Swan Religion

…indeed, Love, as cordial a maniac, at triumph and pain: to sense such eyes, writhing through turmoil, so cursed for blessed running into mayhem: this curious father, this distant mother, as one accursed for sensing life: this hidden pyramid, this bridge at passages, to realize Love is terminal: at deaths and lights, at miracle successions, to realize life concerns dying: our spaces emit, this cleft in existence, where passion seems under-elevated: at wines midday, at honesties midmorning, while secluded with a name flaring into fires: our cautious psychs, this deep taboo, while one is demonized: but Love is gentle, and Love is strong, and Love reads with keen senses: those long legs, jogging midnights, or so inclusive one makes pledges: this Buddhist Colony, this interior nunnery, to need something promising: this life of reaching, if but unsung, while words come so seldom: at terrific sacrifice, if but to archive, while laboratories flush out manic fathers: to die those reasons, to inflect justice, while so tawdry: this cheap existence, this wellic cry, to know for essence built in tyrannies: this mean swan, this casual swan, this sentimental swan: at granny for answers, at something early in lights, while it becomes easy to compose: this fair skinned damsel, this fair spaceship, or romance seeming quite personal: those dreary faces, as alive our presence, to realize a certain affect: this changing by lives, this interior merry-go-round, while essence seems effected: but yours is life, and yours are kites, and yours are racetracks: those speedy feelings, those quick decisions, while so underdeveloped: at prayer laughing, at meditation giggling, such as transference: this cultic reality, to tell for truths, a person may affect something internal: our blue havens, this red castle, where mother is desperate to oversee: those few friends, those trenchant conversations, to go through college a bit dependent: at livid politics, or pantomime agreements, to hit a space where aggression seems necessary: if but those eyes, if but that grin, or heads a slight turn evaluating phenomenon: where father is gravely, while granny failed this enterprise, while essence came to haunt a father: this miracle, Love, those deep apologetics, Love, where everything is forgiven.     …we adore you, at worship at sinning, something so indebted: to fathom such cries, to imagine such treasury, while economically driven: this penchant for life, this essence born strife, as accustomed to long analyses: so captured and lovely, so tender and evil, where one might suggest a mean soul: at interior graves, searching out identity, while feeling lost in limbo: this white mother, this mulatto father, this intensive stepfather: at Love pushy, at deaths a bit quiet, at rosemary a bit insistent: if but to exist, if but intensive, if but a casual observation: to sense inconsistencies, to adore a sibling, while demanding accountability: as cursed so early, to live as divided, where everything in up in air’s arms: to feel a bit guilty, this whale exploding, while breath appears so sweetly: our bowels in terror, our whimsical feelings, while something rests deep within: those pearl blue diamonds, those old trinkets, while seeming sentimental: (where adults hate, as final analyses, children need radical answers: this space in souls, this miracle insight, to imagine days at treasuries): our bold overtures, our facial armoires, so beautifully dressed feeling with anxieties: at lance and harp, at core and bone, while fretting reality: those perfect homes, at prim fascia, while many are three steps passed dartmoor: if but to alarms, or gray-hounds, or tender tarantulas: our faces speaking electrically, our minds roaming valleys, our situations demanding accountability: as lost and livid, or excited and cursed, where clouds communicate existence: such soft rain, such filthy predicaments, while desperate to ignore for others: this melting lens, those percolating kettles, or this morning’s indecision: at hopes and obligations, at tears and silence, where true sisterhood is a bit sacrificial….

Carousel Windmill

…sperm webs, father’s genetics, mother’s blood stream: this castle by damages, these smart kites, this infinite eagle—as planned for deaths, to arise in zillions, at interior music: those swanic links, this sky-cuff, as manic for mesmerized: that perfect dilettante, those perfect feelings, to realize such rocketed truths: at balance while delighted, as charged for ruined, where mother spliced genetics: this lab child, this maniac miracle, while advancing through lights: this psychologist, this psychiatrist, while noticing deep differences: at makeup glowing, at veins flowing, where passion seemed so inconsequential: our bedroom shadow, our den dementia, so cursed it felt tremendous: throwing money, at lively flesh, to figure for love: at tired syndromes, or nodding softly, thrashing through traffic: this small circuit, this wealth of attraction, to adore for differing reasons: this tall glass, this clump of grass, this semi-short lexicon: those inlet poets, this ruined castle, at adoration spent by liquor: nearly petrified, stalking interior fog, at deserts communicating with smog: our morning dew, our dry rugs, while interrogating Jesus: this slight blasphemy, that courageous army, or months to debating Maccabeus: [(I adore as dying, to need for comforts, at blue brain greens: those orange lines, to remember his station, where Love agonized: such anguish teal, such sky-reds, at burgundy old feelings: to relive Precious, this fair creature, at daughters with understanding: this Father watching, this Mother knitting, this interior funeral: our millionth smile, our billionth rotation, our zillionth lover: at pure hells, while dancing gently, so sullen, so impressed: to arise in Love, to explode in Love, as months became a young swan: those liaisons crying, this moon blazing, as Jesus descended: those windy scents, those windy nostrils, while Love seemed Arabic: this casual counsel, this need for humans, to die elevated in tyrannies)]: those days laughing, at chauffeur concentration, somewhere far into Beverly Cries: this lame soul, as needing security, while imbalanced upon a wave: as died Father, inverted beyond living, while mastering existence: those foolish wires, so attracted it spliced, while addicted like masteries: (a true friend, so hard this light, at stale turquoise emotion: those steaks I touched not, this link as significant, to realize different treatments for differing souls: at life running, at mirrors with concrete, at killing this mobile reflection: at Love but silent, at memories distorted, at ecstasies fleeing into this private landscape: those color-lines, while some sink with ships, others jump rafts and make love: this small feature, this nothing in science, while I respect survival): such Purple Rain, such seeing while barely believing, at midnight so enchanted: to remember our agonies, those thrusts through time, to grip, bite and tug upon explosion: some type of addiction, this tale you hated, this charm Father imagined!

…so tortured, so ruby red, so involved—those carousels, this glib expression, so torn, so inflamed: at realized friction, to announce, Two weeks late, as cursed but blessed spinning through feelings: this short creature, at sophistication, while so distant from classism: those remorse weddings, this deep incision, wrecked and running with scissors: at pure rebellion, those days with atmosphere, those tears over Zinfandel, (this lace with gin)—as time stood at mahogany, as Love rebuked an inner sinner, while adversaries seemed quite sick: that second go-at-it, so devilishly sick, such bumps, low frequencies, and pure disinterests: as sunk for sailing, at deep alienation, while father sensed a new beginning: those color-line rules, these particular darts, while one person is responsible for totalities: this deep need, to exonerate reflection, while believing such science: those irrational responses, this irrational poet, to imagine one volunteering—at music, Love, at truths damaged, at winters so exhausted, Love: those fairer creatures, this hankering for Love, this remorse for hankering: at blue rivers, at red lakes, while churning jasmine dreams…. 

Gunning through Mirrors/Running with Rockets

I see particles, so gifted with terrors, so enchanted with invisibility: a quick thump, chased in return, at musicalities: such drumbeats, such cymbals, such eye-enhancers: and still, so lost, and still, inadequate, and still, winning through loses: those gestures, Love, this ache, Love, such instrumentals, Love: as forgotten with time, our frightening existence, our treasured trespasses: at dear agonies, enlove with slow conclusions, while permeated by fast sinning: so involved, those ghostly images, this spirit-typist, (those trenchant incinerators)—to know for certain, such dark disdain, while Anguish feels knitted: our dead days, our dreary responses, our railroad survival: (at dear distraction, forcing a slower pace, while consciousness has deigned to visit: in tyrannies, this sophisticated leviathan, this mental gila monster, this calm ape—at battles and levities, at church and liturgies, or invoking a particular sentiment: at steel chastisements, at warn dishonor, wearing those capital letters: this firm sinner, those interior strategies, if but to live with reflection): that one poetess, those other poetesses, while earnest about lunacies: such maniac energy, such manic conversation, such mandolin sorrow: as lost to Love, as refused by Love, to chase so often a rising Love: this tug for minutes, this field of ferrets, our letters in ocean seas: those sealed bottles, or helium balloons, to retrieve a letter from an earlier lie: at terrors, so horrid and crying, at lunch two steps to hospitals: those rooms, that hallway, or this irritating nuance: to sense a glow, to sense circles, while standing in stillness: with all glory, this violinist attraction, this dear pianist: (where Love agonizes, so stressed with magic, realizing, It’s but a moment in chimes—this dance with liquor, this chaffing misery, those winds speaking in illusions: our partial sights, to receive so lately, while feeling quite pathetic: to become so wise, while missing humans, as inflected by an interior whisper: to ask such questions, to adore such odors, while Love was adorned in Vodka): hereto, this slight confession, those stolen waters, as time wades alongside terrors: such reckless passion, sealed with treasures, alive but denounced!

