Fire, Passion, & Delicate Prophecy

I lose time, rewound and struggling, at thoughts those slithers: this milky woman, this milky plight, seated awaiting a thump: at concentration, this midway communication, this gut phone: as aloof and stung, this new life, while pulled by terrific souls: at conservative pain, fleeing into battle, alive a second this forty five day communion: this lying gravity, this gymnasium, at pure souls: terrified and gunning, shooting into traffic, at daughters so distant it feels normal: our inverted therapy, our satanic sips, while aflame such to fire this baptism: at psychotherapy, perfumed upon self, or this mystic remembrance: our childhoods dying, this misery to pass, this currency his measure: this same man, those chiseled habits, while thoughts surprised this laughing fool: at tendencies, Love, at mystics confused, while listening to oceans: those feuds giggling, this manic wisdom, at particular attractions: to be with goodness, this family of thieves, sipping a country of old grapes: to adore this passion, as to long for interaction, while refused for distant and laughing with inheritance: those broken wings, this leaky curse, to see your face—as exploding literature, or cordial a heart-curse, where passion took to flying: this midget maniac, this reserved fool, where our audience seeps into oblivion: the best of us, that perfect aura, those perfected pillars—as language dies, our behaviors our acts, at terrible attraction.     I die often, listening to reason, as so old but cavalier: a true friend, this bold creature, as dying while living: this black moon, this black soul, this black casualty: at fuels forever, looking for ruined, if but those ultimate sessions: at perils with disgust, at sunshine misery, while mystics float, flit and fly—our graves disgusted, this woman to business, while happily a man at nonsense: to remember a soul, to cut a bone, while Love would forgive for that feeling: at gristle, marrow and guts: at tears, mourning and deep infatuation: to adore those brains, to remorse our conversations, where adored culture seeped into regrets: those wings languishing, this sipping turning crazily, this manic so enthralled, but peeking around intestines: our graves bidding, our auctions revolting, our bodies refusing to filch another brain’s insanity: those remarkable women, too delicate for rules, too dangerous, too dead, too with lights: if but our minds, at middle ages, to display something worth keeping: this torn digestion, our older bodies, our older conscience: as blank a maniac, this colorful maniac, at Love like monsters boarding a cave: but Love needs me, and Love left me, and Love has adored over a million millennia: this curse in webs, this couch in beds, as fed a delectable ingredient: those sewn tendencies, those delicate memories, this slice into poetry and deaths: our deep peers, this year for parents, to ask permission to adore something sickly: at senses thieving, our temples bleeding, our Europe, our Africa: as blended so deeply, at a hurry to invade, at tears to silence, while Love sits waiting for passion: this full participation, this delicate white miracle, while one is too short to reach Germany: this figured woman, to suggest attraction, but a child was mentioned and hell broke courses.     I never look; I rarely see; I’m caught in a deep beginning: this force protecting home, this man to dregs, this ghetto forwarded into chaos: at therapy internal, but a few words, but a few intentions: as fleeing from sanity, or cursed to live, while mystic love seeps into territories: at deep substitutions, while Love might prove inadequate, where two would admire this challenge: our guts in faith, our faith in self, our overtures proving delightful: as found souls, sick with psychoses, or normal a second founded in reigns: those brains pushing, penetrating atmosphere, seeping into what I like.         

Tamales & Chili

…such realization, to merge and exit, at seconds recommitting: this adventure, and such fire, while wheezing: our cushion brains, needing eternity, reamed and devastated: if all were good, it would seem impossible, if but to pray: at many alleys, crossing many bridges, needing something overwhelming: an addict’s curse, or a logician’s muse, thrust into something anti-intelligence: our harvest time, our summer cherries, our fall loquats: so turned and dying, so excited about hobbies, while purple slips into dementia: our crying hearts, dazed by newness, afflicted by quickness: those marvelous souls, so intense with passion, so gentle, so abrasively delicate: but fire is raging, while sites are evident, at black and beige attire: this gothic storm, such gothic art, where we hold to familiar localities: those demographics, this subtle wheezing, while cursed for ruined noticing indirection…our gut flame, pictured at escapes, where wives meditate daily.

I long to love, so afraid to complete it, while taking our surveys: those introductions, those algorithms, while semi at fire: those dreamy sentences, those dreamy melodies, at dreamy cadence: to feel incomplete, while complete more, where we grip our eighty percent: to leisurely arts, communicating poetry, looking for denying eye-contact: this small vessel, this large insanity, while needing something recommitted: this daily juicer, this blended miracle, while Love adores freshness: our oily noses, our sweaty lips, our misty, dusty foreheads: at deepness couth, or reversed at seconds, while recommitted to our dynasty: our swan-lakes, our temperate attitudes, or so involved we move with silence: this chess-piece, this internal hologram, or music so softly muffled by little people: this tale in souls, this war in minds, while appreciation must assist deliberateness: this merry affection, this tinge of malaise, while jaws rattle sipping wines.

…it gets colder, those stormy summers, laughing while playing guitars: this milky life, this caged freedom, this recommitment to security: our lives sensing imbalance, or knowing with certainty, while too enthralled to quit: our mental movies, our main attraction, to have another human knitting in our brains: this free entrance, or this hard-won course, while adored ones repent for another person’s infractions: our terrible souls, our buttery language, while a man needs to conquer: this island of visions, this island so fantast, those islands so enlightened: to adore our guts, to re-portrait our souls, while too much intrusion becomes repulsive: that thin layer, to ask and dash, while Love pictures an insecurity: our days to white lies, our minds to fire exhaustion, or better, this thin layer distracted by several flaws: indeed, this quixotic curse, to adore both dirt and cleanliness, where something evaluates while something warns: this plight in newness, as two train relentlessly, where something foreign might ruin over two decades of trainings…this mixture waxing, this growth forming, our souls debating values….

I’m graveling lightly, quasi-elated, watching and pondering images: as women appear, or souls speak, while too vague to complete an instance: such red lights, while persons are profound, at too much invested to sing another rose: this life of love, this existence with passion, or two and a half kids: to appreciate our lot, or lost to sordid wonder, while actuality speaks to those sensing eyes: as men sailing, or female pirates, our souls, our songs: pausing for matches, or pausing through heat, absent of thumps, but enthralled by waves: our ghostly characters, our plums with ice, or dreams caving into something deliberate: at moving hearts, to imagine something sickly, while too old to sustain a smile: this force in minds, this cagey hello, where enthrallment might be otherwise: indeed, needing a poet’s wand, or needing a woman’s death, or needing more than life.

Edifice Gusts

…so tugged a clove, and read a magazine, or looked at pictures: such external hives or a bit that much, a man rethinking about children: at New Port Beach, or up Imperial, or floating through Long Beach: a bit with throttles, at rethought(s), worrying softly: those running legs, those upper realities, or tripping for seeing self: those hard stares, this strong aura, while too afraid to love: so many years, looking at profanity, while we part ways: such fiasco; such damning vices; at a thought with tears: sipping lightly, to slam a taco, a bit too much cheese: this mucus thing, this age thing, a bit pudgy thing: such sameness, or lost to screams, a bit aggravated: I lose soul, reading philosophy, while a tare tore Egypt: our flights gunning, this woman chuckling, as thought he had her: if but for cadence, exploring novels, a bit too frightened: to share luxuries, to sip teas, at oceans speculating over grip-teases: our brains relaxed, our sipping radical, while Love chopped a quarter: at mind lakes, painting with algae, or nibbling a frog: our doggish appetites, our grogged souls, looking for listening as Love cried: so early to it, so warned with it, but thoughts were unclear: so silly, too, or too relaxed, while Love decided upon a child: those light features, running into trepidation, needing absolute confirmation: but days were short, as art flew south, where art needed something new: this weekly occurrence, this monthly curse, while discomfort means so little: to need a home, or fire a soul, while radiance prances so closely: our deep features, our needy kids, to float a kite and laugh: slow motion, or fast-paced, at deaths giggling: our attractive women, so many it hurts, where one might commit for eternity: those anchored eyes, that shipping soul, at body and damages: to whip a curse, to spell a blessing, where eyes felt before hearts registered feelings….    

