New Pictures

I clutch a guitar, a bit spacial, laughing in teal eyes. The clench of brick perfume, bodily titillation, or something appealing to my features. While fretted hiding, or casual by death, our graves are agitated. I found fleeting solace. I resurrected in smiles. But it became torturous to ponder us. Our scented blankets. Our scented thoughts. But Love is pure dissociative. So many stand stills, to sense a woman, while contemplating that inherent life. Those Moral Laws, this inconsistency, while tugged by something seeming relentless. Those Haiti eyes. Those Asian remedies. Or this treacherous attraction. Means and ends. Life and delusion. Plus, this irregular wall. Where Love is sensuous, as Love is passionate, but Love has little for Categorical Imperatives. If but to die and come back. If but to dream in turquoise. If but to touch, resound, and ignite this Holy War. A purer thought, our contractual breach, while attempting to trust each other. Those Atlantis sips. This glowing frontal cord. Or this radicalized connection. Seated in mannerisms. Watching a blank endeavor. To sudden upon a freesia vocality. Our sins at war. Our demons striking energies. So cursed, those gates and walls, to feel like I adore someone.

I sinned by intention. I died is detention. I transmigrated, fell into delusions, and resurrected in purgatory. But Love is darling. And Love is smart. While angst has given Love to a longing participant. Gnawing grass grains. Feeding fire flares. Or smelling something without a scent. This baffling courage. This extreme aphrodisiac. Running into our sky fire. As a mere illusion. Or a concerned advocate. To die. Feel. And encounter a slight energy. Our dharma electricity. Our samsara love; too dedicated to needing this ecstasy to persist forever.

I must confess. This trench, this sky slope, this hellish river. Listening to magnolias. Or eating scorpion poison. While a feature appears as a thump. This pixel brain this conglomerate of subtle seconds where I swore to see a different existence. This unleashed person. This curse by blessedness. Or those rare fungus benefits. As alive in something. Or dead to survive in life. Where a person watches, distinguishes a disconnect and cleaves to a susceptible channel. But adored essence, so uncaged, so glorious, as found in mire and sprinkling glitter: this meshed soul; those violent cotton pillows; as needing, if but exclusive, someone to escape our tyranny.

I will to fire in us. I will to receive said fire. But I will never to contend again. Those amaranth smiles. This picture held to mirrors. As looking—reflexive into reflection—so frank, so bold, but a coward to meet those gazes. This silty hall. This chain of chains. Too linked to us. So alive in penchants. Or killed for soft a dying incitement. Those links. Those linchpins. Too into something Safiya wrote. To have this feeling. To purchase an eraser. While at this building blazing in burials. Our cursed angst. Or this grandfather portrait. At one terrorizing something beneath cypress. Our private algae. Our dried-up lagoon. Or this talkative spider. These days in feelings. Looking at clockwork architecture. While deception says we’ve triumphed.

I ate a window. I scribbled upon a shower. I became something most people disdain. This heaving countenance; this mental eclipse; into a reservoir haunted by bias or insecure motivations. This planet of tentacles. This paradise of actions. While distinguished by emotion. Those signs at skies. Those agreement breaths. Or these airs as beating branches. To resolve in losing. Or to perchance by wins. If but to become something lethal. Those rare diesels. Those familiar needs. While determining something defies logic.

The Ignoble Lie: To Live Ignoring Contradiction

…loosen our souls, this art theses, at tender, remote, and cultic functionality: so sure about death, so uncertain about events, at graves, naively speaking questions: so cavelike, beating senses, or annihilating something uttered: a musical box, an unlocked cage, or a discarded number: eating galaxies, nourishing discrimination, but asked to existence as a whole person: engaged in warfare, so social with deaths, such pride by running: internal dissertations, inherent conflict, so close we argue—those shutdown feelings, this indiscreet imposition, at something too obvious to give full affect/effect: changed, nonetheless, vacating valleys, screeching and shrieking something terribly: opposed to mere deaths, as needing immortality, that future eighth generation: our space babies, our helium breads, accultured, aggregated, or pure agriculture: this proletariat conflict, our bourgeoisie indifference—for it was never his child: dealing dice, a latent racist, addicted to Those People: (My heart drops, as if committing crime, or eating too many cookies: this draining operation, presuming/assuming dissimilarities, a wolfman, an interior piano: to sense those eyes, to know those meanings, where no one is listening: indeed, a crazed fool, to believe sincerely that, If you love me, you must respect my culture): but passion passes, If this havoc than that havoc, and truly don’t disturb me: this gentle terror, this haunted house, while reality is furious with existence: thrashing Honesty, degrading Integrity, to look over and say, I love you…our anti-behaviors, our thesis laws, our plastered magnum opus: those familiar feelings, where we feel underappreciated, but it has become custom—and ruling machines count it as the ‘Norm’: our terrific meanings, our petrified reasons, while Time looks in and congratulates Delusion: this hellish position, while something is pleading, where a fool unlocked chains and was met with death: our status quo, be it the debts of life, but hell to something thinking: to please our minds, we tolerate functionality, engaged to color, and arguing for eugenics: our brave seconds, pointing to something absurd, while told, I love you….    

…a bit there, a feeling detained, while something needs Nietzsche—this dream game, this love essence, while tolerating anything for acceptance: couldn’t find air, couldn’t phone air, for air had disappeared: couldn’t see breath, couldn’t beckon breath, but breath was out there: (I retreat softly, patient with this land, or intolerant: for life is simple, see as me—or I’ll hurt you): Oh’ those tides, in this vengeful world, as we watch, feel adverse, and disagree with extremes….