…atypical attraction, spirits tugging silence, a fraction intertwined—our crocheted brains, our rotating arcs, falling short and greeting Jesus: our fragile sentiments, our serenaded sensations, at time so intense in your presence: this life with shackles, this adoration with clauses, our preachers speaking about relationships: such itchy cries, such imaginary views, while we chase to feel satiated: those letters, those marvelous papers, our palm prints massaging Yahweh: as souls stranded, looking for passion, so pulled out of self—at magazines and brochures, with so little to decipher, with so much to conjure: to want for treason, to settle for thoughts, while eating our sky-stars: if but to say by life, if but to wilderness dandruff, at something too crucial: this flighty feeling, this embedded energy, to wonder if ours would last: such tender reasons, such classes clashing, while souls elevated recently: our chocolate skies, our vanilla earthquakes, at something devoid of racism: this terrific feeling, this troubled union, as neither realizes the other’s plights: at pure temperature, those British eyes, those African lips: where adoration wanes, while connectedness grows, to have for passion devoid of initial cues: such a-romantic love, such sliced genetics, while irregularities generate certain energies: our pure proximity, those years to abandonment, our fantasies rehearsed and rehashed: our communicative thoughts, our lives embedded in normalcy, our days loving and adoring something seated afore television: those little legs, those other eyes, that protruding forehead: as settling for thoughts, wavering through valleys, pausing now and again: this terrific device, those terrific energies, as reaching for sky-cliffs: those bold insights, this chasing horizon, our clouds but smoke with fires…!

Ocean Hut

I adore passion; I resonate with dejection; I’m fond of electricity: as struck blind, seeing beauty, or resurrected: this threshed soul, this musicality, this human paradise: our tattooed feelings, our nights as actors, where men believe in shadows: those shallow replies, this gift at winds, those tale-adventures: our achy ribs, this remote access, this petrified kiss: at parish and dementia, at tyranny and classes, at deep attraction: as never enough, our bodies strained, our guts leaping: to need you, if but survival, while accustomed to losing: at tragic chaos, this mind of warpism, this atypical kismet: to realize lovers, while treasured ashamed, to compete as winning his loses: our tethered brains, diagnosed as features, such nectar accursed for beliefs: so core civil, so core wretched, so core trenchant: those long dissertations, that parted theses, at miracles running rabid: patient legs, outlandish thighs, ancient, perfected hips: while death was gentle, and dying was luxury, and pain was comfort: to go deeper: this maniac feeling, this deep wisdom, while sorrow became family: our French horns, our trumpets at romance, our flutes dancing with Huldah: those fibers, Love, your wounds, Love, or paying ransom for one that might run, Love: those sagic eyes, those sophic lips, those zenic ears: at Om laughing, a bit too serious, while cursed to adore a winner: this blood blue math, this orange brown agony, at tears and jasmine moons: such azotic attraction, to perish your arms, as one afraid he might win: those river aches, this estuary passion, our dessert with pain: to enter roughly, as told to chill, while our rhythm became legendary: at serenades giggling, this grown ass child, while Love became giddy: if but to die, while yet a soul, if but those palms: balm’d in adoration, dead for alive, at womb, gut, and tragedy: so deep at pain, such grip with pain, so trapped and pleading for bail: this hell-force, this riveting desert, our years around travels: at lotion and ointment, so used with pride, such seductive ardor—at treasured soreness, our younger years, a man at pure desiccation—our threat, our dream, our insufferable agonies—to slice arteries, to become crows, as dark harbingers.

I’m sick for you; I’d find self for you; those days exploring personally: this chaotic argument, our steaks with onions, our mushroom gravies: this dragon appetite, this caiman digest, at dinosaurs whistling: this tall tale, concerning incarnation, at animals, snakes and humans: this deadly chase, this deep attraction, to find you in each life: this belly war, those tragic blocks, this impulsive decoration: to hustle with mother, to pay for mother’s addiction, as sudden placed upon display: (but Love seems us, and Love seems gentle, and Love has feelings): so adept to passion, so lost our eyes, so hypnotic our sorrows: as melancholic maniacs, accustomed to levels of rain, while trekking through marshy cities: at green horizons, to sense something new, if but this need to perish: so astute and refined, so emphatic and reserved, such sophistication haunting men: as laying claims, to suggest eternity, something so raw and uncontained.

…brine and claret, LED and devastation, or charms and our faces: such delphic pain, such looking at silence, while souls paint silence: those dahlic cries, this tortured feeling, at Love dying for one last death: if but for prose, to horrific bars, where Love settled and passed into: those wires giggling, this man with one tear, to cup said tear and offer oblation: this ka-gravel, this keel desperate, but intact enough to walk this bridge: such jota diamonds, this brief jaunt, at eyes sensing chemistry: to ignore death, at long for life, while running into hesitation: those oracle sayings, this battle with fey, our ferric iron: to thrust his sword, to grip her wrists, as exploding a day to rise: our deep pleasures, our deep deaths, or hertz tugging our impulses….

Mansion Mice

…at interior doors, hanging garlands, listening, wavering something intensive: to open eyes, to sense you, to realize a good person, (but tugged intensively): such firebrand, such astrology, while so gifted: our damp swamp, our terrible cadence, as approached by gila monsters: those addictive years, as never such grace, our apathetic compulsion: at watery skies, sipping acidic rain, bathing in something complicated: our muddy mountain, this horrid reality, while speaking about Jesus: such treachery, such facial insistence, while prone to sadness: such bold cries, this ignorant passion, this lucky death: if but by rose, this legacy in souls, our keen romance—those tired blueprints, our patient sun, at mornings disguising distrust….

…we gentle our storm, abased and wilderness, our coppice rushing into levity: those christic eyes, those cultic grins, this death so sweet: if but our animals, if but our treasures, if but our renegotiations: those banda instincts, this group of instruments, this melic-drama: this strong notion, that powerful scent, that chorus womb: if but to mention, as not to inflate, while precious a turn our alleys so darkened: our leitmotiv, our interior cadenza, while witnessed by doormen: our last cries, so embedded in miseries, so melancholic—at deep discussions, negotiating our tyrannies, drawing our horizon: those picturesque faces, so plural our abasement, at blue shivers our rivers invisible: to rush and pamper, to wipe our eyes, to sense something needing existence: to fall to pieces, right before patient moments, our minds seeming unsung: this space in souls, this agony bent towards winning, while having so much torn through tomorrow: those wildfire gestures, those various marks, those defensive characters: our nailed coffin, our desperate hearts, while I pine for electricity: this need for passion, our buzzing ears, to want just enough so outstanding: whittling cedar, whittling intensions, or whittling our first sincerity….

…we recite in color, those jasper flights, those black oaken eyes: to collapse from much, as seen for purpose, our bodies doing magic: gripping grass, this tussock of insight, studying something ontic: our critical seconds, our intensive moments, to tug so emphatically: while born to baptism, such promise those eyes, while harassed by something mantic: this space upon woes, those prosaic complications, so vulnerable, so unshod: to pant by mandolin, to fret by guitar, at threats and cellos and violins: this rage in passion, to gather our beings, while winning this loss of roses: our fair disaster, so radically sweet, our flux, demand and irony—this land of camels, this nature concerning gnats, our mirrors oblivious but reciting reflection: as rippling souls, so captured it stings, where essence dies for Mercy’s Grace....     …upon a teardrop, this arousal in souls, our combative discipline—as realized disciples, such apostolic pastures, so emphatic it was difficult to resist: this knotted belly, this knotted reality, at cores speaking at fountains: our days to magic, our minds to remedies, or passion so askew it’s difficult to forfeit: such voltage, pure electrical, while moving into something promising: our signage breath, our interior disagreement, our winds speaking in French: at tiers of light, at careless caves, as crushed upon beautiful melancholy: this curse in men, to sense disarray, to become a hero: but Love is so gentle, and Love is so dangerous, but Love is so delicate for this touch: such bluegrass, such mystical sugarcane, such reward our seashore abandonment: to fret injustice, but bodies resonate, and processes promise a wild adventure: where miracles live, this sin in souls, to win with a glint of distrust: this courageous survivor, this curious dolphin, this interior swimmer: at ocean ember, at mantis prayer, or terror so embedded it felt heaven….