…a sore apocalypse, our regenerated hostilities, as pausing and sipping: at sights with love, at thoughts about strangers, to sense this knowhow: those deep sins, wondering about bibles, or surprised granny hasn’t nullified this curse: needing AA, or needing sobriety, or plain together: indeed, a smile, indeed, a curse, indeed, another 7up: I’m cured or lonely, or lonely and crazy, or committed and gone: to ponder Jesus, this crucial reality, our Romans, our Jews: to flash a smile, this Peter Rock, as meant that way: such unwritten plans, such spirit-calligraphy, while harlots were written and immortalized: that window ache, this high wall ache, at terrors warring but born to ache: remember our scar, remember our dream, remember for passion—this lake of roses, those tulips spacial, our astrology as amusing: at fairer minds, studying pragmatism, enveloping into arts a bit more practical: our melic beats, our melic hearts, while science is losing….

…humans require simplicity, souls require a bit deeper, while education leads to questions: those satirical arguments, our atheists as radicals, while many religious plead in logic: those torn feelings, this undercover empiricist, at more deliberate arts: to happen that thump, this rosy red radiant radical: could I please, or would I please, while needing mine: a bit tipsy, laughing in private, removed from interior life: so close a lie, so close a rib, as infused to scream: those few I love, those few I adore, while numbers are running low: that trenchant swan, those telepathic Zenists, those immortal Yogis: at mystic delights, at mystic courage, at mystic readiness: a true friend, a small occurrence, a big reality: to re-film minds, to project feelings, to invert emotion: at fire green, or orange horizons, so sick it felt God: only a psych to know, this curse of dreams, while reality sings to glory: this Yahweh light, those Yahwistic Immortals, so many years into development: this bad influence, this good heart, while infused and feeling like flying: that grandfather loyalty, our corporate decisions, while feeling too deep to die…!

Hours & Seconds

…lost at moments, failing simplicity, sick and psychotic: this calm, mild mannered, intricate monster: such oxymoron, such paradox, such casual nuance—to die forever, planned from birth, to analyze a strange mirror: at guts and wars, at pure insanity, while confined to a profitable prison: our legacies, so uprooted, our women, so distracted: those wailing concerns, those sleepless nights, at liquor about three those yawning(s): to perish with pride, to apologize with gusto, to rebirth a moon-shed daughter: this flagrant flower, this fair foreigner, at flits and grins a bit fragile: that old crush, those tales fretting bones, while gristle pleads for granny: that miracle woman, those miracle scars, late afternoon screaming at demons: my entire life, this deep dysfunction, while prone to revisit those old ghettoes: at laughs that second, at tears those millennia, so attracted to medieval art: if but to sail, or but to cruise, while stressed and baffled existentially: so removed from soul, so accursed for glory, at grandfather serious with alarms: this terrible battle, this life with whips, while Love adored a desperate womanizer: at tears with concerns, this inner antique, where daughters pull closer: this man failing, this spirit winning, while convoluted and desperate to live: at psychs confused, feeling itchy, and moving too much: at mother livid, forced to forgive, if but to fly somewhere those horizons: those treasure troves, this thunderbolt, at signs and symbols distracted for seconds….     I feel an imbalance—courted by logic, while threshed for un-sewn, while threading needles: to crochet as a child, those police sirens, our neighbor’s ambulance: thereunto, this casual child, this inquisitive book, those thrills to feel mother’s heart beating: at long-distance with family, our nanny drinking, our uncle to insulin: so cooked for destined, so ruined and normal, while never a thought to a white woman: those years flying, our worlds cursed, to find that Love was rejected by her culture: such inadequacy, while feigning balance, where we feel a deep scar: this man to gunning, this soul to conning, our lies a powerful foundation: this house upon sand, our minds upon pudding, our dreams without foresight: at terrible convictions, our orchestra reciting deaths, our bowels cleaving this requiem: those psalteries, Love, this field of diamonds, Love, where singularity was a terrible myth: this need for attraction, those voids filled by persons, our morals disavowed—and tragic to persons: infused and running, a fair looker, where one was a travesty: those butterfly aches, this constant routine, our comedy so black and detrimentally elated: those split seconds, our warm hearts, our losing for sinning eye-cares.     …so innocent those days, as never a suspicious thought, where fools are adored: but hectic those streets, to realize projection, to presume that everyone cheats: this fist of furious plights, this well of demonic voices, while adoring a particular distance: those fair women, those fairer screams, our bodies bloody after sessions: running into life, feuding with interior islands, biting just enough to redeem this maniac: so scarred and delivered, so touched and losing, where Love adored a plethora: but lights were green, and yellow was hesitant, while red rarely appeared: those stop signs laughing, this vest stripped, those beanies breathing: as men searching, for that incredible woman, while fantasy became more to love: those failed attempts, to need normality, or something so dignified and sexual: if but just me, if but this rebuked notion, where Love adored my shadow: at dreams and moving, at concerns and staggering, while too much time to writing: this fantastical loser, this fantastical sex-exchange, while Love needed personal space: those tell signs, this man to ruins, while Love disappeared in under twenty-four hours: a new thought, a new man, a new dream….     I close with pity; I divulge a myth; while keeping courage: this winning loser, this failed premise, encouraged to seek a swan: those brown antennas, those languishing ears, at thorough intensities: to sing acapella, to recite symphony, while studying sestinas. 

Ambulance Truck

…a gentle breeze, among sunshine, dining with coyotes: our blue blazed fires, our flickers come moonrise, at tears and elephants and dance: to chance a maniac, this mental woman, at courses infatuated by psychologies: our red flashes, our dark currents, or daughters longing for mid-motion: this flush coming, this river gunning, those highlights at noon: if but too excited, to fall a short second, as arisen in glory: to need you, so much to possess you, while affair would render death: this taller glade, those fashioned scents, or so sick with steady a conversation: where wolves chance, where lions play, while Daniel touched for ruined such leniency: those iconic caresses, this fair skinned distress, at seconds feeling debated: those interior clocks, at granny’s doorposts, or father so in touch it aches: those bold livers, this sudden spot, while sipping for leniencies: those aches, Love, this touch, Love, to awaken running to our castles, Love….

…it tore a hole, this goddess in terror, to rewind seated with Jesus: our A.D. minds, our B.C. charms, so infused looking at English insanity: our social psychotics, our sunrise hostilities, at shivers and comforts and pining for relaxation: this subtle point, our necks riddled, our throats handled: to tug at universes, to dwell in treacheries, as arisen a ghost: to sin with Thomas, to higher grounds with Jews, at something creeping into a spell: this fabulous ruse, this outstanding trespass, while so low it aches to inhale: our rituals laughing, our teas giggling, but satiation is such sweet sorrow: as ever a mistake, or tender a child, while despising, nay, loathing his guts: our daughters alive, but forced to hate, while so young learning dysfunction: as never this song or ever this curtain, to peek and sense something so afar: those ruby cheeks, those ruby eyes, those hazel high-tears: as never convinced, while holding to loyalties, where something pushes such grayness: but Love is science, and Love is our kingdom, while Love is music: those cymbals clanging, those charms rewound, our territory blurred and blended into casualties: at fairer concerns, this welt this wealth, such wicked longevity….

I shift reality, a dream in corals, a bear at nursing: this empire, this slow pace, those faceless beings: to remember you, so delicately strong, so in need of a mentor: something to hold to, something to live for, while sketchy a tad bit: this brilliant mother, this work-praised father, those siblings: to see you there, to reminisce upon manic memories, to sense a young daughter: that energized aura, those euphoric lows, at tales this deep ignition: at so many confusions, such a rival in our kingdom, but prone to something scientific: to tug and yank, to need for clearance, as something asking permission: those taller pines, this oaken scream, as drilled for ruined but playing pretend: our daughters dying, our daughters flying, while thoughts are compartmentalized: this feeling mother, this radical father, at grandparents plain infatuated: if cursed a scar, than bad development, while something good has gripped theologies: those brown hazel beams, this interior mountain, while so cold it felt for reason: at core frustration, pondering this minx, or this sylph: at thoughts concerning deliberation, at thoughts concerning actualities, or so gone our winter has become sunlight: such demonized afflatuses, such sanctum trances, while never upon a summer this discussion: at so many admirations, needing to relax, but too much time has stated aloneness: this apocalypse, this apophatic leakage, at scars and dreams and something needing perfection: those fiery lakes, this purgatorial journey, at Dante needing assistance: such ecstasy, to muse a name, realizing Love is chosen: those glowing handkerchiefs, or St. Paul’s adrenaline, or Dorothy’s courage: to remember an image, to sense mother, to ignore said image: those years to flourish, this birth to deaths, this alley upon a miracle.