I lit a feeling, this hard chase, in order to ignore actuality in exchange for something sweet: introduced to habits, those destructive praxes, where turning them off is detrimental: so accredited, so absolute, if blue moon tension met with sanity: this rolling crucible, our honorable lies, so concerned with this otherness: losing leisure time, losing all senses, reasoning through armchairs: or hands-on, quarreling with flame, a bit mystic this deep negotiation: recalling those moments, as meant so little, for something familiar was engaged: this desired thing, this casual passion thing, to finish a good session with a high five: indeed, a prude, but needing something romantic, if but to exist our lie: too many fables, too much conflict, while closeness appreciates a high five: such indecision, such lightfast livings, assorted, but losing, captive, but free!

Dear Universe—so rebuilt, so elsewhere, spliced, defeated, and given life: this Father Mother, this Mother Father, so close to winning Ghosts: as infused, but visited, as needing that intense ion at every second: too reborn to die, too dead assaulting rebirth, too accustomed to clashing with contemporaries: but sweet ivory, or syrup mahogany, while gunned into differentials.

Re-fire an Ecstatic

I garden a nightmare—so indebted to happiness, while sick to guts about bliss: this chase for luxuries, this vim for perfect, while wretched our notches and flaming ghosts: our purple passion, our coconut rum, our crushes upon something too destined to run: this pregnant fire, this leaping soul, while a baby smiled my voice: as sunk in woods, camping with chipmunks, and listening to ants: our waving oceans, beneath our caving auras, while denoted in plural rawness: so afraid to live, so comfortable with dying, while a bit off-put by reality: if but to adore, as blind to existence, while most minds are tugged: this gunning feeling, so lost in this, so curt to feel this: too different for normal, too accursed by parents, while God knew: this deep indictment, this furious tribunal, raging and laughing and falling apart: those whispers chasing, this wall laughing, those schizophrenic skies: this bipolar frenzy, as lost to win, while never again this life: our tortured intestines, our guts bleeding, this napkin to tongue: if but our cadence, if but this extent, wondering this lot about emotions: this peak feeling, this peeking butterfly, or this morning’s hummingbird: those damn raccoons, this skunk odor, or those loud ass crickets: to concentrate upon Wisdom, to become too vicious, as aborted for such rectitude feelings: this old neural transmission, this new familiarity, or this odd distance while too close to win: a deeper language, a pint of sin, this miracle laughing in my face: this damn color game, this brutal dissociative art, or those regular do for good mentalities: those people there, our people here, and everyone is claiming human: if but to love, just one dying soul, to flourish as alive and liquid: too damn small, this big ass God, those headlights flickering: this dark ass highway, this loud ass sensorium, as destroyed, left for dead, and Jesus came!

I sip and get lost; I get lost and come back—angry as hell with this ink: those fastened walls, this bloated camel, this gnat at my reflection: a mere passenger, as to exit a vehicle, to lose a bit of respect: this cuff thing, this apology thing, or this plea for empathy: a manic religiosity, a fool for mysticism, while aflame an empire and grinding: a cadre of souls, this hidden profession, to enflame or inflame a nation:

a torn Protestant, a Baptist child, an adult charisma: so cataphatic, so apophatic, or so rabid in this calm ass body: radiating vibrations, a thump from afar, a member of this sick ass existence: removed from society, a hermit whistling, as told a squirrel to watch its mouth: a bit dramatic, but, nonetheless, It’s not imperative to adhere to those complaints: indeed, revved and dying, or alive and suspect, where some are destined to live this religiosity: a man watching, a man thinking, while missing this key ingredient: our deep convergence, our experientials, attached to something too esoteric to utter: “A fine claim, for a chosen soul, while feeling important”: indeed, a box, but we claim thus, Any one person may feel this ecstatic—as abandoned to Ghosts, or running into dungeons, if but dear God to unlock!

Thinking Upon Plato & Socrates: Un-Noosing Honesty

…somewhere grayer, some typical time slot, those binoculars, or that broken grin: to die interior, to sweat suddenly, at a brief second: a hot house, upon soil and pavement, an inner antique: those swift feelings, taken with panic, wheezing and carrying dynamite: a furious spirit, a furious phantom, an icy and furious freezer: so close to passion, so detoured by fire, alive a penchant and breathing excitement: our bloated bowels, our pastime billiards, our poetic pain: such by living, to assess this feeling, retracing a particular fragrance: those sodden leaves, this stemming into flying, at something too curious to discern: floating by ghosts, praising academia, or reviewing this psychiatrist: our fierceness, or our passiveness, or something in-between: listening to feelings, pacing stillness, accustomed to heavy starch: a conduit to you, those paradoxical eyes, or this mixture of self and praxis: our customs, our suspicions, our inaudible emotions: fixed in parts, unsteady in others, plus, our infatuation with existence: reading theoretical criticism, sensing our repeated persons, too refrained to suggest, I’ve met you….

…somewhere colder, some atypical building, blubbering softly, becoming those persons we feel passion for: our minds running, our souls debating, our spirit-intuition: as fueled for persistence, determining our skills, favored in this helium matrix: engraving breastbone, feeling this sunburst, listening to an undertow: our palms with silt, while meditative, becoming our winds: a sore epiphany, or deeper inspiration, while a foreign person crosses our spirits: splayed asunder, our hearts to pavements, re-voiced by a choir of raindrops: this sleety sand, this muddy seagull, plus, this raving highway: upstream silence, beautiful emotion, a brush and paint and canvas: to relive this life, to ask forgiveness, to ask fuller responsibility: this shiver request, as if approaching Awesomeness, while brains relapse to infantile beginnings: such a fiery kernel, so affected but standing, so encouraged to submit: this raging and furious and dramatic glen….