Tender Capsules

…we face instruments, our wintry saxophone, our midmorning trumpets: facing our trouble, reciting our cadence, listening to self-talk: as gifted creatures, warring our grounds, a bit passive-aggressive: our long showers, our bodies communicating, our souls a bit silent: at doors looking, at internal acrobatics, our spirits weighing our sanities: (but a flower whispering, but a bee buzzing, but needed pollen and bones: to sift through troubles, to sing with Jesus, to nibble upon existence: those mental rooms, this treasured vestibule, this extensive hallway: our windows sit peacefully, our ceilings mock gently, our crevices permit ants to irritate us: as men fathom, this life of insistence, women fathom, this wealth of opportunity: if but this feeling, needing interaction, removed at once by interference: as eager creatures, longing for pasture, if but to return to something unsighted: our cups empty, our warmth vacillating, our children sensing something intangible: those deceased members, this half full horizon, our raspberry feelings): at soul-passage, an open book, our margins scribbled with insights: our evening soup, our turkey sandwich, our dreams with each bite: our sips noisy, our arms resistant, as pushing our meal aside….     …it seems inconsequential, looking for blueberries, or musing upon cartoons: such lenient topical(s), this day to sobriety, to sit gently: as feeling inheritance, remembering keen souls, watching that inner cinema: our hours at meddling, this medley of introspection, while needing to feel needed: such ambivalent responses, to something ingratiated, while absence confuses our constitutions: our minds absorbing, our homes with auras, our passion with limitations: to recite a prayer, to fiddle a clarinet, to search while seated—our days awaiting thunder, or conscious with waves, at an instant rising in chi: those paintings, speaking to existence, capturing a tiny insistence: as feeling our lives, sorting through minutia, roaming this private atmosphere: where doors open and voices chatter and we snap into a peculiar creature: this mother for some, this father for others, or this conglomerate of personalities: our ease with volume, our penchants with silence, our smiles with consequences….     …our religious orientation, while walking into science, where millions lose such religion: to meddle in spirits, to salute energies, to have for experiences: those subtle nuances, or something beyond explanation, to arrive later in life: this three sixty, our mother’s faith, our father’s measures, while attempting to guide a young soul: such mystic exponentials, such fervor in this soul, where mother is a bit concerned: our parts as playful, science, religion, passion and our mental compass—while laughing at reasons, to find with time, that someone was offended: our roots in Yahweh, or swans following Tradition, or others at something a bit by beginnings: our stoic beings, this ascetic slant, as denying comforts for something quite irregular: afforded college, those stern professors, or that persuasive influence: our thoughts stimulated, our minds and physiology, running through literature: those ramped questions, this inner retreat, while studying this young soul: to admit to silence, to feed with wonder, to wander this synaptic gap: our days fuller, our minds raving, while admiring this young soul: those furious passions, this furious debate, as searching libraries: to engender direction, as studying our constitution, as driven by our office: to proffer an answer, to research legacies, to introduce this young soul to vetted horizons: those little Buddha(s), those future mystics, or this diehard atheist: this vessel chasing wisdom, gripping to nothing, a bit drab and dreary: so filled with fire, so increasingly deliberate, while chastising perceived falderal: this empirical magnet, this charmer with facts, while totally moved by Love: this tangible/intangible angst, this fever in midnight, our souls indentifying something akin to God: those ramped intensities, this need for another human, our flowery language….

Swan Leaf

I love you; if but warned to love; where meaning becomes individualized: such odorous arcs, spent for damaged, at nights crying by intensities: those big beige eyes, those sun-ship horizons, at agonies to suggest love: this feudal enterprise, addicted to reflection, at remedies selected: our sky blue friends, if but this anguish, those hips dancing to solace: at Swanship, or casual inflection, our phones so lonely and absent: to die this path, to live this shore, while kicking our interior movies: if but more daughters, to sing as sung, while heroes practice our Tao: those turquoise margins, this interior quadroon, our families underestimating our  rockets: this faceless stranger, this abandoned mystic, at seldom a feeling content: those red/purple grins, this internet trip, at Europe hoping for acceptance: those intricate locations, to hate unto inversion, our worlds surfacing hybrid children: as bent sideways, our sidewalk massacres, while agony took center stage: those universals, this trepid candle, this radical fire.

…this burgundy green moon, this constant reminder, from hell beauty was formed: our register lives, our deep breathing, this cadence slipping but darkness: at serious lineage, at Africa retreating, at Germany falling into portals: our treacherous anguish, our brightly stars, this moonbeam Atlantis: those long legs, those perfected arms, that nape with its horizon: our friendly fire, our armor all tires, as metaphor for rolling into battles: that cautious gaze, those notebook poems, at prose and life stranded at infinity: this deep selection, this cursed science, at swan-life pushing into oblivion: those meditations, this Zenist Flame, at frequencies so charged it became normal: our mothers’ detention, our fathers’ retention, so close but feeling so afar—those round rubrics, this ruler advice, if but charmed to await elation: as stuck in pits, digging with anger, as found too resistant: to reclaim admittance, to climb gently, as arising queen of this fiasco: those charming ways, those charming insecurities, to float with passion: these years developing, this Batman introvert, those political reasons: to wonder concerning deaths, this forgiving institution, at wakes so deep China has requested excavation…those trenchant insights, to trust this mirrored self, to believe beauty has your essence: while cursed for confused, at films internally, to arise so passionate about existence: this daily miracle, this searching intellect, where such has invoked a mirage: our portioned sight, our deliberate trespass, our cured souls: to die with vengeance, to elope with wisdom, as fretting too much knowledge: this winter’s cape, this ever-warm-breath, while realizing something moves in reverse….

I adore this promise, if slipping into pit blackness, while roaming lighted halls: those trips to sanity, while punished for love, where in essence love was a mirage: this vehicle force, this centripetal language, those cries in eyes skating down memories: to soar with allegiance, to come by graces, at rehearsed examples: to find this self, as pitted in self, while self becomes this inclusive self: that interior person, this interior reminder, while loathing this reversed essence: at hard breathing, at cigars and wines, to exude a particular dimension: our hushed insanity, our intangible feelings, while cursed to display subjective experience: this foreign rule, this cooled atmosphere, while adored by treasures: this flight by ransom, to court a miracle, at parents lost by responses: this nonchalance, this typical dynamic, where men become aware of complexion: as yours is plurality, and yours is pragmatic, while yours senses a particular chasm: those jasper thoughts, this mental Mecca mentality, as one feeling indeterminate: this world of maybes, this class of heroes, while each culture struggles for identity: our separate agendas, our competitive interruptions, while it takes one dying for another to rise high: if but those roses, those innocent ways, to cultivate pure existence: as shedding inconsistencies, while cleaving to spoken word, to become an advocate of honest dealings: those portals in chimes, this exotic tulip, this cagey fire.

Fragile Delights

…our mystic wounds, our kleptic appetites, so spaced and mastered: our morning dairy, our English muffins, so controlled by feelings: emotions misspelled, souls mislead, or minds mangled: our bodies complaining, our bones rickety, our guts convulsing: those brains aching, those brains screaming, at agony kissing anguish: those times, Love, this anima, Love, at tears and torn, Love: our mystic wounds, this yogi delight, this proper relationship: those lines uncrossed, this planet in cores, at sins laughing: to slip passed, to enter suddenly, to realize an everyday thought: such imbalance, interior skunks, sipping on something gentle: our passions valued, our hearts capricious, to happen upon a thump: while shaking nicely, or scratching ears, as so fair our losses: this evil justice, to stream through hurt, to realize we never loved: that easy challenge, this walking mirror, to discover something intolerant: this hatred for men, this misanthropic contagion, while mirrors seem to speak too loudly: while forgetting gazes, lost for aborted, and raging at society: our mystic cries, our mystic wounds, our interior lakes: if but to live, as something must die, while building a fortress: our daughters giggling, our mothers watching, our fathers in tears: as something lingers, this public society, while coddled into certain rhythms: our nosy sins, our choice mistakes, while a child is introduced to mayhem….