…if we died in Egypt

…so casual fire, this hazel resonance, those terrible green eyes: such to perish, as blatant as midnight, torn so much: to adore for centuries, this maniac love, so chanced to die: our blue patience, a fist of books, our interior casualties: this dying adulthood, this goddess manic, as alive and cringing: our bolder cries, our deceased revelries, about our faces: those black moons, those dear sunbeams, to arise and feel volts—or shiver or perish, or to reuse something sketchy: our bowels crumbling, our winter Sade, or Casanova upon repeat: to converse a second, to redeem something fractured, to move music: those eyebrows, so serious about pain, so indebted to college: but more my life, and more this daughter, and death our guts: as rebuilt manics, as walking anomalies, as Frankenstein musings—those tall trees, those few acorns, this radical chipmunk: so casual with sorrow, so beautiful with pain, so exotic, so passionate: our shivering jaws, our scratchy earlobes, our steep eczema….     I die for love, I’d rebirth for love, but love is so schematic: this dream aborted, to possess, Love, this fuel so revved and reborn: as accursed for symbols, so cursed it’s lovely, so involved it destroys: this Jewish horizon, trying while pulled backwards, where screams seep into public squares: as saving face, or disgraced deeply, where Love presumes a deep attraction: our guts ruined, our intestines by Europe, our cavalier dreams: if but to perish, if but to arise, so thrust so casual so deceased: our revving concerns, our naked emotion, to dress a casual feeling: those beanies, those scarves, those khaki slacks: to redress feelings, to skirt a heartbeat, to relax a muscle: our Santana enterprise, our Maria muse, at adored frequencies: but Love is Rihanna, too sexy for cameras, too erotic for touching: our green souls, our novitiate vowels, at nuns speaking in Italian: so seductive, those rubescent thighs, to grip, pass for deaths, or repent with Satan: our guts laughing, our religious life, to go too deeply: this glow-flicker, this wife dream, while we feel whorish but holy.     …it comes with ages, this iceberg mentality, too casual upon a scream: dying like Jesus, at steep rebirths, our right-paths laughing: to rejoice in Passion, to adore our Ghost, so steep in turmoil: those eyes giggling, those eyes giddy, if but those eyes returning melancholy: to adore possibility, while relaxing with rationality, as needing this lie if but to breathe: our home-life, so addictive with sins, where we ruffle through forests: this remarkable woman, to have sung another’s song, while we ignore something disgraceful: as too much for skillets, or tender pork ribs, as casual salads: those few items, this lovely re-death, or so gone for a particular lie: this wonderful woman, this winning machine, to have lost such promise: this curse, Jesus, this pain, Jesus, while afforded three deaths, Jesus: that resistant smile, that conscious smile, that conscientious smile: to pull with patience, to need admiration, while a man dies to satiate Calypso: our reaper screams, our dazzling cries, while Love adored a manic for souls….     …such soft temple, so surprised it’s you, such remote fantasies: to happen upon flesh, to fire my mind, too steep in public affairs: to laugh at church, to redeem Lucifer, to curse upon a dream his sister—this rosy machine, this maniac thinker, this rebuilt and tragic languishing: those languor voices, this hotel dynasty, our testy frustration—to arise in tonic, to sin pure gin, to arouse a rose: at death feeling good, at womb to neck screaming at insanity: this heavy ground, this mailed frequency, this interior telegraph: at dry skin, rubbing our screams, our Jennies popping and willing to die our casualties: at deaths losing, but winning our sins, to gather a fist full of figs: those terrible truffles, those redeemable eyes, at browns and mahoganies and hazel passions: our bodies grumbling, our resurrection at pretend, our curse as beautiful music: this paper thin gut, this paper thin lie, while it felt terrific to lie: at tulips debating, at daisies a million dollar grin—and not important…!    

Fire Clove or Veiled Participation

I listen carefully, our children to bars, our ghettoes to slaughter: our mothers to dementia, our fathers to streets, a man firsthand staring into barrows: this blood blue war, this core frustration, our black kings upon Death Row: our wives delirious, our souls to firebrand, our guts to marijuana: at tyrannies, filled with passion, a bit too much for rectification: our moody atmospheres, our lovely women, but Love needs commitment: those winsome arms, those winsome grins, at fens and wine and dying with laughter: our guts running, our guts imploding, while adored as statuesque: if but this sermon, if but rectification, if but permission to participate: this deep fracture, begging for entitlements, while adoring something too involved: our market lives, our trenchant courage, while bones are shattered to gristle: soft zephyrs longing, this moon chilled with summer, those tools failing their contemplation: this church life, those tenable solutions, which require full participation: our nation so lax, while filled with hatred, those regurgitated clichés: this undercurrent ocean, this pale dynasty, while a man needs something another man developed: at deep resistance, fueled for flamed, at fractures debating nonsense: oceanic eyes, or brown havens, this person but a linchpin: at torn capacity, needing panaceas, imbued by promise to pine hopelessly: indeed, a sick participant, to lilt for adoration, while something precious has died so often it’s hard to breathe: those miracle thighs, this entrance to paradise, this killing, insatiable undertaking: at Junoesque calves, or Don Quixote’s insights, at both this miraculous and damning parade: if but to ruins, such insoluble circumstances, fueled by something incredibly odd: those anguished ankles, this charmed wrapping, so distant, so close, so unfastened.

It must be clever, this sphinx upon islands, to drain something promising clarity: those rubber replies, this sin-lock frustration, at tears but feeling elated: this joy-sorrow habit, this gut wrenching sincerity, while one ignores such damning loyalty: our cuts running, our grandfathers demented, or close to home feeling passion: this gray horizon, this colorless friendship, at bones and gravel and torpedoes: to ask for truth, to negotiate with grandmother, to fall so short from hell: our poetic screams, our demented minds, tugging at energy valves: to feel with absence, to become purely angry, while sense is preaching participation: this gut-fire, this core-terror, as a man loses everything: those miles, Love, this ring, Love, this man so short from perfect, Love: to give with alignments, to receive with glee-ship, while a crooked vine receives our benefits: this wrecked paradise, this forgiving alienation, while Love has adored his filthy claims: at tragedy laughing, at remorse pleading, or so far gone a hospital appeared fair.

I’m thunder-rain, at deep sophistication, where Love appeared as something foreign: this theological mistake, this philosophical hero, or so convoluted Love has built an attraction: our conversations, our pause with lights, to realize one a bit redemptive: this symphony lake, this orchestra ocean, at lutes and drums or something so silent it screams: our white noise, our fields remaining, or caves so aloof we feel like strangers: our minds like typewriters, our souls like irrigation, or our arts like mathematics: our painted cans, our scissor mentalities, or scythes restructuring something that should die: this tug in men, to fix those bleachers, while sitting seems apropos: such fairytale illusions, so drained feelings, while one yanks through mental wavelengths: this crazed suggestion, where sages are quiet, and souls are churning attempting to break silence: this spirit-kiss, this tall tale, this hellish cell-gravel: weeping with ghosts, or floored to rebuild, at something so fragile, so evolved, and so ridiculous.   

We Reexamine

We audit feelings, attempting to redeem feelings, at something controversial: our first hunch, our interior heart-gut, this flipping, rearranging, instructive thump: to adore unseen, to rent a bride, to request a dowry: such examination, our mental cramps, our feline magistrates: so deep in madness, such spacial ingestion, while bodies behave contrary to intelligence: those seeping feelings, unconcerned with reason, yanking for preventing full escape: those remarkable flowers, those outlandish petals, or soul-eyes garnering leaves: as machines intensely, this in-for-out routine, our softly scented comforters: our aches with time, our commitments with rain, while it felt good to hug: our inquisitive selves, our friendly fury, or those quite intelligent overseers: to study a situation, to sense a hunch, or to probe a bit detracted by answers: those full moons, those friendly stars, while accursed by something generational: those ghetto hives, this slight rash, or emotion breaking its flesh: at days with malaise, sensing commonality, while so distant it scars: as revived souls, or determined spirits, to appear in phantom-arms: our perusal of diamonds, to have such control, while needing someone’s membership: those tales about life, our fallen misfortune, our dreams structured by kindness: those gentle souls, those gentle extractions, while one is agitated by answers: omission of words, or curses through information, where one pines softly: this island of fantasies, those replies so absent, while one speaks failing to include togetherness.