It returns with shame, those years shivering, while adult life begins around thirty: sunbeam anxieties, snapshot evaluations, where a certain static becomes our personhood: as told to change, un-noosing Honesty, or resuscitating Socrates: such hemlock, such courage, while we debate Christianities: something like that, those bolder statements, where Plato might suggest relocating: but something grips life, something holds California, where something is critical of this design: They see us coming—leading by their left foot—ensuring to make us aware: such closed science, such a particular life, while one is not superior: (I thought about this—this deep disconnection—as never would we leave comforts for utter damnation): we may visit, or dear our guts participate, but victory belongs to something looking normal: a polite/insecure smile; a deep neediness to support our egos; or so utterly together we succeed in their auras: indeed, that slipping sanity, those divine currents, or this desperation to educate something slipping away.

…deep black oils, amaranth frustration, looking into laceleaf: our daughters watching life, or participating at cornerstones, or seated in something perplexing: our women striking gongs, our minds revisiting harassments, while something written is not always read: gazing over at coffee, trying to fathom grandpa, or too imagine happy pain: fiddling a merry-go-round, looking at a sandcastle, watering up at a first step: that snappy dragon, those rosy snakes, while people are crazy over snapchat: this feeling un-chased, this pace a bit gentle, while it would those days—as crazed participants, needing a good feeling, so lazy Sunday mornings: or up and agitated, a table a pen a night-game: something cozy, a friendly computer, a clove, an awaited dynasty….  

Us People/Those People

…attempting this journey, walking glassy ice, looking with sober senses: as it appears, is a good start, but why it appears is better: this position in life, where those people are crazy, despite sameness in our families: so drained these days, looking at profanity, while nudged to believe: a featured pain, a drowning paper, or an edgy professor: our ideals dying, our reality distasteful, where love seems an inappropriate title….     It seems easy over there, where rules are concrete, and everyone respects the title: a threat unknown, is a threat shadowed, while we smile with coyotes: our shindigs laughing, our souls uneasy, our excellent performance: but different people, with different priorities, consumed by “divine madness”: those pretty mosaics, this Levitical dictum, or this anti-existence: they call it solipsism, this deeply deprived damnation, where one is only certain of interior operations: others are objects, even surface observations, and we can never know or feel their existence: indeed, tell an infant that, or a young child, rightly, the child would stare in amazement: but grayness is present, this feeling in others, while mystics assert universality: our watery eyes, our inner fire, our similar and sameness experiences: but those people, there so different, they inhale different oxygen: our guts rebuked, so small, so large, and such a disturbance.     I record seconds—enflamed by indifference, rewound and lying: where anger becomes hiding, while too much pain becomes mawkish, as balance is far reaching: to become so loving, fraught by guilt, while, in all honesty, we wrestle ideals and consensus: no! I’m not contending shame, in this land of rivers, but merely pointing to something peculiar: our vows are contracts, but loyalty is up for debates, while, nevertheless, we assume a mutual understanding: those different people, those different answers, while different people are often rude: this slippery slope, where an idea—is said to support a number of assumptions: oh for daughters, and oh for sons, while a father attempts to reason out something quite selfish: this plan to live, this feeling in souls, where a daughter asks concerning mother: to embed a feeling, to embed an emotion, while a son looks, shrugs, and asks for clarity: indeed, us people, our normal titles, where a title determines a person’s motives and actions and trustworthiness.     We live uncertainty—judging as skeptics, while participating in face values: a bit undone, or a bit too clever, while cobras are watching: reduced to absurdity, unthreaded and discarded, while a child unravels our balled up papers: this interior metaphor, when life seems unfair, where one is forced to entertain our arete: it happens often, while faced by innocence, for we feel shame, conviction, and a nudging towards honesties: this moving chase, this fast paced reality, where we need a certain comfort-zone: as laughs a hyena, running for miles, such hierarchy socialization: our titles, our everything, our reason for loving us: us people, dissociative, and needing pure familiarity: where our Humanities rage, searching out those people, while wrestling with sensitivities.     This small-large globe—our pensive angst, those reaching rivers: our ad hoc argumentation, where we favor our position, while reducing the value of others: those differences, as dependent upon perception, where any group becomes both us people and those people: indeed, a bit for you, this lacewing magnet, this dragon in femininity: that odd feeling, this deep conflict, while normality is a bit colorful: this chemistry lion, this attraction tiger, or this languishing chimpanzee: but Honesty is far, it races to return, it runs over mountains and terrains and leaps over creeks: this fulgent creature, while cheetahs are chasing, if but to abolish this lying agitator: and there is Honesty, raging defenses, dangling by a noose: so transmigrated, roaming and rummaging, so appeared in cities: this furious creature, this laughing, “divine madness”: at turns churning, at wakes debating, at graves pouring into cemented soil.  