…it fairs with gold, this silver ruler, this diamond hologram: our women so beautiful, or ruined with life, as appearing provocative: to sing with passion, to sponge a zillion, while sophisticated enough to relinquish appearance: our days counting, our symbols speaking, our tolerance for impatience: as abrasive nightmares, or caring catastrophes, where a man ruins his mind: those flights for souls, this writer’s affection, those cures so damaging: such beauty, to state it simplistically, as a man sacrifices over two decades: this tale about newness, this rich appetite, dreaming as captured in valleys: our neighbors vigil, our backs to jackals, our souls to lionesses: so gorgeous, so physically ridiculous, as a man bites more than Solomon could chew: at tales laughing, or stating our interests, where our skies are tumbling: such attitude, such vulnerability, such rich denial: to ponder a soul, after brief an encounter, to cross paths four years to brains: our dying ponds, this blue duck, this dyed goose—at miracles by agonies, while Love is dedicated to becoming noticed: those depressing years, those depressing smiles, to feel as if three years are ready: at casual arguments, at casual clocks, while gravity attacks our physicality: such unphysical rituals, such NARS and lights, as men watch, shift, and fish for screams….

…she made impressions, those outstanding miracles, as tracks and roads spoke pain—this foolish alimony, this foolish matrimony, our first born with tyrannies: as spaced and livid, as concerned and craving, while adorable spells catastrophe: our charms so innocent, our months so quickly, those hellish, demanding, even dynamic thirteen weeks: that announcement, curdling his guts, for Love appeared so free with life: our needs so secret, this thirst at goddess-hood, this need to retrieve worship: as driven souls, so resplendent, so devastating, so elastic—at highs our youths, at adolescent praise, while we search for childlike admiration: this film on reply, this valiant triumph, where a woman goes crazy for certain men: our obvious charms, our obvious deception, while Love digs and digs and dies: such mystic wounds, such resonance, such symbols and keys: this flying frenzy, this flagrant digest, at digital dynamite: those restricted elements, or so gone and so seductive and destined to capture a zillion hearts: so opalescent, so giddy, so grown: such intimidation, as trying to keep pace, where Love has died for those seconds: our bleeding networks, our casual sins, our trespasses seeming electric….    

Intimate with It

I fiddle a magazine; I set it gently; I step aside myself: such musical rain, such deep beginnings, at multiple faucets: this facet in souls, this longing in souls, at furious debilitation: at whales and octopuses, wrestling Freedom, accursed and gentle: those welkin scars, this popular estate, at religion peering too closely: those ebbing eyes, such rich conviction, such absolute Truth: we cringe at it, we see issues, we become outcasts: those delectable figs, this need for credibility, as it becomes outrageous frustration: but lights to souls, as living in estates, as conversing with pillows: our deep treacheries, by such nonchalance, while eager for something promising.

…open wounds cry, scandals come to sing, our days so gentle with agonies: this purple sun, this raging star, our celestial bodies: at rugs intimately, at floor-beds rebuked, or something screaming forwardness: while looking backwards, while gripping winds, at something quite romantic: our embedded faces, while discerning life, a bit too cautious, a bit too reckless: at Cajun spices, or tender contentions, studying interior wiles: our stomachs rumbling, our sins waning, our lives waving: at incredible seasons, to hush a silent contempt, while at third base headed to our return: such reasonable lights, to place with time, at something a dream and moving mountains…our steaks with garlic, our broccoli with cheese, our minds with phantoms: at so many mirrors, despite, redemption, at caves reinvented….

I lit a cigar, took a few drags, and put it out: I stared at mirrors, took a few surprises, and walked away: I looked at you, this essence from you, as something you can’t give: this bowl of petals, our popery, at outstanding sensibilities: as walking forward, tugged backwards, this internal visionary: such palatial kindness, such remote peaches, such distance cursed by inevitabilities: those revolving doors, this ceiling fan, those universal chandeliers: at such mercy, to need such conveyance, at internal skies—this turquoise heaven, this lake of terror, those told purgatorial adventures: to rehearse our courses, to dig into crates, to pitch madness and controversy: our colder chills, our warmer cries, at myths, soot, and blackdamp: such courage to resist, such insistence upon normality, where most settle for caprice: this thin layer, this surprising treasure, at one a certain way: where others perished, longing for intimacy, refusing those terms and conditions: at deep inhalation, to exhale a volcano, where reality seems interdependent.

…it drills sensibilities, this ice with lemon, our lime with noodles: at trenchant motion, or settled into stillness, while incumbency proves its parts: such cabinet romance, such frozen beef, unthawed and served raw: this place in sin, this admonished soul, or too much gusto at cries: our running rivers, our immovable sediments, or that faraway mermaid: to relish in dens, to advise of turmoil, if but to feel relaxed internally: this moving mountain, this playful island, while stripped of just about existence: those red moons, this bloody sight, at courage if but enough: as giving everything, while required for more, where we stumble upon essence to give…those cats giggling, and clawing furniture, but too adorable to chastise: our mental soup, our distaste for agonies, or so lost it feels good to adventure: to see imperfectly, while clinging to such perception, at others giving this legacy: our deep resistance, while something is speaking, at trials for treasures: to seem perfect, or some type of human, our years searching for Superwoman: our laundry spread out, our needs for privacy, as not for redemption: this tale as idealized, while many have want for sameness, despite, this typical, polite death: as needing adventure, as requiring our curses, at roses and chains and dark blue magic….     

Wishes become Surprises

…one so gently, one so designed, to possess miles of courage: as deleted in shadows, or pleated in cores, while arranged and dying softly: such intimate attraction, this innocent confidant, while abrasive concerning atmospheres: our blackened minds, our dark marshes, our wilderness of apes: those reluctant arts, as spaced by gravel, at something so abstract it appears concrete: those movies at nine, those centerfold models, or this tale of time so chaste: our moving hearts, singing as sung about, while women are appearing daily: such robust hips, such talkative thighs, as a man resorts to shamans in his thoughts: those shapely lakes, this endless scent, those perfected arms: to dine with justice, to argue with justice, to wrangle so close to affairs with justice: those evening captures, those concubine queens, or one wife and all it entails: if but our sepulchers, if but our dreams, to arise after months at rest: this green island, at such elasticity, while reamed by concerns: those gray masks, this scythe whining, so charged by inevitability….

…it kills me, pained, alive and dying, fielded in pure survival: to see us living, to sense multiple jails, at chow-hall: those rose-tips, those rosehips, those tyranny anklets—at music escaping, if but those seconds, at hands-on sacrifices: this chill I spoke, this woman so alert, to need that for self: those cagey eyes, that cagey brain, those spheres looking into insanity: at pure deaths, while making love, to climax and push away: this Man’s World, this Woman’s Gravity, to need something exclusively ours: this perfect capture, this inverted caricature, such blue lighted insurance: those Noah days, this Gideon charm, at tyrannies pleading with Joshua: our blood green disease, our purple red elixirs, at justice laughing at irony: those women, so seductive, to realize high class society: at years of training, at down-call legacies, while typing this existence: this precious everything, this song undergirded, our loins bleeding cryptic insanity: those pale complexions, or ocean browns, at something too chocolate to receive a hearing: this curse at laws, our draconian passions, at Germany peering at something passionate: this Russian art, this peculiar scholastic, those fair creatures: to die forever, our plans shot to hells, at deliverance chuckling over Our Eucharist….

I adored you early, so familiar and sick, so enlove and blotted: to passion as death, to fuel as kef, one last tick, one last breath: to child my mind, to adult my spirit, where loving was so difficult: to ignore mud, to exalt heinous, where possession was always out of reach: this film replaying, our Isley’s blazing, if but this time to exist with deaths: those womb treatments, this flex and tug, at times so dearly demented: if but to exist, if but to die, at Love agonizing gently: our bellies speaking, over eighty children, so sick it felt behaved: those deadly pushes, this infinite tulip, those red blossoms—as cried profanity, our lyric with pain, our tales with omissions: this life for naivety, this tragedy for innocence, to realize, It takes a great deal: our women churned-out, our men turned-out, while both are playing soul-harps: to perish gently, to return with bass, to thump, perform, and abase inclinations: this fair death, this fairer resurrection, this black blue moon.

..we come to closure, this exotic machine, this emphatic lover, at core frustration, to decipher parenthood, while Love appeared so charmed: this vessel at Rome, this capital at Europe, this voyager at Africa: this hybrid inclination, those hybrid insights, at miracles claiming perfection: this blind maniac, this blind fool, if but to possess for half a second: as some are possessed, as some alluring, to wish for ultimate desecration….