I’ve interrogated forgiveness, our souls taken by violence, while forgetting seems incredible: our firm empire, as taught to fledglings, while we negotiate our status: to teach firsthand, while distracting rules, while our worlds turn: but life has meaning, while debating those pillars, finding family a core principle: at pearls debating, at miracles sipping, alive for honored by Love: this mutual exchange, this confirmation, where another person affirms our worth: to sing with harps, to remove arrows, to unplug arteries: such life with insights, but never giving utterance, where realities seem to influence: those above feelings, this euphoric atmosphere, while others are suspended: to know for curses, while living simplicity, where unexamined goodness stirs a chaotic universe: at seconds through discourse, looking for ownership, or better, one to forgive every infraction: or threshed by concerns, so engrossed in goodness, while carrying this universe: our moral concerns, our moral agents, where soil is meant for cultivating.

Something nudges honor, fields of jasper grass, clumps of sediments: such inborn feelings, so many wavering colors, finding it impossible to deceive interior logic: so seldom we vacate, this ocean of flutes, until, we renegotiate our habits: those circles of madness, those cosmic schematics, our tender vibrations: to return by love, our scruples intact, our needs overwhelming our instincts: those fervent skies, those interior audits, while carrying childhood memories.

So emphatic with distance, so at war mentally, while becoming insistent: those campfire remarks, this pool of insights, where moments seep into cloudy palms: sudden upon a switch, this upsurge of energy, those pure, deeply beautiful, overt overtures: as irrigated humans, becoming iridescent jewels, while restructuring architecture: those sacred haystacks, while finding our needles, those keepsake trinkets: to divide turmoil, into itty-bitty parts, affirming this need for instruction: so alive through webs, so rehearsed in negativity, while tugged by legitimate emotion: our deeper audits, our brain-light apocalyptic, while learning to trust our spiritual garden: this want, nay, need for certitude, wrestling vicissitudes, so amazed by rectitude fire.

House Trumpets

…such public avenues, or dreams interlocked, our cryptic ambition: those mandolins, this mandarin, this mandala—to crease slacks, to iron feelings, to feel behaved: our semi-curse, our quasi-cries, as believing for audits: this classroom, this professor, or years to something familiar: this portrait of mother, this aunt we need, this fuel from granny: our daughters, so young with emotion, so old with behavior: as sliced to ribs, or painting in tattoos, over a grand for lions: those internal ships, this karaoke mentality, our souls sung before a strange audience: those demonized dragons, this demonic insight, at tears concerning Lucifer: a thousand years, and what would come, our minds aching with helium: this throbbing mind-core, this thriving daughter, to imagine good tidings: at hearts thrust’d, at lances craving, while beat for bushed: those delectable pork chops, those lemon pies, or pomegranate cakes: at siblings laughing, for art is beautiful, while Impressionists push a particular flavor: those nights to us, this fluttering arc, while a man has issues: our cousins giggling, feeling our child-embrace, while praying for mental-refuge: if but to live, running through mayflies, at wings with egrets: so scared and lonely, at mother at rescues, or stepfather aching that way: this tale at markets, our agora shake-lines, filled with fluffy excitements: to die furiously, to flavor curiously, at fire-courage catching flies: this indebted man, this warrior African, while complexion determines resistance: at fields by snakes, at language built inwardly, while daughters feel vexed….  …we temper a swan, we feel extracted, where understanding has its boundaries: that music, Love, your soul, Love, to write a tender nation, Love: if but to fly, or but to reminisce, as kissed so early by God: this young hold, this older soul, as inclined to sing in public: as never that way, or ever this way, so cultured it seems redundant: those fairer friends, this small qualification, to embrace and live while something feels incredible: that language, Heart, those dreams, Heart, while fueled for flamed, fetching a greater portion, Heart: at mathematics, daily in contemplation, while one feels a smile: this claimant backing salutes, or this reverend acting correct, at something too cold for summer: those reckless charms, this reckless landscape, while souls possess reckless habits: at crevice eyes, pushing passed brains, performing in public squares: as younger beings, debating Communism, while souls seemed encouraged: our drabber garments, our drabber screams, while aching over proletariats: this battle for trillions, while never enough, or so enlove those others are cute: indeed, to channels, floored for wrecked, while debating with this interior lady: those alarms, Love, to listening, Love, while secure with northern shores, Love….     I keep close, this thought in men, while reality has proven cruel: this touch in souls, worried concerning misogynists, while daughters need a strong structure: those redder roses, those torn tulips, to rearrange tragedy: at bolder feelings, but hampered dearly, plus, this chase after gentility: to miss something internal, this clock-war, at parents sensing disjunction: our cries to Jesus, our meditations with Buddha, or edgy a Hindu yogi: at times conversing, with this warrior, Krishna, or debating with Arjuna: those rules, Love, our codes of conduct, Love, while something seems irrelevant, Love: our blue bushes, our yellow feelings, or sudden upon an eruption: as first that emotion, sung softly asleep, while replaying a particular sensation: as men gunning, or embarrassment running, where something gentle has been desecrated: this fair adventure, this fairer mountain, at plaques and planks and privileged to perish: our dead livings, our living deaths, where thought is required to council: those dark knights, those darker reasons, where souls scramble for cover: such crimson spirits, such chaotic insanity, where Love is both light unto darkness: and vice versa, running through caves, and so excitedly: our mothers carrying, our fathers administering, our souls tugged by appreciation and jealousy: this lot to us, this place in silence, our furious departures: at travels in Europe, at minds in Greece, while charged by something so controversial: those red lights, those cultural feelings, while noticing much.

Chimney House

We need to examine, this fitted garment, so dependent upon behavior: our will to survive, or sluggish movement, so mis-believed: our moods through life, so efficacious, our core dependencies: looking for signs, reflection through insecurities, or wrestling through private behaviors: to assume terror, or presume based in analyses, while certain about love: our actions speak loudly, this midnight snack, or that bottle of water: so included with life, so internal it aches, where sudden instance becomes necessary: at trying words, to capture ambivalence, where love reaches its closest rationality: at daily charms, but tugged by minds, as examined by self: those intrusive realities, this combustion of literature, where closeness appears incredible: our souls making contact, our spirits flying, or better, when she’s in a good mood—this plate of gumbo, or this bowl of garlic noodles, while steaks are broiling: our immediate surroundings, pushing for yanking, our souls so delicate: mornings become essential, stress mitigated, or something so crucial we keep to silence.     We examine behavior, we note rhythms, a bit curious about changes: nevertheless, familiarity is challenging, it riddles through our souls—it breeds joy and happiness, concerns and sentiments, while conveying particular nuances: at vague language, where reflection in necessary, where readers ask a series of questions: such motioned behavior, or pictures with emotion, while pushing soup aside: those hungry appetites, or those familiar needs, or sensing through silence—this capture for both, that short deliberation, so much more than sadness: patient at times, reversed in rolls, to happen upon particular balance: our salmon with broccoli, our tuna with bread, rethinking certain comments: this involved life, those plural thoughts, while it’s difficult to request singularities.    

We touched something, this evolution, plus, our needs conflicting with our minds: hereupon, a gentle light, a permeated heart, accustomed to sadness: this inescapable reality, this recommitted insistence, at leaves counting veins: those rabid chipmunks, those racing squirrels, or such reluctance dancing into willingness: our fevered hearts, our sagic abilities, while stumped by behavior: this particular reality, this particular chess, while two may work at controlling Love: such trenchant dependency, or complimentary pockets, so inexcusable: our witchcraft, our mental magic, upon something sensitive to our energies: those wellic arms, this wellic land, at something too delicate to ignore: our passion soaring, our anguish abated, or sudden upon a mood at needs to address it: indeed, this bracelet rhythm, those mystic insights, at something remarkable.

We sense spirit-hood, as achieved with tension, while studying pathologies: our patterns shifting, our willingness stretching, where we expect total enchantment: this clove with coffee, our interior examination, while so close we realize potential strangeness: at debts with life, at debts with love, so indebted we feel secure: those opposite behaviors, so lost it hurts, so at love it aches: while studying avenues, realizing humility, trespassing mental gates: to feel consumed, to agonize over nuances, or so insync our concerns dissipate: our sodden soil, our nurtured plants, our Japanese Gardens: digging with intension, itching to succeed, while becoming something formable: such informal intimacy, such formal debates, our office-self verses our home-life: our stomachs grumbling, our pickles with ham, or turkey with stuffing: at truer concerns, placed in situation, captivated by actuality: our minds peaking, our thoughts sequential, where it’s difficult to erase: those sensing movements, those sacrificial movements, where feelings become wings: that loving gaze, those thought-filled spontaneities, our soul-covered demands.   

