant mentality, or this woman so at bay it’s hard to swim: at eagles whispering, at jinni one-sided, at Love a headache—those glorious cries, those marveled wings, at feathers painting intuition!

…football brains, or linking in chains, to admire what you accomplished: this failed lieutenant, this winning maniac, or this losing father: at God with questions, deep dark nights, to twilight into an air: paying retribution, for mother cried, and son lost his navel: this core belief, this mother as knowing, where behave or lose access: indeed, a pure tyrant, a manic official, at bars and deaths speaking in rebellion: to drown upon words, to rejuvenate upon kef, as fated and delivered: this long run, this baseball drama, while half of LA loves our Dodgers: but what for life, this incriminating poem, this long range prosaic…!

Destiny, Familiar, or Natural

I shrug with impatience, semi-devastated, while reamed for exaggeration: so more to clarity, or slight nuance, while charged for accuracy: this daughter machine, this mother miracle, so close and so desired: our pillaged cries, our crows hovering, our griffins laughing: at meerkat curiosity, at ferret interruptions, while glancing at bottles: this bag of trash, this re-sharpened pencil, this added eraser: those pages whispering, this diary to flames, or those remote bits of silence: this mixture, this slice of bread, this pail of margarine: if but too sick, than worry is tolerated, or concern is necessary: if but this feeling, as never our perception, where thoughts must be real: despite, our motives, despite, our silence, despite, our eager hatred: this wolf craving, this tiger at wolves, this natural selection: our daily fears, our daily traffic, our daily invites: such derriere, such well endowments, or this picture perfected face: those long songs, this mane for jealousies, our choir flirtations: if but to ruins, at love this poetess, where Love has lost passion: those frigid remarks, this frigid curse, our frigid warmth: such colorful pain, such bane and light, to realize Ms. Agony is blessed: that chiseled reality, those bashful gazelles, our garnished calamity: this laundry center, those washing feelings, our skin bleached seeking acceptance: this fulcrum spinning, if but those cries, if but acceptance: to perish insults, to try harder, to become a particular slave: (I fret midnights; I feral ambition; I realize existence comes with miracles: this hard enterprise, those otiose emotions, while daughters are piecing insanities: either fiction or reality, either hell or heaven, our clichés omitting this in-between reality: those infant turtles, scurrying across sands, at peril and sacrifice: or that frantic monkey, chased vehemently, by a group of chimpanzees: limbs torn, at brutal cannibalism, while mothers frantic screeching hysterias: this selection sky-war, our deserts inverted, our deserts as luggage: (those beaut(s), that saintly gaze, our intimate hurdles: this sharp nib, our noisy chatter, our abused necks: at deaths with stubs, at Love with hostilities, at truth a bit aggravated: our streams to dynasties, our laughs with motives, to sense one as having visions: where souls are concerned, to spacial inheritance, while vultures pursue a given course): our fragrant eyes, our studded deceits, at women incapable of discerning difference: to possess a hunch, this raving maniac, but unable to vet a particular insecurity: as waiting anxiously, while ensouling compassion, where inclination has ignored a tsunami: our blanket eyes, our quilted cries, our seas turned inside-out): to siphon poison, to nibble scorpions, to converse with vipers: this reality push, this deep acceptance, while seeking something with familiarity: our unraveled keels, our steepness symbols, our minds awakened by impatience.     …if we desire pain, than pain shall arise—and we desire joy: our first triumph, our pillar boards, our destined vibration: such reaper toils, so discussed fretting, to find comfort a bedroom event: at parallels, this quasi-perfection, while afraid we might error: this noose so tight, those freedoms so lovely, while we hesitate to rush home: our secure mirage, our hyper-sensation, our wintry blackdamp: or passion so early, where love is spectacular, while winds seem musical: our cymbals clanging, our flutes dynamic, our harps too sweet for sound: this incumbent regret, this incumbent respect, while we desire daily therapy: to mold humans, to perfect humans, while Love has learned a good person: at rebuke and instrument, at violin and guitar, while feeling unsung: this behavior in some, this daily chief, as redeeming our passions: if but this resilience, to maintain our Corporation, chiseling through soot and chalk: forsooth, this inner soothsayer, this inner giant: at pure responsibility, while it seemed so natural, as angered, This is natural: at deep needs, to be something different, to exist as something destined: those casual eyes, this casual song, while some are so inclined to redeem adventure: such charming breath, such charming odors, to grow accustomed….             