Decode Life

…so delicate to senses, so aggressive with lights, as formed in Greece: or roaming Haiti, lost in jewels, spinning with humanity: our grave-life, our sky-arrangements, at souls spacing into lightning: such fair characteristics, such a vague approach, while sensing something empirical: such non-existence, such shaky cessation, at battles and winning: this blank canvas, those ink-blots, asked several things longing: to mis-print existence, to map our cries, at existential geographic(s): this interior book, while flipping pages, so reminiscent of life—those snails oblivious, those meerkats questioning deserts, our taller tales and tragedy: if but such love, to know insecurity, while a gesture erases hesitation: indeed, such magenta auras, or offensiveness quite alluring, this chase in souls: at silence and loudness, at rooms and cages, while unlocked treading our outskirts: this configuration, those daily mechanics, at peace a gentle kiss….

…we share romance, as dying to live it, so outstanding a frozen rose: this sea of chocolate, this ocean spread afar, those intricate shorelines: as men laughing gently, as Love awakens, where something inconsequential offers promise: to remove silence, to greet eternity, afloat an island in Europe: such turquoise waters, such free-flowing motion, our years searching for powers: to invoke a blessing, while glowing ambiguities, to arise as monsters with tyrannies: our shattered cries, our purple hopes, fleeing into reciting arms: but life so remote, and life so capricious, where certainty seems aloof: this daily challenge, this edgy reality, this sacred church….     I get lost at times, rewound in thoughts, but feeling presence: this take on justice, this lance at metaphors, our deep trepidation: fiddling leaves, rummaging soil, and pruning inhibitions: at hours particular concerns, to imagine Love, as fixing something eternal: such weight exploding, such petals upward, while trekking downstream: our managed chaos, our luxury imprints, at voice-marks and arrows: to deceive self, if but to breathe, afforded parts of reality: this sane man, this insane texture, while haunted by existence: at prayer daily, if but this release, as never searching for too much: this sake in sakeness, this vehicle exercised, this subtle realization: at something deeper, at something philosophic, at something theological: our ontologies, our cosmologies, our teleological beliefs: if but to awaken, if but one cigar, while daily at particular thoughts: while unfinished, while upholstery watches, while stomachs demand something edible: those replayed films, those telemarketers, as asking for accountability: such architecture, this mental edifice, at Descartes meditating metaphysics: this gentle insistence, our touch on arrogance, at moon and sun and star….

…it becomes fire, those sediments, those biblic curses: as forcing retraction, in a fundamental circle, while arguments run for millennia—such sweet aromas, such wiggly vines, steep into this space for fools: at redeemed expectation, and charmed to believe, while needing foot to mountain: at internal tablets, sensing reality, approaching something aloof and holy: our madness minds, at thought-mistakes, our bodies depicting such evidence: as sworn to silence, where tomorrow seems gentle, but seconds appear harsh: this wheel spinning, Ezekiel at bones, our beliefs challenging our expectations: this fret in time, this inlet-cry, at moments needing soundness: if but our lives, if but our careers, at stakes plucking our begonias: as sent persons, at courage-valleys, seated in something meditative: our brief rest, our inevitable return, passing gardens and rebirths: this living respect, those rosemary eyes, as sent to decode life….  

Sky Scratch

I’m losing this part, this interior self, this Colossian Essence: murmuring to winds, lively with squirrels, while destined a dreary algebra: if but to dance, this pillaging sensation, at guts and loins: if but more sequences, more alertness, more something askew: at soft music, perusing metrics, so lost by American Industry: those  lofty feelings,  craving something African, a bit re-screwed into our fabric: such beautiful pride, such courageous warriors, plus, this slant towards women: my first image, my first consultation, my ruminating glory: despite, certain tragedies, despite, travesty, and so blessed it never lead to hatred: our deeper roots, plus, this passion, while women adore those men that hate them: such literature, such reversed introspection, such inverted passion: at mystic poetry, or political prose, where both seem to sting: at various websites, looking for this reflective nature, in so deep it leaks into margins: our ghetto faculties, our mental sensorium, at tombs speaking tribally: our school district chaos, our college introductory, to stumble upon someone finding themselves: our steep responsibility, to gently nudge, while evangelists are searching for longing souls: this product of ecclesia, this cataphatic allegiance, while some merely need space.     …leave me lost, and I’ll find home, or death or infatuation: leave me hell-soaring, divest the best of us, and discard something that no-longer fits: rearrange fate, plead for seriousness, and wonder why heads are churning….     …this reborn flesh, to imagine that past-self, while some are there, in that space, reliving high school: at seventy or six grade, at life with miracle dice, where some are cemented in something like motion: our nights searching, where instant beauty fades, a particular reason to invest early: but what for cries, this internal compass, when life appears misused: (at something thinking, this radical force, at major intrusion: those few  by birth, our father’s gifts, so afar it’s cold to speak: this internal leakage, this familiar grin, while adored by something held personal: those red flowers, followed by green signals, if but this space so internal: those immoral responses, those immoral persons, this self-talk evolved in interior ridges—as sunk so aborted, this life to rooms, while feeling content with language: our feudal cries, this spoken remedy, if but this internal apocalypse: as small infractions, or too many years at disappointment, or receptive heroes fully intoxicated)….     I’ve thought to silence, as creative as evolution, as rebuked as a second thought: to picture in essence, this mechanism of significance, at strong interrogation: this light rosette, our hectic beliefs, at ranges guessing ulterior motives: as plotting forever, to arrange mastery, as such to fail and could get a bit closer: such arranged hearts, or deep disappearance, while located walking into gates: this field of night-ghosts, this phantom empire, or love so ingested it leaks through pores: at Biorè instincts, at Neutrogena facials, at Newport lungs—as despite this life, this interior fortress, so silent, so revealing—thereto, this value trespassed, this value inverted, to value so intensely our eyes grow dim: at miles to justice, where years shall pass, while elders grow numb: but this is love, this marvelous sacrifice, this forbidden sky-scratch.     …we close at miracles, to need to call it curtains, this flurry of rainbows: those deep bridges, this flippant moon, at desperate explanations: with life and bone, digging with expectation, while furious concerning reality: such half science, such deciding pastures, at something too slick to capture: our re-wrung ambition, our terrific cries, our blazing sun….        

Blackhole Sunlight

…our diary stages, plush with nose twitches, or blotches of ink: sunrise coldness, or blue lake warmth, at tender mercies: our sleepy eyes, at incessant rubbings, a tad towards fussy: if but our lives, invested in ourselves, we’d love a bit more: those acorn theologies, this acorn response, to approach with affection: such crackling layers, such coconut linage, as time spins around Sophia: such deep budding, such roots with magic, such mythic/mystic instruction….

…those torrid ponds, those dying nails, as so lost but trekking near sanctuaries: to reverse sights, to lie for passion, to erase gnawing erasers: to nibble injustice, to claim fury, as built to breathe: this long spoon, this shortened fork, running for shoving only to relapse: our curvaceous art, this tale to ears, our flesh plush red: at purple wines, at purposed hopes, while so hated we see violence: at quietude, roaming caves, to happen upon mermaids: such fairy-dust, such angel-cries, such dusky stardust: this elegance, this sewn equation, those eloquent dolphins: as mother would, if father should, while years fell between us: at oily faces, at oily pastas, at pure flavor: as shunned but breathing; or delicate, romantic trauma; so far removed it’s difficult to placate….

…you’ve earned respect, this colony of vandals, while culture demeans your essence: such vulgar responses, such erased gentility, while Love desires her portion: this tragic, tender massacre—those almond knuckles, this magenta ship, those immovable waves: to embrace diligence, or womanly splendor, at nightlight singing by sirens: those facial muscles, our brains attacking faces, at something so intense: this mythic math, this trance aria, at poison sipping justice: to swivet suddenly, to grip carpet, to leave a puddle: something wrested was something lost, and Love has pure audacities: our inmost deaths, while to reach for names, as backwards falling into Sheol: this old friend, to embrace his guts, while sensing an image your face: those days to thinking, those seconds something followed, while so formless, so cold, so pathetic….

…at gathering sunlight, to space it in bottles, to mail it so close so afar;—made privy in prayer, made private by attorneys, made eager for repenting: fulgence outsoared, passion becoming fire, our years to studying Elijah: those few seconds, to die repeatedly, as snapping out of bewitchment: this fragrant spell, this flippant nonsense, while Love was suddenly adorable: this major fantast, those becoming sanctums, while distinguished as one a bit slanted: those fair reasons, if but to assassinate, if but to reverse love: at phantom eyes, or sutured cries, evermore, this pearl offered through sin: at mystical damages, our chemistry askew, our overseers taking concerns: at black moons, or cyan/orange sunlight, while so confused but trailing deserts: this fairer chase, while losing maps, to journey by pure hope….