Those Different People

I flicker about graves, chancing with robins, spaced upon a twig: so drilled inside, so deceased inside, so alive inside: so different, seeing unclearly, a bit insecure: a map screaming, a notion bleeding, or a calm, alarming aura: at old feelings, at sophisticated women, looking, a thought sighted, a grim-reaper: to succumb for tired, to become weak, so stranded at Moral Allies: those outlandish promises, those deeper meanings, so in seconds, while Love is agonizing: to envelope us, afloat a nightsong, so wicked those immortal asylums: as cursed to love, needing reciprocation, if but to look over and call you, Friend: this reasonable request, this relatable fire, peering at, excavating us, such a crocodile with flame: flippant and wild, or destined for fury, our mothers and fathers carrying detrimental outcomes: to reason tightly, to dig a trench, to feel, embrace and bathe in a basin: so different, so sensitive, too alert by smart souls: this island of blackbirds, this raving phoenix, so creative, so gutted, as floored a man with seven faces: so at you, while trusted to fantasies, while desperate to avoid us: this killing sensation, this blue shiver, at red robin heights: wondering about feelings, entertaining emotions, while at someone too far to cry: our fathers loco, our mothers abandoned, or a rare soul determined to outdo his father: searching, Love, affected in core, while needing somewhere to relax: a nonexistent, a ravishing charm, so alert, so deadly, with tiles in brains and trekking gaps: so fevered, this internal apparatus, or those curious souls: so pregnant with life, so rare an experience, while sending unneeded waves: or Mother This, or Mother That, so graveled into brick walls: so absolutely innocent, wrestling interior motion, so perfect, so destroyed, while radiating christic beauty.     …absolutely indebted, this raving machine, this dynamic energy, or those roses walking our gardens: absolute fever, so assumed as motion, such a mystic teal sky: where Love is deliberate, and Love is accidental, while both seem so large in this small world: our similar circles, our similar arts, our paradoxes robbing, nay, augmenting our insanities: this kettle its lies, this pot its coldness, or this talkative, lunatic coffee: our deductive mistakes, our wants for something, where delusion operates as commonsense: this feel-good exaggeration, where we know but never, while assaulted by this irrational feeling: so different I live, so close to a breastplate, with armor and sword and helmet: so abased that second, as never so low, while reality was beating our tails: such a wonderful creature, so idiosyncratic, where movement means indecision….     I move fastly—a man a scar, looking at something terrific: if but this second, those concrete feelings, if but cemented into skies: our reasons so plain, our needs to escape, our cravings for something made gorgeous: our sons laughing, our daughters grimacing, as wives shake and giggle and head for another feeling: our broken sights, our interior deeds, our degrees—floating, interrogated, or damn near annihilated: while pigeons soar, and ducks leap ponds, or a casual elder feeds squirrels: this different elation, this somber moment, this silly second—as escaping self, removed from life, at dust and darkness and damn near feeling good: our masterful ambitions, our therapists searching psychology, our screams at this unlikely situation: refused entrance, this silent academy, where most are expressing something similar: as fire with flame, or oceans with sediments, or skies with atmosphere.     I get weak and land—this irrational need, so strong and anti-social: looking at myriads, attracted but dismayed, but afar from misanthropy: or maybe distrusting, appearing in a shadow, those dark, lone, critical assessments: at a deeper feeling, excited about encounters, but uneasy with performances: or rather, this natural exchange, this natural sentiment, while so natural we ignite a spark: a radical believer, an orison member, while fever and fire flails existence: such flogged experiences, so worn but passionate, so cursed but feeling goodness. 

Beloved Swan II

It's improper to lie, so said a liar, so explored by oxymorons: sublime ions, electric connectedness, our minds as architects: your soul exhumed, your art so precious, your dreams shared with winds: a young sparrow, a fragile hair, a spoken fierceness: so shy those moments, so absolutely unconventional, as given this existence: beloved and singing, whistling through flutes, imagined as blueberry pies: raspberry ink, or dyer jackets, while so embarrassed: but mother is magnet, so close to firmness, where lies are discerned: to flee magic, to embrace sutras, at deep wells spelling our insistence: a jasmine diamond, a loquat inheritance, running through ivory fields: those flowers, Love, the ones we blow, where each little fairy floats in furies: our responsibility, to know exact names, where music hits and souls chance: such furious alligators, or a furious panther, our rites, our screams, our determination: so frightened to succeed, so culpable for failures, so existent, so reframed: to possess our parts, to meld gently, or to walk a perfumed orchard: our gray plums, our pomegranate eyes, so estranged from irregular feelings: those normal eyes, that normal perception, those normal emotions: while flying family, looking at grandpa, so accustomed to reeling skies: (a young actor, a talking booklet, so salty and dizzy from whirling: an artist whisper, climbing Mount Temperaments, so filtered, so regular, so embarrassed: our bashful sentiments, and what for those thoughts, our signature monsters: such breathless beauty, such countless opportunities, so endless, so calculated, so deliberate): numbers to napkins, fairer activities, while slightly apprehensive: at thoughts about chapels, but I encourage reading, while selection becomes a riddle: this slot in souls, this inverted sky-sin, while dreaming about becoming scholars: at tropic mesmerization, at chiseled clarity, where we feel disconnected: our rumored fevers, our remote agendas, so sacral, so Buddhist, and such fire.

I owe you dreams, for this intense feeling, akin to mystical chalk: a surrounded aura, a glowing texture, or deep interior tsunamis: wizard brains, wiccan screams, so destined to create our lives: searching for clarity, this painful heist, while held so close to ransom: alchemic skies, augury messages, while conjuring ghosts: your incredible capacity, your beliefs shedding rain, or clouds pausing in your honor: so pushed by valleys, our cultic landscape, where esoteria is sprinkling our nightmares: too dear to perish, at least this river, at blue black burgundy moons: a swanic rune, a swanic tune, such patience, love, and gloom: a silent spell, a wellic star, while angels feast at your words: turquoise arts, cyan arcs, while pleading that you stay awake: truth as sureness, this delicate adventure, to become too certain through disappointments: dreamy feelings, our first mistakes, where an absent voice is crucified: billows raving, jutted cliffs, our eyes sensed in majesty: fairytale emotion, or a bigger delight, to become every imagination.