Gut Glasses

I was sickly, loosened by associates, as one captive: this field by aches, this love by wells, at Rebecca this thief: our tears, our agonies, our sunshine: at cryptic dances, at decoded caves, us paleontologists: such architecture, such architects, to rebuild Jesus: our grannies, this flower of passions, our granddads playing kickball: our souls hung, our deep infatuations, our communicative concentration: at psychs with pains, at love with hearts, reading into emojis: our radicalized anguish, this fretting orgasm, those tender, rubescent mind-prints: if but orchestras, if but symphonies, if but those tragic gray skies: our philosophic, our metaphysic, our epistemic: our stoic rites, our protagonists’ hearts, our Poseidon souls—at deep blue seas, or captivated young arts, to envelope something drastic: (at travesty exhausted, at lonely ears, at pomegranates and shivering clouds: this spacial gust, those hectic winds, to sit at raindrops: our cursed aggression, our living aggression, while love called it passion: this flight magic, those inner leprechauns, as needing me-gold: our radical lies, our reserved souls, our daughters feasting upon grayness: such panic to dance, such arts to ruins, while skies wear binoculars: at threat and haven, at landmine and woman, thrust into something so hectic: to dine with Christ, this interior vest, with mystic telephones): this avenue city, those in-wells, where Love sought playwrights.

…we found something, this rite to progeny, this curse this blessing: as rinsed souls, planted in soil, walking into orchards: those violet orchids, this mauve soul, those velvety petals: at rules by love, at monogamy ships, or rescued for abandoned: at entitlements, our last dime, our first funeral: this blade blazing, this land crumbling, this ideal waning: as men to earth, as earth to soul, seated near lemur eyes: this present essence, those lovely arcs, while so far and so close—this torn cliché, this torn passion, those recital mirrors: to sing in soprano, to mask with ecstasy, as souls so clutched for panicked: our last angst, our first pressures, at measures to erase those utensils: (those icons, those media damsels, or so lost reality lives in boxes: such mascara, such pitch black eyeliner, while too distracted to capture eternity: at a pleasant flower-dress, or relaxing disposition, ordained as one with perfection: indeed; but thoughts are sentimental, and Love is grand, and pain is leaking: to see poetry, while another sees anguish, where another shrugs shoulders: this place for few, this number as demented, our algebra as grammatical: such analyses, this numeric index, while totality speaks to something abstract: (that inner fusion, this red window, those strobe lights): as men gunning, if but for experience, to find Love imperceptible): so daunting, so attractive, and so ensconced…!

I drift, Swan, thinking about love, a sick and social wreck: an idyllic man, those deep regions, to awaken pure jealousy: our women as machines, taking romantic inclination, as persistent coquets: such African/Asian love, such European passion, at Belizean damsels: or here in Fort knocks, rocking mentally, at Love speaking softly: that endless banter, those serious seconds, our deep silence: to need this feeling, while souls are waning, where opportunity rages forth: our torn reality, our knitted seas, our redeemed skies: where passion is gray, or passion is detrimental, where one desires near desolation: this scarred space, those tender limbs, our desires outweighing our insistence: those wine headaches, those tender thumps, this travel kit communion: if but to sanity, if but to realization, if but a bit deeper than sex: this space for souls, this clock for women, at granny a bit reminiscent: to lose memories, to regain artificial science, while running into deserted valleys: this sphinx with brains, this ambivalent go-between, at cadence and song, fevered and baptized!          