I thought to live; I lived assuming deaths; it lives this social atmosphere: to witness classes writhing, even at struggle, while Love just glistens: to swelter in presence, to revoke sensibilities, to have for sights a few poses: our counter-involvement, at station and rapture, to feel a bit too ideological: those blueberry stars, those indifferent compliments, or this paranoid, lovesick, and impassive nightmare: at graves within, at castles within, seeping into this tragic bliss: our dear mystics, our dearer Jesus, spent for galaxies and longing forever—those energies, to hear that voice, as something ahead of so much trauma.      

More, is an Appetite

…it’s becoming a miracle, this fine thread, this latent hope: those curly gravels, this metal lunch, at pasta for wisdom: to perish with deaths, to arise with courage, at pride and greed and desperation: as born with magic, our controversial genetics, to admit particular differences: this sad songbird, this humming adventure, those vales so determined: at sipping gently, at so behaved, while adoration waffles about: those inhibitions, this interior music, those gray anniversaries: to die your arms, to arise with vengeance, while seated in some hospital: this lovely creature, while falling to pieces, to admit too much is never enough: our casual cries, while a man studies, if but to prove worthy of such faith: our black women, stirred into frenzies, and so relaxed with devastation: our rubescent, mahogany and jasmine queens: to listen with appreciation, to feign completion, while gazing at white men: indeed, stories to utter and dimes to spin and quarters for this poet’s opinions: that trifle word, this trite address, this shallow Christian: at something core-shaped, at internal theology, to test one in plain view: those reflexive lights, this illumination, or courage to suggest wrongness: at Love aching, to witness such destruction, while asking the impossible: to deny womanhood, to take for flights, to need a man three tiers into reality: our generational curses, to those that hate, this phrase often omitted: and time was gentle, those years at youth, while time clutched for gripping to assail a young lad: at grayer skies, enveloped in patience, but quite eager for passion: those Shirley dimples, those jasper highlights, at radical, even demonic suggestions: to touch this island, as one encapsulated, where, and, therefrom, this sudden appetite….     …at celestial food, at stonefish breakfast, peering at something deceitful: to waver at Love, to redeem Love, to intrude upon Love: those endless questions, our new beginnings, while placating something intolerable: indeed, a glimpse, indeed, a musical, while ruth said about adoration: this intense woman, those business instincts, to realize we tolerate something inevitable: that is, this extraordinary person, in this extraordinary hemisphere, at this extraordinary horizon: (some may notice, and some may pursue, and some may luck into a dynasty): but yours is gentle, and yours is complete, and though you wrangle none shall triumph: this casual harassment, those opaque feelings, that early afternoon fight: where Casanova deigns, and Casanova complains, and Casanova whines: this endearing effect, this push down lanes, this incredible affliction: as hating resistance, and hating impulsive thoughts, while at love so crucial: to request his brains, to redeem his heart, to tell fever to run along: this Woman’s Work, this daily machine, our hapless love: hitherto, this captured ecstasy, our hourly revivals, while guileless with integrity….     I’m losing focus, about something tugging, but reality is void of evidence: I fawn over lights, to chance one reality, while alone a back-haven crowd: our bleeding moon, to hate his guts, while we feel good with secrets: those shattered homes, those fair participants, at evils too rich to endure: and more be said, this casual passion, needing blood-work: our subtle clamps, as so determined, despite souls dying: hither, we exist, and, thither, we evolve, and, hither, we accept incorrigible: this bright appetite, moving to survive, while Love exhibits characteristics.     …if but to attain—this level in ideals, while stripped of spiteful glances: our perfect pretenses, our dazzling machines, our caprice with justice: at deep remorse, those years with mistresses, this public confession…to re-die, to ask for perfection, while studying some woman’s gait: to have for trysts, those years to flights, abandoned to something interior: such body parts, such sullenness, such defeat looking for something better: even as crying, to ask for more, while settling for participants: to need Firebirds, even Bentleys, or trillion dollar conversation: to flux by cuff, to mimic a dynasty, to impress with dates, times, and countries….

Castle Swan

I imagine dialogues, cornerstones, and Babylon: this young daughter, this huge world, those existential shards: roaming galaxies, reading literature, or becoming Zen: this peaceful sorrow, this machinery power, this conglomerate of frustrations: that blue moon, at mother’s wits, partaking of peaceful homes: our habits molding, our treasures unraveled, our omission seeping into our marrow: untold tales, lying frenzies, or goodness enduring its punishment: too much too soon, too little too greatly, as vanishing into crowded loneliness: our welted memories, our jogged sentiments, our cherished few: such mental contacts, such intestinal phones, our cellular(s) raging throughout citadels: those beautiful cranes, our invaded skies, at skis and inhibitions: our first encounters, our awkward knowingness, our fumbling manifests: to relive, to rethink, to be imbued and sacrifice life: those small persons, such innocence aloft, while we mold characteristics: this infinite job, this introduction to Job, or such biblical controversy: otherwise, so empty, or chasing dreams, while somewhat impatient: this pathology, this mean insistence, this casual undertaking: our chase for joy, more over pain, and justified despite rain: therewith, this daughter’s charm, this son’s gusto, or father’s stern gaze: at granny laughing, at tears smiling, at portraits removed from life: our acrylic natures, our tones in fluorescence, our gifts constructed in second grade: this treasury for parents, this box that closet, this place mother dwells: at patent miracles, at gravy with existence, at money and chance and dice—this field of attributes, to explain, Ultimate, while feeling apophatic: those mystic delights, this mystic family, or those pragmatic rules: to guide eternity, to live forever, neatly tucked away: our souls flying, our gentility received, while adverse to certain characteristics: our dreg cities, our dreg ways, our interior ghettoes: such drug abuse, such loses, such rigidity: indoor traps, outdoor traps, at this life insistent upon gathering figs.    

…someone seeped in, by this fortress of doubts, while doubt is liberating: this misfortune, this hideous creature, while quite imprisoned: such paradox, such beautiful matrimony, this plethora of written dilemmas: to adore creatures, lost in worlds, such marsh and fens and mayflies: our short existence, peering into daughters, if afforded such greatness—in which, we breathe, if but again, gripping something we fail to possess: those long necks, those tired glens, those gusty eyes: as men needing obsessions, if but to soar, if but to lay claims to existence: those wiggly toes, those structured responses, while such innocence has been exposed: our street knowledge, our remnants, or this yearning in humans—if but to fly, if but reception, if but social acceptance: hereinto, our carry-along mirrors, this self-consciousness, as it raves so loudly: at moments feeling insync, at tragedy thrown to wolves, to readjust and find solace: this thinking principle, to realize rules, while fashioned, thereby: our casual goodbyes, our uncomfortable hellos, where so much has been knitted: this dear swan, this fairer person, as flying in details: our books laughing, our studies giggling, where father pines for instruction: this neat prayer, this corporate understanding, this business-like contract: our stock-exchange, our interior casinos, at a particular thought ten years running: our life’s work, our pursuit to overcome, our survivors becoming lecturers: if but with song, something melic sensation, or telic advice: this thetic memory, this thetic woman, this thetic distance: as cool at times, but off-putting, by thinking she appears: this visitor in Psalms, this valley of darkness, this illuminating trouble-spot: but yours is success, while adrift through spaces, to have something so decadent: such vernacular, such high-rise linguistics, such daily motivations: to write as lost, to find as captured, to throttle intelligence: our black resistance, our inclusive hearts, our miracle manifests…!

…if but we adored!