Defrosted & Rubber

…arrogance, easily deceived, such webs internal those clocks—as men dying, looking into exotics, erotic a dream and chastised: those human pebbles, this scissor blade, somewhere lost in Los Angeles: sensing faces, erased and cultured, this long fight for civilization: our behaved hearts, our psychological treatises, as built or re-functioned, aloft a dynamic catastrophe: those bars, as cemented to souls, let us pause for a sip: this hungry passion, to have reflection, to argue, catch attitudes, and love violently: our volume with rain, our pain with breakthroughs, searching to win literature: this mystic wind, those mystic women, this mystic chase: that winter’s mirage, such silky frustration, debating funding: this school there, this person here, while afforded a reason to settle: such domestication, laughing a good time, while summer is Vodka: those memoirs, speaking insistence, but caving upon a feeling: this proof read, this premise test, those conclusions seeming flawed: if but this, as but that, and then this: if but to fly, our deductive lives, at best a group by consensus: this, otherwise, world, this inductive catastrophe, while needing certitude: this reason to believe, this kaleidoscope Father, this telescopic Mother, if but to attend those classes….     I fiddle thoughts, imagined as deranged, or loved for honesty: those souls living, those souls forbidden, while real men desire their legacy: to have my own, to dance with glee, while wives mock ostentation: those vulnerable seconds, this race with emotion, this battle against feelings: while driven at valleys, this sinister abashment, a few those secrets it must seem good: to relive life, to perish by culture, analyzing this totem pole: our children watching, our fathers watching, our souls watching: to sense sensitivities, to ask those probing questions, at restrictions floored to needing more: if but to give, while hiding resentments, while needing certain realities: such motivation, where tales are true, while one aches to please a friend: as studious creatures, compelled but confused, while violins are strumming insecurities: this film at eleven, this workshop mentality, while something tugs promising nothing: this man to respects, that deep, intellectual fire, while bodily needing majesty: to hold for substance, to dance with sophistication, while Love just downed a beer….

I test a little more, a deceptive with self, looking into a dear friend: our bowels rumbling, our earth respective, while needing something internally: our black kites, our ethics, our envies—if but to float, decided with passion, a bit lost and somewhat recovered: this triumph with winning, this theoretical elephant, or days to in-home strangers: our white fires, our corporate decisions, or this confined, water cooler, time thieving and analytical office core: our workouts, our dear loses, at something so intense: this binder mentality, this fatal fraction, or competitive states regarding the good: as hungry with child, over a loaf of bread, to deny stealing based upon Deontology: this duty in souls, this immunity in travels, while stealing joys: those fine threads, those finer knitting(s), losing for rivaling over this exchange of goods: if but to swim, laughing over pains, at those weeks it felt unreal: at dear decisions, to give where it aches, alive and dying in short riddles: at frequent requests, peering into passion, at fair feathered practicality: (a steak with rice, a bottle of wine, at classical rhythms: this man so indebted, this rain fleeing, this death consuming: if but to panic, looking at something so dear, while freezing in motion): this loss so near, this feeling restructured, while Love appeals to something protective.

…in wilderness, Love, at magic farms seeping, so stressed, peering into familiar soundness: if but for show, a familiar stranger, this curse shall pass: at evening fantasies, relying upon asteroids, moved by belief that one can satiate mental over-shoots….

Swan Water

…such witty angels, at angular grins, such swanic life: as needing love, something irrefutable, spent for receptive: such family dogma, such internal tenets, at marginalized precepts: so disobedient, so independent, washed in something slippery: our mucus hearts, charged and flying, so early our morning teas: at blueberry memories, while avoiding self, a bit curious concerning disposition: that blue moon, that invisible star, or deeply intense emotion: an upheaval, our guts churning, this floor so romantic: a fallen kiss, to assist dysfunction, while many are rare to admit science: those curses, those subtle reminders, while mother combats winds: as gripping air, or choking dust, our dusky skies, surprised to hear whispers: this haunted lieutenant, this tepee captain, our aches upon Vision Quests: so alive, Love, so wretched, Love, or so involved in mother: at feel good motion, or strained to confess, while reading a friends letters: such gravy with honor, such repetition with stagnation, to sit, relax, and fall softly….

I see leaguers—receiving this lamp, replacing this table: amazing to live, at deep enlightenment, to realize breaths: to know existence, to relive her patterns, to liquefy agendas: this subtle swan, this heiress swan, to distant beige horizons: those purple denims, those purple scarves, those purple feelings: as screamed in roses, to awaken lilies, where daisies search for funerals: those longer rules, those deep circumstances, to live as one a bit moody: at silent nights, those deeper meadows, while cougars sit looking peaceful: such deception, this vicious kingdom, this malicious animal: but life was rosy, and time was adjusted, and mother was swimming: this wired existence, those philosophical giants, while music brought Love to pensiveness: a tad detached, a tad too close, while tiptoeing sentiments: those incised measures, those inrush seconds, at thoughts so early those journeys: to provoke a canyon, to erupt a volcano, while alive at Death Valley: to trek passed Ethiopia, to love and adore and need something flying south: to feel so mis-captured, seeping into exile, at family feeling this need: those tired angles, this roaming city, if but to erase so much—at brain and clutch, at engine and bone, our souls requiring oil: so flushed, our algae glossaries, our rib riddled diaries: (to recite those arteries, to cuddle those toes, as mommy died those hips testifying: to live in you, to imagine you, to do so much justice ignoring puzzles in you: this quest for identity, this mission for rights, so concerned, so misrepresented: those misnomers, those mixed names, this casual assassination: so easy at dinner, so removed so close, or so close needing more): such untrained instincts, such melodic moments, at soul for rivers to sense something delicate: such moved emotion, or unmoved sentiments, where growth is daily at habits: such aurora cries, such diamond eyes, such to life needing so little: rudiment cries, ridiculous tides, or roundabout feelings: such orchid gardens, such ape calmness, rooted in something beautiful—our lungs, Love, puffing to escape, Love, at terrors founded upon seven thoughts, Love: this infant gorilla, this studious Timotheus, or descendant from Thecla: at terrible souls, at frequent questions, upon a brown water lily: so achy with persistence, to admit indigenous love, or admiration through obligation: while mother adores, as holding your music—those  navy blues, those army greens, those cactus legacies—as bent with tolerance, or intolerant a pet-peeve, to kneel upon a concrete tulip: our psyche errors, our feel good joys, at medium rare havens: our tissues moaning, our intestines groaning, while granny loved red-snapper: our boneless fish, our putty centered brains, our talkative hemispheres: to adore existence, to love a swan, to laugh and play and joke with resistance: this deep reservoir, those trenchant concerns, but parents fair well under pressure: that bag of chicken, this box of rice, so alive, so sentimental, such saddening joys.

Angelic Prints

I have habits, I possess terrors, I panic and regroup: I creep silence, I laugh heartily, I fall to pieces: this honest man, so deeply with tenses, while losing every direction: those bolder cries, this wrenching gut, at spasms so entrenched in thoughts: to perfume life, to imagine beauty, while so removed it’s hard to adjust: those slow melodies, this gentle lullaby, a bit of cinnamon to sugar: those revived feelings, as so intense, our minds debate our resilience: to have for deaths, to abate an emotion, while it creeps when souls are stronger: our internal doctors, this thought we forgot, while experiencing as if it just happened: our soldier wines, our warrior liquor, our cinemas upon repeat: those rejected feelings, seeping into intestines, while sudden upon an external rash: sipping softly, our hours crossed, up for clearly too long.     …nary a bone, nary a gut, or nary a wound: our palms to galaxies, our women such a riddle, so pulled, so gathered, nearly a hundredfold: those thousands, at remorse, those dreams, our curses: at something pushing, this determined person, this indeterminate vision: at laughs with Love, at cores with Love, to adore so much information through, Love: at screams and dancing, so lost with feelings, so reserved with feelings: as sensing intimacy, or tugged for ruined, while suggestion speaks to tranquility: that fair trait, that fairer deception, those terms frightening our overseers: for souls react, while others contemplate, where one might become labeled: such trepidation, such cautious insight, where Love agonizes a volt unto something unintentional: this leaping at babes, this fret in guts, while too evolved to breathe: those last seconds, this deep shift, if but to return, scream, and demand a human being….     I feel teary, pouring for sipping, plus, a guarana pill: at ginkgo giggling, such growth pangs, such ecstatic remorse, while daughters simmer a second: to feel ladyhood, this deep passion, while mother harmonizes, if but a glimpse—those bolder lies, this trenchant abandonment, at papa a bit too late: as never a correct episode, but ever a damning saga, at mother, or those images, while scarred for essence: our black sun, our darker moon, as both bled an early morning Sabbath: to dance so gently, to exist so harshly, while mother was but a dream: say it closely, die those tides, embrace what appears as death: this compassionate maniac, this Sybil alignment, those short, but too long, adversarial thoughts: as placed in straps, or wailing names, so wicked as thought to drill his skull: but life is good, this running manic, this candidate for survival: as never forgetful, as always thankful, where death should have swallowed this lamb.     …those eyes, so serious with observation, so deep but merciful: such war-care, such battle-havens, but adverse to perishing: that scream, those dreams, this voice: it creeps, it’s cultic, it’s orphaned: at oracle flights, but tugged by sanity, as willingness proves insanity: those slight bruises, our interior muscles, our intellectual tissues: if but reborn, as torn asunder, to ingest a losing miracle: this man to cries, this legend to deaths, while literature is immortal: so concentrated, so imperfect, while perfecting imperfections: this deliberate touch, those deliberate roses, this deliberate sky: as dreamt a young lad, looking at mother’s eyes, while mother was intent on building something adverse: this in-deliberate curse, those deliberate vines, at peaches and plums and total insistence: to die a smidgen, to live more, to dance while sipping: this inhibition, such held back feelings, where many are at rest: those open eyes, but more to witness, while so uncertain it feels good…!     …keys are ticking, pianos are blaring, a man was stormed into jungles: our afforded miracles, our recorded alibis, our days meditating through darkness: this yearly event, this tug by life, where returns seem impossible: that innocent daughter, that playful son, while our behaviors seeped into their souls: to ask about lying, to ask about behaviors, to devoid ourselves of mirrored reflection: we never know, and we never tell, while sudden upon a deeper epiphany: those angelic whips, those angelic scars, at something too angelic to capture.                