Loopholes & Damages

I dream, Love, at magnificent channels, this elk, this gremlin, this leprechaun: our souls flying, our brains delighting, our wrists unchained: this gut-war, those intestines fleeing, our worms speaking prayer-talk: to die with existence, to perish in resurrection, to sense over a billion cries: this truth working, this slow pace, to ask mommy vital questions: to ask about life, to ask about pain, to wonder about meaning: this slipping purpose, this cursed universe, those few pleasant dispositions: this woman watching, this overseer dancing, this mirror blatant with anguish: this sad poet, this linguistic doctor, this serum and recourse: at deep apologies, somewhere in private, but torn by apologetics: this manic mistake, this manic lake, where Love ignored perfect pain: to acknowledge paths, to scream in frustration, to abandon thoughts of racism: but concerned deeply, this take on students, this rhythm seeming apparent: but hell to science, and hell to facts, when a family needs balance: this snakebite, this pond of caimans, or roses sprouting upon algae: those abusive parents, this abusive stepfather, this cursed aunty: our remarkable abilities, to lie about feelings, as crazed and ruined souls: if but to relax, this silent passivity, where one ruins while others suffer: to feel for goodness, this restless wife, this abusive husband: or tails to fronts, and fronts to backs, our wives unaccountable for ninety percent of their days: at magic ropes, at tortured intuition, where rubies appear as vinegar: those drastic feelings, this inner gnat, or this pee sized hole: to emotion lights, if but for meaning, while Love aches over a toilet seat.

I need perfect, I need anxiety, I need to rekindle: this tiny warfare, those drastic anniversaries, those holidays, many thanks a year: to remember something special, this perfect creature, while many can’t recant that feeling: our infant claims, rebuking infidelity, if but souls that handle such restrictions: this small mishap, if but out kingdom, if but our science: where souls operate, as souls perish, where some claims are purely selfish: this trying man, this trying curse, while Jada has died several passions: if but honesty, if but concern, if but our needs: our bibles speaking, our histories yelling, our America quite possibly mistaken: but this is life, and these are feelings, where emotion needs ownership: this sore topic, this sore soul, while needing to feel secure: our vulnerability, our existential, our pragmatic sacrifices: our children’s eyes, our passing legacies, if but to die feeling we lost sanity: this inner typewriter, this inner novelists, or tales told to this mental representative: at curses, Love, at something so essential, Love, where mother has done according to training, Love: this man running, this force killing, those appetites ruining something special: our orientations, our crystals, our rhinestones: at thoughts gunning, at mother indecisive, for mother seemed a jewel: at gramps wondering, at granny realizing, at sons deliberate with silence: to know instincts, to know family, to realize church: this raw reality, this cautious overseer, while many have died in vain.

…let’s revisit justice, this captive spectacular, our stomachs churning behavior: this perfect witness, this mirrored profanity, to sense windows screaming: those shattered shards, this animalistic, instinctive, primitive self: our rabid amygdala, our rabid synaptic, our neurons shattering our infinity: this marvelous picture, this fabulous body, as unaware that Love is crazy: those endless anxieties; this endless monster, as repenting for something so special: our lying facts, to ask certain questions, where Love denied an STD: indeed, this silent music, our silent cries, as Love denied a thousand children: if but to perish, or but overwhelmed, where it felt good to exist that way: this fire in souls, this shove to adore, while Love has abused tyranny: such soft forgiveness, to unsettling terms, where honesty obliterated passions….

Bungee Empire

I readjust, peering at panic, our mirrors telling stories: our brass is blazing, our bass is detrimental, our engines are inverted: this human machine, this miracle spirit, those telepathic messages: this gut-phone, this cellular empire, at waves scrambling through oceans: this whale laughing, this shark as friendly, those dolphins all but uncertain: this ape magnet, this gorilla fire, at maniac inclinations: those frightening sentences, this frightened family, because Naïve appears too this or that: at wilderness giggling, at islands whistling, at Love adored: this epidemic, this epic reality, this city fraught with herpes: those secrets, those diamonds, at something too appealing to pass over: our warfare, our internal battles, our music seeming delightful: at books about misogyny, at wonders such abuse, while some passion dysfunction: this coaster ride, those tepid lies, at manicured roses: this plum garden, those pomegranates, those delectable lips: at thoughts and pains, at cores and remedies, while Love lingers as ghosts: this apparition, laughing and running, while looking to sense this chase: our dementias, our Bentley cries, our dark-nighted eyes: those pictures, therewith, this liquor, while presently sober: those feelings digging, this ruler spacial, our rudiments up for discussion: our partial lives, our partial feelings, (if we sex, than Love is cool): indeed, this miracle, manic, machete, this losing, ludic, lunatic, at serious, silent, sexuality: those loud forces, this gut ruined, those demons screaming: to dip through passion, to ravish through graphics, at blueprints sensing discord: our wakeful dreams, this fantastic fantasy, where it meant so little: (to tell a secret, this essential reality, when Love disappears, our children follow): thither, this island, those scorpions, to grab, twist, and nibble.