…silent admiration, interior glinty eyes, a body warring its life: such casual sin, such flinty auras, such reasonable suggestions: our roaring agonies, sifting through meadows, running with shamans: those gifted women, this rifting radiance, those effulgent caves: (to die pleasantly, to sense body chemistry, so submerged in theology: those trenchant gazes, that interior glint, our radical dissatisfaction): if but to live, accustomed to stronger women, looking at something too haughty for gentility: or but I lie, this calm, intelligent, even rubescent formality: at wilderness and chaos, at sharp nearness, so close it bounces repeatedly: to become this miracle, to adore this cadence, our walking sleepiness: as souls encompassed, as visitors to this planet, or more, as souls transmigrated: those haven arcs, our primate cousins, this particular feeling: to adjust language, to maintain innocence, while animals roar through kingdoms: this harem of rituals, this twist through lakes, our tears falling gently—this black horizon, this lovework, our dreams our lifeworks: as looking closely, and fretting emotion, our seas as keeping our glossaries: this foolish beast, to adore while wolves gather, those interior machines: our white oaks, our reasonable caricatures, at something that refuses vocality: (but Love is surrendering, and Love is agonies, and Love is suffering softly: those rules we engender, this amplified disaster, at rules seeming quite pathetic: our cultural ideals, our cultural cabinets, our kabala cries: those Jewish Rites, those European Séances, our American Love: to perish laughing, unaware of distaste, while Love desires to tell her story: if but with vocals, or volcanic oils, or sulfur seas—our crossed legs, our open arms, our meditative auras: to see with eyes, to probe a conversation, to exude womanly characteristics: those camerawomen, those arrow-men, or infatuation becoming scholarship)….     I try to ignore pain, this field of mentalities, this core of groceries: this plagued silence, this silent woman, this silent father: to ponder a daughter, this world coming, this mother quite in-tuned: our nutshells, our sick religiosity, our women trying desperately: this crucial point, this crucial moon, this world where sex is underappreciated: but yours so soft, and you carry kryptonite, and you die with passion: this man’s world, and so misappropriated, and rockets thresh our interiors: at thoughts looking, at years advanced, or so casual we walk away disappointed: this foolish theologian, this maniac philosopher, this earlobe poet: at inner voice, at inner channels, engaged in pure flights: our tears roaming, our dreams at mercy, our deaths so casual.     …if but to redeem Love, as us and nothing living, or rebuked for kissing softly: those times we met, this casual location, this indifferent communication: to become so gentle, as awakening inclinations, to die so radically: as poly-amorous, or needing a few, but stressed by social-contracts: as eating wood, or gnawing metal, or something so precious following us home: this silver love, this golden ache, or purely, I need to invest more….                 

Needle’s Eye

…at brainstorm weather, to give immortal elegance, to sift and chaff and dance: our green souls, purchased by experience, longing for convergence: at asthmatic feelings, so close it agonizes, so distant it feels like comfort: our miracle quilts, our northern mirrors, at sound and whale waves: something so remarkable, something so outstanding, our inner antennas: at ringing phones, answering by electricity, or reviewing messages: if but immortal beauty, our rites of passage, to feel evolved in fifty years: at tales by courage, in which we see, by which we chance: those changing feelings, our deeper upheavals, attempting at this essence by normality: our mystic helium, our yogi sensation, our minds engulfed by subtle energies: so telepathic, but dearly inadequate, whereas, something written tends towards clarity: this guessing miracle, this miracle guessing, while frequencies nudge just about everyone: such deep resilience, a palm filled with algae, or better, a prophetess reaching her debut….

I feel detached, where something has tentacles, where music is playing gently: such delicate tone, such minute bass, at something appearing faceless: those days so long, our nights shortened, our evenings reviewing us: at subtle cadence, resounding in connection, to imagine a stranger seeking silence: those mental maps, as powerful individuals, where one has meditated for three generations: coupled by more science, thrusting through our universe, at seconds so steep it seems uncanny: to assimilate answers, to coddle particular premises, reaching but short by conclusions: those miracle miles, this castle in souls, our arts, our rivers, our miracles.

…it can get dreary, searching for dolphins, and surfing for faces: those riveting moments, so close by appearance, so steep in visions: or easier this life, where we assign an image, while it looks like family: our church waves, our dynamite preachers, as blended into thunder: our allusions, at pure sophistication, seeking to bestow an immortal elegance: our searching caves, those children coming soon, while trekking familiar terrain: our seated grandparents, our photo albums, or this oaken table: so elongated, such augmentation, while covered by manuals: those snippets of immortality, our souls conversing with legends, to become particular consciousness: whereby, we dance gently, we fly higher, our winds chaffing from dryness….

I desire distance, to pull away, for it appears senseless: but feelings convey—this heart in souls, while defeated our pulses are wrangling: our minds revolving, this scythe speaking science, our makeup appearing such fire: as men disappointed, as women exacerbated, whereat, we clash with silence: our foreign children, our foreign parents, our fascination with animals: to sense something keen, even familiar, while believing in rationality: our trenchant abilities, to rethink our positions, to dance so creatively: at hearth and soul, at diamond and legacy, spawned by turtles: this blending into reality, our eggs crackling, our minds searching out more abstracts: this elusive sky, this abrasive, cold-like pavement, or realism appearing with its bias: to sing with essence, to fly with passion, while demanded to re-chisel our importance: as floating through time, pulled by perception, and such rigidity those perceptions.             

Counting Feathers

…such pure effects, such bubbly trance, those rosy white petals: to soar gently, over sores and fungi, while racy and disrupted: our shivering hearts, our threshed souls, so demented and ugly: at Life’s Events, such pure wine, such dying upheavals: (we knew kef, we invited poison, we seemed surprised: such blue deaths, such capricious emotion, as never this exhilarating): those gray anvils, this galloping distraction, while running so fast: those ghosts so forceful, our eyes so smoky, eating too much to chew: our minds, with such concern, listening to outer static: if but to adore, if but Sunday choir, if but this simplistic approach: either this way or that way or we don’t exist: (this lightning curse, at deep marvels, debating our inheritance): those foolish rules, controlling our masses, while we cut corners: such governed pain, oblivious to our puppeteer, and deaf to salutations for puppets: such deep sorrow, to watch us dying, to feel so removed: this pot of mystery, this mystic discomfort, or pure cultic exhaustion: our gunning adventures, our tormented souls, at clarity and medieval rapture: such darkness, such religious domination, such art, music, and damnation: if but with heaven, this wrench grappling, those pliers wrangling: at chimpanzees, communicating existence, to meet with such absence: our blatant excuses, those few charmers, at terror and pride and more terror: invested in memories, cursed and discounted, while many are suffering that first bungee: as seeping into lights, afforded three wishes, while multiplying this one expression….

I entered suspicion, this inevitable journey, so foolish to perish: those laughing pleats, our re-polished tables, our neighbor’s feeling empathy: this crazed happenstance, those numerous visitors, our needs for personal space: but life is mystic, this arc of velvet rose, this clanging while restless: our devilish flirtations, our under-studied beings, where agony convinces its story: this timely argument, inverting our terrors, while thrust for damaged speaking gates: such blueberry magic, such raspberry wands, at something more an undercurrent.

…to adore such resonance, to chime is perspective, as one alive but hidden from reflection: such cryptic stitching, such cultic literature, at something too far to receive: this interior fire, this upholstery landscape, or eyes so steep we look to sky-elves: at tyranny and skill, at drillings and castles, at flame and universes: those troubled aches, this English Heart, our particular wires: at souls engraved, into something with stars, to tug at outer-spaces: such psychic energies, such flaming ghosts, to evaporate gently into beige matter….

…it’s mystic texture, so deep we chant, so electric we flutter: such flaring fences, such lambent minds, at ease and reaching silence: this presence heart, those inner dirt piles, this familiar garden: our notepads, our ink-writers, our hardcopies: at cages within, flipping into compounds, alive a second those chances: to dance gently, those remarkable feathers, those internal sanctuaries: if but to live, this way with arcs, this way with isolation…. 