Fury Blue Texture

…such abandoned fire, such palatial flame, as tinkered with silence: this revved spirit, working through clocks, reminded of scientific religiosity: those dropping guitars, those reverberating saxophones, while something naïve claims its inheritance: at burgundy blood, at deep remorse, at shadows speaking in codification: those grayer arts, those few damsels, while looking deep into configurations: our radical dreams, our radical women, at magazines sensing photo-shop: but Love is tender, or Love is sweet, while too much sullies romance: if but to die, haunted by demons, where inversion becomes normality: our cultic hearts, this cult of poodles, our sodium violins: if but to live, tugging at Love, if but too faithful to strum a stranger: this ridiculous curse, this fueled flame, where two ignore an entire universe: or pleading, therein, dancing with dragons, at planks debating those fatal leaps: but life is good, and art is roses, while Love circles an entire city: our broken beliefs, founded upon information, while so indebted to souls: those few leviathans, this steady, slithering, incapacitated, fully operational habitat: a world walking, those internal, deeply prudent, congratulations it speaks: as men longing, to adore riddles, so close, but afar, listening to Jesus….     …we need human, but total sophistication, while desiring a fully examined, maniac, atypical, sexual adversary: that great beast, so rich and titillating, so garbage but royal: those purple diamonds, this sliced steak, our attentive natures paying homage: at deep indoctrination, for mother flew coups, while trained as something aggressively docile: that humble scientist, that foolhearted poet, or radical upon a flying ship—if but to relax, as cut from rubies, at tip to top alienation: this remote tendency, those troublesome proclivities, so enthralled Love gives an entire body: as meant for sport, or transitioning by adulthood, where Love consists of three gorillas: our tepid energies, where youth is zenith, as needing a deeper type of relationality: our epiphanies haunting life, our garments sweating blood, our prayers by arteries: to hold while watched, to give while losing, or to win while sharing: this intense angst, this panic attacking, while throwing, or rumbling, or rummaging those glassy windows: where Love appears, speaking sincerity, while many women are major by adeptness….

…we love and adore and die and live but shadowed upon weblocks: this fool for passion, if but holy fire, while ingratiated by darkness: this fairer moon, those fairer times, while at something excruciating: our wellic wings, so grit to deaths, those salty, alligator, crocodile waters: this lethal excursion, this playful, maniacal, even casually persuasive lunatic: at red graves, sentenced to blue seas, at tender this last escapade: aquatic animals, this seahorse adventure, those octopus hands: as legitimate winners, while losing legacies, to assist in another’s longevity: at sight unseen, at past something tensing, so elegant, so dirty, so furiously regretful: such papaya dreams, if but to reason, while Love watches, nodding, or curious enough to fretter: those demon tints, this long hello, those torrid, treacherous, and immediate restraining orders: if but to exist, or taking refuge, a man, a woman, and both to several liaisons…. 

Abdominal Mirror

…we offer visits, this miraculous knitting, fueled by interaction: such reserved truisms, such unspoken cadence, at sights a second those human mirrors: such dinosaur instincts, such leopard spots, awakening Jesus to heal leprosies: our deeper discourse, our deeper beliefs, while removed enough promised into tomorrow: this gut-war, those pagan portraits, our pagan instincts: at Laws meditating, at New Testaments debating, or so pure those days to sleep-deprivation: candles tickling, treasures provocative, teased by something gentle: those wretched beginnings, this wretched soul, at captures exploding into vehemence: our minds, Love, as never to abandon, Love, while our worse nightmares: if but this for that, or that for this, such sweet gumbo: at manic tales, our horrid diaries, our terrific realities: this lose so early, as graphed into blueprints, where mother was sick with impatience….     …so many monsters, groomed for prisons, where reality is quite official: lawyers debating, judges listening, so tragic years to contemplation: this florid miracle, this lost, received child, while cultural tyranny remains an issue….     I live missing pieces, so crucial each detail, while bigger pictures elude science: this casual swan, so filled with honesties, while reluctant to sail: this Buddhist pamphlet, as scraping minutia, where true enlightenment becomes studious: those voice-frames, those indifferent behaviors, while some exist as oxymoron(s): but tender to motion, as motion becomes tender, while one has exercised something quite natural: this Ferrari heart, this Porsche soul, while hibernating with cubs: so crucial with beliefs, so systematic with premises, so grand with deliberation.     …at once a navigator, or twice at voyage, while impartial to mother: indeed, a deep confession, this land of confetti, where years churn into survival: those few religions, this religious atmosphere, while its popular to claim religion: our yogis diving, our mystics aloft, our spiritualists conjuring spirits—as mere souls, broken for floored, our carpets crimson prayers: while swans ponder, while mothers resist, while fathers sip something breezy: this losing enterprise, this hard-won deliberation, where certain realities are not in my favor….     I thought to it, this web of activities, reasoning concerning total deafness: as one claims madness, another agrees, plus, passion webbed in criminality: this Lucifer child, this demon with stars, as father is privy to one side of mosaic coins: this man racing, or destroying cars, while innocence is pledged upon images: those secret closets, that filthy blanket, while it’s difficult to imagine pure deceptiveness: those slates grin, this canvas is purple, our charms seem apparent: but life is gentle this wind, those days to basking in patience, or floored to something insensitive: this silent, passive soul, those years to pure indecision, as one invests in something at love with others: that grand debut, our seed laughing, as coming to something so delicate: those internal feelings, as needing such a fix, or flippant concerning this new commission: to need hands, to desire powder, while lacking an adequate voice.     …but more to gentility, this remarkable lover, this astrological musician, at ease with physical alarms: those tender, whispering, bold, electric, even crazed glares: possessed but shivering, or too much to capture, or so sick it appears normal: at treatises with time, where humans lose interests, where familiarity breeds un-appreciation: this need to re-juice, this permeable affectation, while honeysweet insanity is required: at structured focus, loving where it aches, re-capturing something so early in its absence: such compelling skin, this infinite bruise, while silly enough to praise beginnings: so pulled asunder, so yanked to bed, while bleeding in sentiments: our casual affair, those casual liars, our casual hearts as perfect for shortness, but dead for duration, while alarmed our souls fail satiation: such deadly love, while such bestial love, so quick to summons addiction: but Love is alive, and Love is livid, thrown to wolves returning with bones: this ape affair, this gorilla monopoly, while animals purr with aggravation: such dominance, such brutal control, while humans utilize passion with language: that remote island, those charming facilities, or bones struck to intestines!          