…something so close, to give so much, while becoming so indebted: those spritely eyes, those enthusiastic palms, to have so dear a mission: our soul-quake pianos, our undone legacy, or our unsung dynasty: to need inheritance, if but for identity, while something seems appropriate: if but this truth, or but that truth, or better, if but father acquiesce, take full responsibility, despite his internal breath: so destined to crawl, so determined to accept his part, but something is odd about faultless participation: speaking to engagement, where antagonism is prevalent, and indiscretion is universal: those fairer dreams, where life is angelic—and bluebirds are chiming amongst gorillas: such acceptance, while some are perfect, but no one is paying attention: this hard curse, this edgy reality, while young and moving through galaxies: so much above that, and so much adverse to that, while life is typing into our brains….

Forward Chalice

…bold nonsense, elevated trauma, leaping into dynasties: so adored in you, at peace in you, while fair a dream in you: bold nonsense, lively babies, so absolute, such absolution—a mother’s cave, at father’s flame, too abandoned to grow normally: abased with pride, alert with shame, at granny’s tea: those bleeding nostrils, this mad reject, as infused and laughing at certain arbitrary rubrics: trefoil wishes, bland music, so cursed, so inadequate, so tatted: to need those roses, to prick a fever, so ghostly, so forbidden, while mother was there for trial: our clover hearts, so stressed asunder, as an agent of depression: too steep to exhume, too shallow to explain, too dangerous to trust: crimson fingerprints, bold nonsense, and father just left insanity: aggregate saints, flushed vomit, a vein too close to resume….

…bold nonsense, internal blubbering, mental jinn’s: at something so deep, this differential between straight lines and jagged lines: our crooked poverty, our impoverished gentlemen, our poor daughters: to ask for intimacy, where damage is loud, while a psych is speaking furiously: to break a chain, to get through, so deeply dead inside: such to eyes, this feudal blight, this interior plight: this love thing, those coupe things, at hospitals seated with something running: our aloof shadows, our emotion-archetypes, so psychical, so delivered, so infatuated with breathing: so in-between, so casual, as a word with ten meanings: if but to remove you, if but loosen you, if but to rechain something seeming oblivious to you….

…those six wishes, those endangered socialites, to meet in darkness: a sudden feeling, this thin thread, this underlining communication: so gifted, so instrumental, and so emoted: at blackbirds, at Horace, at ions: inclined to taste, inclined to witness, so under-earth with Sienna: torrid gowns, torrid sweat, so torrid, so enveloped: this interior melee, this musical nonsense, alive and staring at stars: so penchant, Love, so out of questions, Love, where such depression is eminent, Love: for life is curiosity, to milk and augment answers, when questions lose evidence: a purple king, a turquoise queen, while our mission is “instruction and delight”: too mad for pictures, too crazed for intimate reciprocation, or too aligned to fit in: those raving ideals, this craving sanity, ‘too perfect for anything living’: our auras carrying meaning, as they match, if lucky, our prosaic castles: our plays, or this stage about life, while we argue over appropriateness—plus, moderate perfection: so, give more hope, evaluate behavior, and mingle with those upper skies….

Our philosophic scabies, or our deliberate perfections, at something ruined too early to fully fix: our short happy lives, so disinclined at honesties, while paper is screaming and raging at ink-moths: poets are asked deaths, evenness is so extraordinary, while one reads, dismisses and returns to off-putting behaviors: an opus cobweb, or a reason to persist, while a swan marinates by indecision: this closed chapter, as opened for notes, while each look is traumatizing: so, discard the book, live this existence, until you need to repurchase that book: such frightened discernment, such ruthless accolades, while it was found a madman writing history.

Our philosophic rabies, our splendor fantast, as finding pleasure knitted by reality: this pain-cliff, this leaping heart, so accustomed to standing near margins: a few blemishes, as defining insistence, where a true poet apologizes, makes such peace, and travels in forward thought.    

Discuss with Me those First Objections

…teary these waves, attuned to psyches, reading closely: so stranded, at chills, filtered in egg-yokes: our daughters, our souls, our bold, terrifying skin-mud: so appalled, at adored cares, fleeing, galloping, returning to Eden: our swans—such giggles, at purple or cyan endlessness: so kissed, Precious, so deceased, Precious, while a strong aura: glowing in panic, affronted by thoughts, sensed as needing one loyal member: hearing, Socrates, nibbling existence, blending my memories: making muscle, removed and desolate, while speaking to professors: sensing common interests, proud to read, Poetics, while cursed to review this misnomer: at particles, too close to fantasy, while needing such to persist: our classical situation, at cleaner feelings, while lost a daisy and crying softly: this wild predicament, this teary element, so proud to own integrity: in deep flux, laughing at carnivals, interviewing clowns: so purposed to care, so elated to live, while dragging through darker memories: this war is burgundy, systematic assaults, while rearranging a man’s self-portrait: this flippant image, this deep question, while interrogating our meanings: such faces, faced by indifference, so accustomed to confrontation: to rub our world, to distress those persons, while unaware of my title: at broad endeavors, rethinking this predicament, to want something destined to afflict: this sick ass dilemma, this sick ass attraction, where essence speaks to therapy: our casual interaction, our psychiatric language, where insults are painted in presuming discourses: our future feelings, our welling emotion, while pictured as one so distressed: so many ions, so overtaken, if but to pump our gas: saying similar delights, suggesting similar agonies, while convinced I’ve been forced so early: to reason this light, to die this legacy, to feel consumed by music: tragic whistles, Homer’s anguish, at something crucifying: your eyes debated, your angst tolerated, and your soul reevaluated: if but this crisis, as removing this hook, if but some type of permanent meanings: too provoked, choking existence, and vomiting something existential….