Rather than Self & Rather at Cliffs

…something so gray, to love beyond insanity, to need pure spectacular, even irrational: those hanging dandelions, this flippant cloud, those wild leaves speaking depression: this gentle magnet, this gentle flower, to pull backwards lashing out: this falling leap, rolling into petroglyphs, about something quite peculiar: this lying tongue, this lying history, this lying flesh: at beauty resistant, at life this secret, as one under-qualified for theology: those sorrowful priests, this inclusive philosophy, at something overly pragmatic: our dreams, Passion; our feral intestines, Passion; our quivers spent and leaking, Passion: those arrows, Dynamite, this future, Swan, at Love aching for invisibility: to swoosh at rest, to awaken upon flame, at minor prophets: otherwise, such tears, at Zephaniah chuckling, at Amos admiring, while something spins injustice: this vandal, at violent literature, so vexed doctoring by theses: (at major threats, to have something precious, while wrung for flung dipping into mental traffic: this Lamborghini, this mahogany Lexus, at Bentleys crying imperfection: those curved feelings, those a.m. cookies, at milk and tea: this atypical creamer, those creative loses, to remember something so painful: to shed a river, to ask for arms, to suggest a certain sentence: this tugging sky, this pulling earth, while it was meant for a moment: such lemon grass, such cricket noise, looking eye to gut: this furious plaintive, this defendant laughing, our money speaking justice): at something inherited, this genetic intelligence, at deep controversies: to remember something in pain, while steep those rebounds, to enter new relations while un-healed: that villain manic, those deep marks, while Love behaved according to lusts: to frustrate axis, to pivot a nightmare, to become a nightmare….     I’m growing strong, this fair entity, but suffering from humanity: those opera eyes, those symphony lips, so romantic but distant—if but to relax, if but this ship, at seas, at ghosts, at something incredible: as agony descends, as mythologies instruct, as dying becomes these rites of passage: at deep inconsistencies, dying and sipping, confused and pushing—at forward motion, a bit too cursed, while settling into an uncomfortable habit: this roaring epitome, those otiose gestures, as magnetized into something grand: this inner fleet, those outer fleece, at furious distractions: our acute minds, threshed by experience, where we become sluggish: this inner chase, if but excitement, while sold to something paranoid: that interior message, this constant evaluation, our brains becoming prisoners: at Love guessing, at Love despising, or so abhorred our thoughts are irregular: at major ventures, to meet by disaster, at Destiny’s Hands: those warn sentiments, this need for horizons, at self-esteem debating merits.     …so deceived and valiant, so succinct and off-base, where it felt normal to go through hell: such indoctrination, our resistant bodies, those specious arguments: but needing to believe, and needing to die, at salient, unorganized portraits: feeding koi, such sweet ambrosia, while so cuffed internally: this barred gate, those sounding chains, at nights viewing our arrivals: such breach and chaos, such tender disbelief, at moments wrestling caprice instincts: this battle in souls, this deceptive, guileless battle, while roaming this interior blueprint: as made to perish, or made to enjoy existence, or this ruthless, and ruth-driven correlation: to burgeon at seconds, this love for humanity, at something beautiful seeming unfortunate: our cries through parks, our small hidden animals, while so for passion it’s hard to resist: headlong and dangerous, at courage improperly, to invest years in something about secrets: or touched by angels, this treasure in diamonds, this truffle in cloves: our latent, underdeveloped communion—at inner shivers, at interior films, so adjusted to altering reality: so transparent, or so opaque, but, nonetheless, so wonderfully intoxicating: as olden tyros, or classic sinners, or something indwelling….      

Firewater

…an old slave homage, a new land in souls, as fueled speaking quasi-truths: our waveform’d behaviors, so sick with substance, and too brave to apologize: our whiny protests, our elixir with memories, or this flame arising and disappearing: a woman’s spark, at fire-glaciers, or deep emotion-ice: to love and panic, to become something imagined, at rare courses with souls: our mind-sharks, so incredibly at ease, or seconds before rage: to ask pertinent responses, looking at something languishing, that soft voice, so absent and cruel: those raspy lungs, this semi-sobriety, as one yells at absurdity: indeed, so close it aches, so afar it reaches, and so cursed it feels normal: those quick reads extracting insecurities, while certain to ignore falderal: those tandem eyes, those workshop calves, or just for admiration: this internal mailbox, flowing with letters, as time manicures interior portraits: so close we see, so enthralled we vanish, so disillusioned we gnaw debris: this gain in tales, this piano-typewriter, or this chilly guitar: where anguish was polite, as not to rob us, of every violin of dignity: those remorseful grins, those crackling cheeks, if but one first dance: our falling faces, our radical scars, where father pimped harder….

I’d review pain, as something intimate, sudden a fixture at gray eyes: I’d maintain tact, looking at something simple, afraid to imagine attraction: I’d flicker switches, and turn fire low, while watching thermometers: this radiant torch, this iron for pressing, those dresses adorning imperfection: our partial pictures, those pantomime voices, while lost at cultural holds: this interior go-to, to fail our humanity, while sipping certitude: this chase in humans, our best consensus, our cathartic numbness: as souls with insects, or crickets with fevers, this country of old souls: so roundabout, to suggest attraction, while it’s difficult to review: this bucket of dice, this palm of trumps, or jumping-jacks seeming immortal: this land of gadflies, this horse and goad, or this gnat and cup: to rebuild admiration, to capture a subtle goodbye, or to reknit a casual dismissal: our blue, hazel, green eyes, our terrific greetings, or noises spelling our contention: as mere bodies, or flowering intuition, afforded one chance at feeling goodness.

…embolden print; or italic emotion; looking at pure sexuality: to erase his thoughts, to regroup, at appearances casting doubts: our failed eye-capture, our promised discontent, at something a lantern beneath a table: while mother nudges, and father is reserved, and cousin sips a glass of orange juice: our tears disguised, our faces glowing, at something more indelicate than it appears: this slurring numbness, this sober horizon, our trombones serenading our saxophones: to reappear, while taking courage, inside this dungeon of strangers: our flowers stuttering, or ceilings unveiling, at thoughts concerning this grand inspirer: our achy legs, exercised in silence, accompanied by pressured breathing: our music aloof, our words failing departure, our loins tingling with anticipation: this milky feeling, our clammy palms, our moist knuckles: at something irregular, where attraction bares it rules, and affection shouldn’t roam wildly….

I imagine lemurs, at a pint of gin, followed by pure insanity: I imagine satiation, but mental by terms, where persons fail to search further: those saga-sages, laughing about reality, filmed internally: at every gesture, to capture intentionality, to rehearse clarity: our screams as souls, such sensitive activities, afforded one interior gaze: our sour apples, accompanied by sweeter grapes, while doubting just enough for deeper love: such fire and water, such dreams in vogue, while warding off this land of pursuers: as women blossom, we notice perfections, we become enamored: this sky of candles, those charms with meaning, our souls fishing armor.

Color Tinges & Turquoise Diamonds

…on many occasions, to lose dynasties, refusing my mirror: on several accounts, to knead prayer, embracing my mirror: those few women, such dynamite, where men act unruly: as no rules, born to sickness, comparing others to mother: such transference, to restrict his guts, to convolute his vision: if but this introject, seated at his bed, to argue unto submission: this cold island, this fuming odor, those closed closets: to irrupt in madness, to sense his body, at remote tendencies: so pristine, so challenged, where relationships have doors: our miracle minds, afforded this sanctuary, while needing ruler-ship: at kingdoms a glint, whispering our Kalahari, so Jewish, so Egyptian: at movies adoringly, seated in dens, sipping Scotch: as so human, discounting complexion, as wild as something unmentioned….     I know for rain, looking at something disappearing, our silent converse: at ruminations, failing his domain, so close, so distant, raging with fantasies: that awkward encounter, such airborne repression, such outstanding estrogen: our graves breathing, our miracles waning, as disputed by mirrors….

I sip gently, over a guarana pill, waving passed destiny: this tale he told, this lie we envelope, those precious, soul-centered eyes: to adore you, this miracle child, while investigating my part: this daily routine, this chiseled night-spawn, those earlier in fears: our impassioned moon, those others by caravan, to soil digging for oil: those windmills, this milestone, at classroom etiquette—to revive harshly, this intricate concern raving, while women claim ownership.

I passed a church; I met a nun; I perished in such irony: this pastor’s curse, this deacon’s sin, this wrestling atmosphere: such hellbound attraction, while needing refusal, if but to conclude a particular distance: our minds pursuing; our bodies reluctant; where irrational ideals seem to conflict: if but by saviors, running through Ethiopia, our lands so planted: this tree for oxygen, this spoon for denouncing, or terror so bold it felt terrific: those few women, at redeeming perception, while ruining ideals: to sense elevation, to witness denigration, while many are suffering from depletion: our souls mingling, our minds tugged, our bodies discounting those ideas: at something cagy, this fantastic image, this curse—if but such insulation, those silver-rivers, where we attach particular sentiments: as loving feudally, or reviving in character, such fire in forbidden attraction: those purple eyes, those accentuating tights, and foolish men.

I’ve denounced nonsense, feral at living, while contained by consequence: our marvelous children, our territorial delights, or arguments I failed to attend: this future in webs, this lie in diamonds, our needs by our galaxies: to have for perfect, our souls, our dreams, our children: to see tears, this deep emotion, at times, a portrait for blackmail: at fortunate feelers, needing to fix debris, or simply changed simultaneously: at river-stores, at sea-chores, our skies up-side-down: those photographs, our red roses, our mothers seeing all but self: so critical, so harsh, so demandingly absurd: pushing directions, inciting balloons, toppling into reflections: at once, frightened, at once, disputing, where science seems irrelevant: such as logic, such as reason, such as systematic deception: to watch it tumble, this weed in deserts, where one never acknowledges something irrefutable: at golden eyes, at ashen memories, while wrestling particular inclinations: this Rescue Ranger, this Batman of Gotham, this interior Superhero: indeed, a smile, laughing and feeling literature, while one has slipped into memory: our feudal ethics, our redeeming morals, or this tinge of pure darkness!