Creating Shadows

We paint silence, we decide upon motion, every activity is thought: faced with differences, evolved as creatures, living by favored behavior: so restricted in time, such casual defeat, purposed to outwit mirrors: our fables with teas, our souls as locksmiths, those keys up for auction: our warn souls, thrown into existence, weary about those ocean skies: as instruments, attempting at love, and panting a bit violently.     I sense shackles, such derision, our wealth determining our freedoms: such intimate philosophy, such haunting metaphysics, such suspicion cornered by smiles: our needs for touch, our arms pushing fences, our souls tugging gates: such whispering rain, such wheezing insistence, or so fretted concerning possibilities: at dark hopes, or glimmering appraisals, so quick at dismissals: to live silence, while tired by silence, while reality becomes a loud creature: as but to arise, as but self-regulation, so indebted to ambition.

I rejoin self, after a long trip, gazing at clouds: this evident tension, this vital sunrise, those subterranean forces: at life with kisses, flung into hemispheres, arranged in circles: such expedient cries, our moon melting, our sun retracting heat: our days mope, our nights speculate, our evening tea is quite exhilarating: if but away this life, if but excavated from fiction, if but strong enough to see—this web of confusion, this gate of illusions, while wrestling with thoughts: such interior rehearsal, repeating delusion, if but to sell a grander deception: to live with this, to find joy in this, to act surprised while threads are unknitting…I ponder joy, this created endeavor, founded upon interior clearness: such mutual awareness, such actual survival, plus, two seeds: our weekend movies, our buttery popcorn, our sweetened soda pops: such awe at actors, such relieved sequences, at something promising excitement: such suspense, at moments gasping, at seconds disappointed: as suspending judgment, wrestling with anticipation, floored by cinema surprises: this simple movie, this great joy, glimpsing from moment to seconds.

…we must exhale, as releasing webs, centered in something evocative: those subtle scents, our chilly homes, our recounts concerning vicissitudes: our baked muffins, our laughing hearts, at something quite gentle: while making moments, surprised by reception, to sudden upon watery eyes: this kiln for survival, this wheel for riches, or this ship for sailing: our midday trips, our courageous passion, as filled with something tangible: this force in minds, this experiential sequence, our memories becoming interior science: this formula for happiness, those soft, gentle gestures, at deep thoughts concerning affection: those repeating eyes, those repeating sentiments, our comforts forming huts: depending upon rudiments, finding joy in repetition, or longing for household aromas: indeed, with gravity, or eloping daily, as built in something soul-fed….

We scribble existence, launching our rockets, enduring tummy aches: such pure acceptance, to see rejoicing in self, to land so softly: our outer parachutes, our quasi-saviors, our evenings flushed by redemptive properties: so fretted at times, roaming our endurance, or such restless sleep: our dreams about family, our interpretive arts, at psychical domains: to chuckle from guts, to rush through showers, or studying with sheer enjoyment: our tired bodies, our rethought minds, our jubilant hearts: at shifts in time, probed by reality, a bit thankful for clarity.

…such deep glitter, such deep affection, spinning through deep endeavors: our furnace fires, our marshmallows, our chocolate: our carefree seriousness, our watchful cadence, our trenchant vulnerability: to have fought for life, this appeal in life, seated with thankfulness….

Wiping Windows/Buffing Mirrors

…it becomes nausea, our vomit to pavement, our ripened souls depleted: those curious subtleties, such incessant sneezing, while spitting up phlegm: such achy bones, those years to grayness, plus, something alarming: this portrait of self, this image to winds, at sudden interests: those irony features, depicting silence, where reality is prone to webs: this fire of branches, our cadence rupturing, by gravity tugged by whiffs of psychoses: those endless daughters, our breezy conflict, at angles suffocated: but mother was mental, and mother was scorpion, and mother had stingers: this multiple animal, this ingenious insanity, while unsure if souls would evolve: those coping agendas, such sonic effusion, our sacred, secret, intrusive arcs….     …it lives as sickness, validating something invalid, or comfortable with philosophic anguish: pulled asunder, staring at impracticalities, spun for spinning into wilderness: our brains interlocking, our intense unholiness, our private teal fantasies: at adoration, or pash contagion, remote an interior skate-raft: an angry soul, or too calm for normality, or too concerned for partialities: our dying youth, attempting to re-attain, so reckless a wreck and regardless—this sign posturing, those redemptive kisses, at miracles too silent to address: our revved reality, our stupendous masks, while Love unveiled so softly: at smoky red seas, those casual, petrified eyes, while nibbling poisoned science: our churning intestines, this nauseating profanity, our arid, unchanging specialists: thither, we dive, so steep our shivers, at life with addictive treasuries: this Great Thirst, forever unquenched, while escaping self long enough for sensation….     I meet chameleons, I seem in awe, I walk away: for life is serious, where playtime is shunned, while too much seriousness is eschewed: those thin layers, this bag of Doritos, this can of chili: so odd with particulars, so gifted with insights, while confused, (but something must be haunting): this valid assessment, those invalid hunches, to presume such come from pitted insecurities: to remove our mirror, while looking into mirrors, it becomes sort of difficult: but many specialize—at this dream of daisies, so adverse to interruptions: those diamond panthers, so ecstatically rich, while many are claiming ownership: this brief address, so conceived by brevity, while years flew into memories: our reciting daughters, our student infants, to become so specialized at living: such fresh water, such salty insights, where one presumes humans are slanted.     …it becomes nausea, eating vintage thoughts, or paying homage to immortality: to admire our dreams, or destroyed by infatuation, while some souls seem to imbue our psyches: such ambivalence, a spark midmorning, a sudden explanation, (where we vet something invisible): so authentic, or so deliberate, but despised by something singing: this cello of affectations, this violin of frustrations, while we presume to goodness: to push neediness, to invoke particular angriness, to insist father is evil: at deep inculpation, at livid remarks, to make a child feel stupid for mentioning sentiments: this push against gentility, this retreat in honor of gentleness, if but some sort of individuality: our starving spirits, our tender spirit-hood, our days to Agnes so involved: at unlocked channels, gawking at uncivilized padlocks, where one enters and deceives an entire family: our lives to winning, our arrogance highly susceptible, as never an inclination to wrongdoings: those narrow gates, those narrow horizons, those homogenized societies: as living sameness, so entrenched, while too naïve….     I wait tenderly, I evolve through resistance, I back away long enough for others to think: as rethinking tendentiousness, or re-posturing ubiquities, while so strange at believing in karma: this difficult position, this laughing truism, while reality becomes harsh: such ruthless ambition, if but to have ownership, where humans appear as properties: our achy bellies, those small miracles, this infinite, solitary, gregarious planet: our daughters to souls, our forced aces, our anvils slicing oaken emotion: this gavel for sinners, this treasury for nausea, conversing with patch nosed snakes: as abused with triumphs, as never a similar battle, while opinionated concerning other cultures.                        

Sautéed Truffle Heart

…dipped so early, white garments and water, those wretched infusions: at blight and charcoal, at fire and firebrand, or rather, human undergrowth: this silent gravity, those record breaking surprises, at courses studying existence: those pale blue eyes, this pale blue feeling, at something near our occipital lobes: this running magic, this graphic emotion, asking for mommy: if but to flourish, this interior signpost, those rabid introjections: as men reliving, or souls finding spirits, our brains consumed by personhood: so young with fever, so old by deliberation, attempting this naïve station: so grandiose, such an effusion, writhing where others triumph….     …those mental flames, accustomed to silent observation, where humans seep into focus: our loquat ghettoes, our loquat daughters, our furious mothers: as stripped of dignity, to revisit shame, so pulled, so ambivalent: our breakage, our foliage, our sediments: so alike to damaged, so perfected in lies, our acts according to stimulation: this need for passion, this need for control, while comfortable enough to commit treacheries: where time is gentle, or time is wretched, this flux in dynamics: to adore an image, an unqualified perspective, while vetting a gnat’s authenticity: at courage and waves, those opalescent frequencies, so tugged, pitching pebbles downstream….     I palmed a dragonfly, I dined with sentiments, I spoke with braveries: as mad scientists, lurching into graves, a pencil, a brush, a notepad: while adoring Louis, this McCool Superman, tapering, nay, ingesting ingredients: our Number One, this fair, exotic, erotic creature: while over-sensitized, a bit emotional, where Love snaps and apologizes: this unfair feeling, this real existence, while sensing something slipping into darkness: those few memories, those grandeur thoughts, where humans are fretted to love endlessly: biting nails, scratching earlobes, tugged for pulled by real life: at needs to perform, while feeling exhausted, plus, our steaks are uncooked: so sensitive, feeling inadequate, but such a loving curse: our bolder days, our distracted women, while someone nearby is Prince Charming: such scarce exaggeration, this part-time enthusiasm, while such and such sends us home: our unflinching courage, our blacker nights, our white embarrassments—those solvent solutions, those illegal offices, while a novice studies behaviors: at sudden growths, refrigerating pomegranates, or so insistent upon one single point: our ears buzzing, our feelings so stern, our ownership creating problems….     …it leads me, I negotiate, it feeds me: this fragile being, this sage at seriousness, while courting fair oceans: at naïve remorse, wondering about tender moments, while creating this opened sky: those mahogany suggestions, this interior Wonderland, at Love so deeply: if but our boundaries, as spoke a lieutenant, while such and such points at travesties: this broken winner, this radical loser, at courses blotted with fragments: to lead forever, to follow a few, while recreating this incorrigible wheel: so threshed for diamonds, so cured for human-hood, or regenerated by spirit-stencils: at real issues, so indebted to mother, this rude, aggravating, but instructive machine: to recapture feelings, to regress to adolescence, as enduring this overflow of emotion: our casual thoughts, if but those writers, if but those projections: to die in resistance, as resistance grows nigh, while we grip our intelligence….     I found a memory, so allocated to damages, this fever bankrupting insanity: at fine threads, treading cobblestone, while Love appears daily: this feudal curse, this interior professor, or eyes resembling hints of fury: but yours lives, so gutted with profanity, so entrenched in ribs: to lay gravel, to blow upon cement, to redeem those first three months: this unusual tug, this winning triumph, while a bit resentful: our cards dangling, our oranges with sweetness, our thrills for excitement: such winning reality, while underestimated, or needing a train-wreck: this fury in wigs, this queen by delights, at something seeming by roots: those bolder nights, this re-demanding elixir, or this truffle warfare.               