…teary these days, but not fully water, but deep misty: so connected those seconds, as passing concentration, refueled and living ignorance: but needing poetry, this ion adventure, this onslaught of creativity, this individualized creation: our daughters reading, becoming this existence, while our souls are raked, forked, and slain: before this life, before mother’s uterus, before God’s manifest: those brown eyes, those silky reigns, as retested to persist: casual affliction, this gray area, where opponents act harshly: so hated, so early, as to wondering concerning our destinies: so infatuated, so early, while pain rarely loosens its grip: those early bonds, those fruitless ails, while dead to surrendering dysfunction: but divination sings, as others debate, while something new is rarely uttered: such nuance, familiar language, but such a subtle spin: our truer colors, our argumentation, while something new has appeared: this in-lake fire, those creative innuendos, those remarkable screams….   

I can’t touch it, this interior wailing, this monster at avenues: this cypress introjection, this pash devastation, or this daughter too afar those oceans: to come through deaths, to imagine living, while a happy life is a suicidal life: those agreed poets, those disagreeing poets, to find where they reach: as dying frozen, or dethawed by tragedy, so accustomed to ignoring poetry: those rude souls, this reduced soul, or our daughter’s eyes: to find commonality, to essay discontents, or to register bad speakers: so infused with nothingness, so lazy to inquire, while deep sorrow has been vetted: our authentic game, our deaths as pleasure, so close to barking under marsh: or tragic this penchant, so private this success, while forced to endure strangers.

Reknitted Firehouses

I worry softly—abiding in masculinity, while passive, or feminine such pride: allergic to happiness, seated over a burger, plus, a plate of fries: artery pressure, mid-thought an attraction, mid-fury something alarming: this quest for genius, this interrupted session, or appropriate limitations: afloat a second, while winds are heavy, too accustomed to something ridiculous: day-songs, night heaving(s), doing eighty but resting: hydrant woes, ocean frustration, plus, this cheek twitch: our years are running, our minds are watching, if but to imagine what’s stored in us: but Love is different, where Love is proportionate pricking(s), so alert to flustered responses: plus, Love aches, Love dies, Love feels goodness: so, approach us, ensoul a nightmare, give life to anguish: our purple shivers, our tender rivers, while phantoms are taking dictations: for Love is conscious, where Love is awakened, while we skipped immediacies: hitherto, a phlegmatic droning, this inescapable distaste, this interior privacy: but over there, those rose bushes, this incredible, non-consuming fire: such a mid-soul, such a mid-infant, while Love seems quite adjusted: eloquent professors, deeper anxieties, our arts stippling our receptions: memoir mystiques, mis-measured mosaics, or matrix mesmerization: our splendiferous souls, spun for satiated, while morning spawned something slanted: so awake for you, but so uncommon in you, while furious with society: not merely a complaint, but steep structure, so chaotic, so captive, so seductively unsighted: our doctors—so consumed, this jargon, this jousting, this jingle: while life is moving, where life is singing, while life is abrupt: hereinto, a slight attraction, while imposing insecurities, to request someone as magician: to need you, to ask for you, while ignoring this atypical buzzing in you: our radiant ears, our radical assignments, while leaping for jumping, into mythical portals: to possess a career, to possess a spouse, while a little soul mingles and meshes and mangles our nights at home: such soft scented toes, such torn, titillating seriousness, or waxing a welkin wave: so dearly enchanted, so tersely disenchanted, as so simultaneous: this feeling in beige, this woman is screams, or this emotion too haphazard to surrender.

I flew the coop, entangled sharply, wrestling with demons—as inclined that direction, as Love asked for features, to become so psychiatric: our gut-muscles, our cigarette seconds, so enflowered, so embroidered: knit to stone, kicking sensation, at nails, knots, and serenity: this failed rehab, this failed curse, our highways seeming inappropriate: so damaged, un-deranged, at pigeons and squirrels and geese: such allergenic energies, at Neptune, walking, too pressured to forget you: those wild feelings, or those wilder nights, while Love was absent: this reversal, this rehearsal, so rich, so radiant, and wailing righteousness: this pain as beautiful, this wealth as wretched, so dissolved, so infused, and too simultaneously: as adored in you, this frenzy in you, while you were crazy: those bold, bright, big, treacherous, even demonic eyes: such a feature that moment, flickering a hairbrush, so indebted to pure, raw cocaine: as a daughter looked, affected deeply, those psychical energies: so moist in rest, so impassioned to speak, while too exhausted to hold converse: photic midmornings, aphotic midnights, so melodramatic—so effused to scream: as but a fool, so dear to heart, while Love ached and broke life—too captured to desire freedoms: this thing we ask, if but to absorb you, if but to become every slithering, nonconformist, even tantalizing sensation in you: as souls at calories, if but to exist, those frames bleeding, those pains screaming, if but assuaged by phantoms: our deeper intensities, as belonging to life, while so enriched, this bloated tinge, to die in dear goodness: those surreal brains, so close it alarms, while closer we become so distant: so greatly powerful, shared with fevers, where something explosive is held hostage by fire wicks.

It Seems but Its Contradiction

I’m not attracted, not immediately, while attracted, nonetheless: this feudal banister, such crimson blood, such purple dynasties: as Love looks, as Love gazes, something rare this picture: our banished inclinations, while requiring immediacy, so fragrant, so distant, so acapella: I googled poems; I found such patience; I saw such history: as used a word, unbeknownst to skies, to see such sitting stillness: this pouch of writings, this blue fire, this ancient feeling: accursed with Love, a child with Love, a glorious death in Love: to wander senses, to hear bragging, while one gloats over another’s deaths: but painted in fresco, or graffiti those trains, to see, sense, and settle: over yore, this amazing promise, this amazing instrument: our futures mingling, those bodies clashing, while we’ve met over academia: sidereal rages, at page three, this anthology: while missing ingredients, while purchased to escape, those years running forever.