I spoke about hatred, when truth arises, but truth is on vacation: to die so often, to creep into integrity, while this high life is quite lonely: to find a balance, to remember our ghettoes, while Love has become a psychiatrist: this well groomed fire, this maniac machine, this winning while losing: those private empires, this ruined wall, this bag for trashcans: our trips to Goodwill, our last diary, to chunk it to flames: this chapter beginning, this novella quite weak, as gifted for stumbling: this red light, this yellow midway, at green stabbing into traffic: at Love whining, while Love is growing, where one for two and God couldn’t do it: this club life, those fireworks, or women too beautiful to control: indeed, a small button, while dignity is compromised, where father knew for pencils: this eraser life, those old sentences, this paper with abrasions: to die a little, to live a little, notwithstanding, over a thousand loses: to re-gut, to restructure, to reenter: that last egress, those ingress empires, a kiss upon a tarantula’s face: those eyes watching, this venom for spirits, or a jungle of intelligent, vocal, animals: in tears for glory, in pains for remarkable, to sense Love vigil and debating: at mean women, at old feelings, to show a hint of shame: those keen lenses, those buffed glasses, our inert voices: where mother was queen, those days those battles, to awaken to scrambled eggs and bacon: such deep dysfunction, such radical suppression, to grow older with introjects: this white enterprise, those forced discussions, while redeeming little Jimmy: those fires, Love, that ink, Love, or infatuations seeming ridiculous.

I bounce roughly—speaking in tongues, as not to offend: I spirit existence, speaking clearly, as not to offend: this miracle man, this manic repression, this man sensing its return: as more to secrets, to vent daily, to find this enterprise: at features communicating, at Love listening, at behavior moving: so subtle, so effective, so alarming: those eyes watching, those poses standing, those grits overcooked: those years, those seeds, our daughters: this home, this lie, this life: at teary islands, at teary answers, to find those impractical resolutions!

Swan Ocean

…by currents and frustration, by gravel and granite, by mica and rubies: this tailored resistance, this tailored behavior, those manicured shrubberies: at fair concerns, our alienation, our stationary habits: if but insistence, but a loaf of bread, chased by blueberry teas: our situation, so brightly young, so emphatically observed: those travels through time, our idyllic normality, while too inexperienced: those mooing cows, those crowing crows, those passive orangutans: at mental conflict, becoming countenance, where adults reach for clarity: our running doubts, our redemptive anger, our thirst for retribution: as waning gently, or sick of listening, where something so difficult becomes warning signs: emotion accounts, intellectual business accounts, or checks void and nullified—where daughters abandon hope, this world of foolish men, at deep wheels to testify: our attention to arts, our crafts exhilarating, our Teasdale poems: at metaphorical chalk, baffled by resurrection, to live as one indebted: this face in battle, our inverted gods, our warfare Americans: this crush upon blackness, this envy upon whiteness, or this in-between anxiety: as ambivalent, ambiguous souls, with essence brooding, while many refuse to water our gardens: this pacing affair, this stillness affair, or plain sickness: those mocking dreams, those mocking friends, while we yearn for perfect parents: those changing tides, if but perfection, if but to impress strangers: as not so much this life, while family secrets are held hostage, while otherness is up for discussion: such soulprints, such voice-overs, or those few disturbing sound-bites: hereto, a bit of insecurity, this un-nurtured valley, this thriving energy center: our first chakra, our concentrated presence, our silken butterflies…!

…such mimicry, those forgetful islands, or this desire for popularity: to see in others, this space by brilliance, as rarely to hear their reality: our set forth inadequacies, our salty essence, our broccoli with shrimps: our thirty pound diets, our hundred pound bodies, while insisting upon disadvantages: our serpent appetites, our lemur passion, as curious macaques: this city of wolves, this haven of insights, while snippets speak survival: those incessant angles, those penchant concerns, our worries meeting our dawns: as fiery planets, while feeling awkward, or overly strategized: those choices in life, deciding upon character, either this or that or both: to need utter integrity, while behaving a bit shady, to come to compelling cul-de-sacs: such blockage, while feeling guilty, or sounding to waves deep depletion: our days as victims, unbeknownst to our behaviors, while brutalizing our inheritance: hereto, our needs for mercy, our courage to persevere, or for many, our thrust to change….