Ghost Swan

…our tides are rolling, three thousand for one, so crucial, so cultic: to reread bibles, to censure science, this internal lying: at sliced shivers, a bolt to thunder, alive somewhere staring at robotics: as men frying, or women flying, so gently to believe otherwise: at core perceptions, laughing a tender second, where methodology plays its trumpet: our guts soaring, our minds racing, our mothers discontent: for papa left, and papa’s deaf, where miracles slowly suffocate: to demand allegiance, to settle for dying tentatively, where swans need an entire ocean: this radical space, but only for return, to cuddle with mother: our blood blue scars, our veins at alimony, while country songs sound similar….     I adore cadence, I worship vibration, as Jesus is prone to visit: this take on reality, this silence denoted, where we realize choices: those chasms, stringent to beliefs, while angry souls destroy their mirrors: our interior screwdrivers, our mental scissors, while aflame a nightmare: to die in us, to resurface in us, or reaching so deeply as to awaken a hopeless purgatory: this vest of phantoms, this room of ghosts, at phantasmagorias: those infant insights, about forward a psych, where scientists spread levity: if but to perish, searching this swan, while actuality is backing corners: our angry remorse, our dalliance with wolves, as but excited while love is fluent: this place in memories, this special suggestion, where it felt death to feel heaven.     I ache by silence, this office room, and nary a word: but Love is seated, and Love is agony, and death is tentative: this race for closure, this feeling inescapable, while needing incorrigible happiness: this fire in ferns, this friendly fire, as afflux a heartbeat spearing Yahweh: therewith, this timid soul, this timid voice, to unveil leviathan: as reckless advisors, or therapeutic moons, at sunshine asking her shame—such tyranny, such swanic smiles, accursed for breathing: this fair war, this unfair curse, while so indebted life has become an addict: thitherto, this bubbled personality, this fake distance, this crucial vine: to need our allotment, to frown at deception, while entertained enough to partake: at such pegs, this rug filled with blood, our ghosts dripping ambience….     …our days so shortened, our nights to gentility, our skies to flying: those rosy cheeks, those curly bangs, those hazel brown eyes: those limbs running, those arms reciting, our liturgies in ghettoes: to flush at times, to fear travesties, to embark upon ship voyage: at tears those seconds, at deep resolution, as built for resurrection: this small vessel, this large vessel, speaking to something inherent: such blue black magic, such cutting insights, to imagine such grayness: those raspberry cries, these red vines, this cup so overflowing our palms are churning….     …our dearest static, this life to mechanics, our engines rebuilt: these days, at thoughts, but never so hauntingly: to void on words, to curse upon lights, while thrust for abused: this fair losing, those fairer winnings, while something develops by nights: our entitled legacy, robbed by pain, where years churn by disease: at blue passion, or slaves of madness, where fluid-branches have inverted: such to cavities, those trenchant enclosures, while telephones have linked interiors: our beige cyan bowels, this pint of grime, those parents nodding but feeling our Ghost—at breaks and driven, this redeemed maniac, while many are angry with words: to die in us, to relive such death, while fair to pavement skies—as lost and gunning, or afraid and shunning, while Love is watching: such terrific cadence, such deafening remorse, while some are at ecstasy: at yin for yang, at Buddhists Literature, if but to connect to us: this man to abnormalities, this man to honesties, where rewards come so slowly: this narrow gate, this narrow path, where rewards are first demented: hereupon, this slight admission, we guide while reaping in degrees: we live—while dead a smidgen, if but to fly gently: such magic in brains, such tyranny in guts, while true ambition is geared towards forgiving: for too much suffocates, and garbage accumulates maggots, where such destroys this gust for breath: hitherto, but a glimpse, while love permeates an interior phantom….     

Ghost Bulb

…those doors are locked, ghosts are creeping internally, phantasms are screaming….     I think about phantoms, I respond to love, I sing a song about Pinocchio: this torn ambition, this floored essence, or something too abrasive, dissociative, and ambivalent women: those gentle blankets, along tender curses, so lost, or such jeopardy with love: this blue phantasm, this girth with fire, or minds so tipsy with florescence: those lights bleeding, this reversed torment, or agonizing over being at doors: this playful hallway, this cutting incision, or raving at rage over fury: those dangerous kegs, this remorseful feeling, at families seriously reversing rolls: this arc master, this ink slave, those swans sensing something incorrigible: but long to me, this path in me, at romantic terror: so disconnected, this zoo of minions, while true death has become black and white: this perfect sexual, this imperfect person, our souls, our guts, our intestines: if but to flee, running into dungeons, so playful with King Ghost: this interior essence, this gleeful nightmare, as assumed as a person abnormal: at gutty insulation, or removed from passion, at cutlery so intensely dismissive: those auburn rainbows, this leaf upon a shadow, or so intense leaking into sanity: those years at make-believe, those tiles your face, this deranged drained dragon: at closet emotion, or sky draperies, so captured by internal violence….  

…so much sunshine, so many doors, so many unlocked entrances: our trembling bodies, our pumping hearts, so spacial, so concerned: to possess intoxication, to have souls weary, to dine afore deaths: our miracle minds, stressed for release, at something seemingly connected: our detached makeup, our bodies needing instruction, therewith, to have traveled too far: as exhausted creatures, filming our responses, our soul-cameras overheating: to journey with tension, to expend exhaustion, to sit in fluids: our shaky limbs, our moving pulsation, our agonies reporting for dictation: if but removed, by this planet Neptune, or running into calm dungeons: our exploding minds, our lakes at Eternity, our resurrection at baptism….

…we outwit ourselves, a great deal of training, to actually halt a thought: for though they pause, vibration lingers, plus, this uncanny presence generated by thoughts: those intimate locations, our ingestion acidic undulations, such courage to endure its course: this class of impasses, while yearning for freedom, as arriving at intervals: those vernal pastures, these darkened rooms, those enlightened eras: to have such fire, to remain so balanced, while noticing subtle processes: so impatient at times, smirking at interior movements, seemingly preoccupied: (a thought operates, laying attributes to humans, while taken as absolute knowledge: so distant from self, so intimate with self, so detoured by suddenly into self: that old claim, as only knowing self, while unsure if self exists: complete conundrum, so spacial at returns, so invested in seduction): that crazed participant, our dramatists laughing, our souls agonizing over feelings….

…something moves interior, thereto, our motivation, at once, haunted unto stagnation: our counseled waves, at silence with terrors, pulling into our shells: those make-believe havens, at life so distantly, so intimate with trepidation: our reasons for nonparticipation, our souls vibrating our interests, where reminders appear: those geese un-attentive, until closeness, such as captured by proximity: thereat, our true concerns, while chastising inclinations: our behaved souls, at once, a wildly creature, while poured into domestication: if but to fly, as some lay claims, fretted by social constructs: but life becomes fire, where we rarely converse, where our passion is designed for flame….