I’m not enlove, while laughter is watching, or, too, angry with mirrors: reducing comments, sensed as awkward, as fevered in a stranger: to bless this heart, to feel incredible, while sad those lutes: overtaken but saluted, gangly but clear, restructured while unclear: those funeral ponds, those distinguished pains, as aloof  by measurements: too tensed to whisper, too stagnant to applause, where passion seems to grip invisibility: our wildest sin, our meter-prints, or those voice-paws: as alone with everybody, or everybody feeling closeness, to perish a yearning introvert: our message flame, our cages giggling, while a man wrestles with gravel: at negligees panting, or sentences a thump, while truly wishing for that audience: as alive with mire, so muddy our debut, while cleansed, rinsed, or studied.

Such strawberry aches, or raspberry cherries, while a man adores his visions: but gemstones, or cobblestones, or rich, indebted theologies: a deductive argument, by no greater idea, where realization points to word-magic: those reluctant eyes, those splendor eyes, while such a confession breaks gravity: even with proclamation, held hostage by certain attraction, so reified, so terrified, so at something seeming normal: highlights racing, desert patience waning, where seeing visions becomes a reason to compose: so unsettled, so unfurled, while mornings seem distressed: living a thin thread, as it robs creativity, while sipping this grim reaper: so much juice, such dedicated dishonesty, where a fantast agonizes over a phantom.

I’m not attracted; I swear this scream; as a man throws his dice: opus pains, opus grins, or opus deception: accused and devastated, rebuked and claimed, or instructed and forgotten: so much fire, so much water, our minds becoming lukewarm: while children watch, or children play, seeming a bit oblivious: mother knits, mother crochets, while mother tends to delicate temperaments: father builds, father patronizes, while father abandons a fleeting thought.

It seems incredible, our souls at mischief, while so content with silence: as two agree, but never a discussion, while something traditional has upchucked its ghost: our more created souls, languishing softly, re-spoken by tunnels: to evince a suggestion, to ask in earnest, or intolerant and escaping: pushing our motives, so close to irregular, at trestle and pen—those finer exploits, this losing frenzy, to win something remarkable: so intangible, so captive, while unwrapped for freedom: those short roads, this long forgiveness, or this deep expectation: as time is selected, or time is unsatisfying, while unfamiliarity promises eternity: our wild feelings, if but this creator, if but this miracle.

Let Death Resurrect

…good for irritable, this heist life, so suffocated, so restored: penchant woes, cloves burning, wine speaking gates: segue madness, fluent a mistake, so dead, so disappointed: to need by life, this category of screams, at wagons talking blasphemes: such fatigue, angels whining, mother a bit batty: impulse city, alert and tragic, fueled to demolish pain: primitive feelings, so close its suspicious, a year to pass out: a bit hung, looking at promise: some dream I invented: left with nothing, holding to phantasms, spun for cringing: to ask by permission, granted this legacy, while torn, destroyed, and so attached it cries: a true beast, laughing at tyranny, acclaimed for scars: so fueled in you, so exhausted in you, as hearing aids exploded in you: so pernicious, so luxurious, while life is one big tournament….

…out of reach, out of breath, bleaching intestines: a fresh rose, a bold bug, while misery was unplugged: ravel more hate, unravel more love, so shoved, so destitute, while happy as hell: those fuses, this cruel bliss, while body argues with brains: too sick for love, too deceased for passion, while mimicking sheer disgusts: floored to signs, such archaic existence, so blessed if but to receive: chaos wranglers, full forced frantic(s), alert but troubled: running fields, looking to granny, while such was deceased: those years laughing, this gut unsettled, such vomit this capital step: organizing patience, at a last thread, but Love is sick with life: encouraged to perish, encouraged to survive, while life just runs its limits….

I slump a gut

I ruin magic

…so torn inside, so low these wrecks, where we need more rain: a master recluse, a star barely dangling, or a fool raiding our condiments: to need you, if but our favor, while too dedicated to prose: our child laughing, our highs low, where midmorning a moon struck: this crib-wagon, this phoenix God, at Mary and asking retention: such sculptors, so radicalized, while writing shifts as if urns….

Our moods ruthless, to touch, sing deaths, and flee mountains: this running chase, this leaping hurdle, to ask concerning our inheritance: tested and thrown, sacred but lost, an hour, an exit, a man at home: feeling rebuked, feeling cascades, while water seems disapproving: our brushed teeth, our porcelain castles, while Love made dinner: looking at deaths, this fragile claim, where we assert God is deceased: so deranged, so insistent, as if something makes sense: impassioned again, fleeing miracles, excluding everything dealing with hope: this human category, this refilmed beginning, so destroyed, so at ends for fevers, where prayer seemed appropriate: too low to die, so good a haven, while dreary where mother arose.

I thought wrongly, aborted after existence, an embryo writing his future: omitting chains, absurd reality, fretting for ruined and gunning: ivory tables, as never his claim, while Love snowed with fury: alive last week, so gutted this wreck, at something it was to live: houses empty, but Love struck, a thump, a castle, this irrelevant killing: in-for-out, such a rollercoaster, but damn this ride—as flown into Michigan, peering into lakes, reminiscent of a mystic professional: this interior us, watching every integral, so behaved, so decent, while this world is a mistake: at darts with beers, at futuristic faith, so close to something atheist: oh for consequences, so enlove with consequences, at someone so afar, and so in darkness, while I sit, recollect, and build fantasies.