I could whine gently; I could cry eternally; I could redeem anger: but this is unfair, while this is un-clever, plus, excruciating: such giddy insecurities, or overly serious dispositions, or those discomfiting smiles: as products of inhabitants, paralleled by mirrors, while adverse to unfamiliar: as not as ruined, but more a stranger, even insisting upon a foreign mirror: those internal cloisters, this bundle of strangeness, while so assured others are doubting: this mental castle, those defensive cries, this shadow, this elaborate alley: at doggish fears, bewitched by oils, mistaking intimacy with inadequacies: those caves in-between, such raving, insidious literature, where many seek deep, mental control: as abandoned eyes, or abandoned selves, while true education is private studies: to possess a grasp—upon something inherent, to discern with certainties: indeed, this language, this abstract reality, imposed upon by concrete suggestions: this world of indecision, this philosophic mine, or this field of beavers, plus, squirrels: those awestruck epiphanies, this biblic manual, those sutra realities: as souls running, or gunning for pleasures, our eyes captivated as beasts.

[we lay claim to life, this cosmic alliance, this cosmic charm: we waltz and chance, we glimmer and shimmer, we love at play: this contraception existence, this trenchant controversy, where many are feeling stressed: such sequoia fire, such wilderness treks, while raging to outsoar integrity: hitherto, this steep injustice, raging fireballs at mirrors, or running through ceilings: this hemline distraction, those wonderful souls, while sickly distressed: this trenchant chase, to become Our Nimbus, at bosoms proving inadequate: this penchant essence, this irritation, or those rich anxieties: to become thoughts, or treasured for remedies, while triteness has permeated our habitats: our religiosity for some, our traditions for others, where some are rebels lacking activities: our exciting minds, our rotating crystals, our lacewing spontaneity: at passage and song, at chantress and daughter, while confused concerning deliberate waywardness: this mental picture, as one bent upon destruction, while angered our world is passing judgment: those footlights, those bedlights, those chiming, interior lights: to realize instinctively, this touch fraught with anguish, or to discover our mirrors are disguising our behaviors: at sunken delights, to emote theater, or burning aches for something causing rain: at kleptic appetites, seeking vengeance, where myriads are distressed: such decorated, false beauty; such inward treachery; where myriads are blaming consensus: this rattling nature, this selfish aesthetic, this pseudo-terrific: as swans caress language, as swans dance fearlessly, while reality favors determination]

…we speak to facts, especially, during debates, with this hope of appealing to higher essence: awash’d with ambition, risking something adversarial, our helicopters charged: but many are anti-reason, and many utilize reason, while many surf in different directions: this small reality, for differences can remain separate, but ours is quite historical: this familiar portrait, as psychs churn ink-pens, as therapists realize some are beyond reach: this irritating analysis, this emoted opera, this angelic curse: where swans are angered, for thoughts were splayed, while perfection became hard to reach: our perfect homes, our perfect fathers, our due-for-right mothers: such tradition, such ruthless tigers, while many live-out irritation: those faraway planets, such vibrant denial, or such need to insist upon perfection: notwithstanding, existence, notwithstanding, evidence, notwithstanding, this slippery slope: if this essence, than that essence, while essence has yet to arrive: (a parent is good, especially, to children, but maybe something different to adults): this crosspollination, those aggressive parallels, while our pendulum is decoding something uneasy: our inmost selves, our emotional-cabinet, or so close reality is crying….

…we adore swans, we love swans, we veil harsh realities: I failed this island; while removed from this island; while intimately at heart with this island: something unveiled, where in private, it was quite a feat: this dumb man, this numb soul, this supposed intellect: while in one sweep, facts burst our skies, and reality was redeemed: indeed, this cruel insistence, those granny insights, at magic, straw, and candle: this deck of existence, this checkerboard of persistence, this chess-castle of kings: as resistance maintains, as hurt grows fonder, while some are deeply content: this man’s allotment, where love was strategy, while mental health remains obscure: indeed, ruined by masses, cherished by Eternity, and forced to repent to humans: this strong accusation, this strike at gentility, where souls are reminded of follies: this tackled estate, this rapture’d fatigue, while encouraged to never recriminate: but humans are flawed, realizing, secrets are flawed, while in actuality, humans are standing trail….