Redeeming Mysticism

I flame fire, lost in features, by myriad watchers: I lose fantasy, steep in this realm, where every angle is unreality: so torn with you, so enlove with myth, occasioned to rise and perish: a close friend, a dying friend, our eyes swell with madness: a beautiful woman, a gracious animal, so fused and looking to cherish: this fulfilled element, this lingering unfulfillment, so rooted, so deceased, and living in miracles: if but to hold us, if but to mold feelings, if but two disappearing: at troves by treasures, at pure femininity, so classical, so yanked, while wrestling emotions: this appetite, Adored Felon, this pain, Adored Felon, while Love has never felt cuffs: such a love death, such dying resurrection, this temblor, that swoosh, this graffito psych: or professors afire, this raging to frontal lobes, while head stooped and raised in agony: our Protestant bones, our mystic marrow, so aloof, but far too close: at voiceprints, evermore a savage, at cultic sky-shivers: such racing energies, such swooshes to brains, at heart, a bit nonresponsive: but Love is power, and Love is living deaths, so accustomed to raging with force: those cygnet maniacs, this swanic castle, this wiccan mother: so combined, so elated, if but to rescue, Phantasm: this electric vacuum, this electric blackhole, while entering and inverting hell: so challenged to quit, so African in guts, while Europe is pleading mysticisms.

I raced in us, so exterminated, as becoming something fashioned: serenading phantoms, extinguished by climaxes, so pregnant in our horizon: an inter-soul, a intra-soul, where it felt good to adore you: where a daughter came, I was lost in childhood, it was death as beauty: but more to discontent, and more to hurtful words, where souls linger, live, and lose: such titillating thighs, such a small pelvis, so internal, so delinquent, so enchanted: this apparition, this recurrent dream, where grandpa is a guillotine: ardent survivors, and it feels good, but what is life without our progeny: as entered college, as entered brains, so confused by identity: hiding there, stooping there, and overtaken by loses: this granny ambassador, this film in caricatures, our base ambitions: to relocate nonsense, to hate like holy, while something precious has died a taste.

I flame fire, so feral a flicker, while adored a mental representation: to know for goodness, while good for others, needing to explore this region: our beating violins, our metric drums, such wave, so detriment, to encourage that you leave everything: this fool with math, this graph with holograms, while it never seemed so easy to love you: our well-sacrificed, our fairer gorgeous, to die, complete death, and rise seeking as an infant: this glorious woman, this prison debate, while pages died, flipped deaths, and came to meet you: this agreement, this sure deceit, so close to Proverbs: wildflower, Precious, while to hate this gut, so beckoned by something pleasing: this red moon, this blue haven, while so indebted to a feared casualty: to glean miracles, to covenant a sacrifice, while deep those dungeons a child is weaning.

I raced in us, too young to see God, too displeased to render passion: this pain in women, a man dying to intrigue, while it takes a particular combination: if but to get pain, if but to gain glory, as symbol and sign so inclined to penchant Eternity: our crocheted mystics, this infused dynasty, where mother sat, meditated, and swooshed throughout this universe: our patient rain, our seaquake adventures, at such a tender daughter: to see deceit, to laugh as normal, or to love like crazy: champagne tempos, at grandpa’s smile, so sourced, so relocated: this featured friend, this feline feature, or this masculine, dramatized, insync feature: to come so close, to redo our essence, if but to become psychological Shiloh’s.

Craving Thunder

…early rumblings, disgruntle thoughts, while this couldn’t be living: survival marathons, executed pigeons, at super padlocks: to adore like penguins, to feud reality, to panic so much enduring something natural: so many wizards, to possess what is loved, while lizards dance or sit stillness: ache-bugs, insect wisdom, even snow-mites: while petting snakes, bitten but surprised, venom flooding his system: nostrils dripping, thirty minutes to heaven, a shot slamming into bone: so intractable, petting this snake, our second operation: a goblet of rage, a cup of terrors, so vacant, so raptured, so into something new….

We fiddle gray skies, counting centipedes, fumbling, weaning, coming to infant terminology: so allergic to truths, so pensive and crying, curled into a fireball: at something terrific, even driving literature, as needing a particular appreciation: but Love is angst, while Love is determined, where Love has passion: machine pressure, pure animation, our minds as ravenous wolves: our cheery appetites, or phlegmatic joys, such socket wire, such deep alienation: occasioned to live, as never a stronger wind, accursed to love, live, and lose.

…those days we sat, alert to disharmony, while making sentiments: orange leaves, brown green grasshoppers, affection or placation: needing exhilaration, something to kill us, if but more this interrogation: while needing Mulberry, if but those eyes, if but this feeling: while waves shift—our compartmentalized behaviors, where it’s alright if desolate: indeed, Nightmare, while feeling old, while losing elasticity: those plastic smiles, those plastered grins, while gravity is offensive: a pet tarantula, those tanking webs, so powered to escape: this laughing chill, so destined, so inflated—as eyes are numbered, a reputation was born, a man is foolish: narrated nihilism, this nation of coyotes, so clever, so radical, so caught….

Our plants giggle, our beds cringe, our sheets are moist: so great our desire, to have a crazed woman, so gorgeous, so illustrative, so addicted to us: a body of petals, a waist born burgundy, if only sex carried indebtedness: so afraid to breathe, so consumed with majesty, so tugged, so elevated, and radiant euphoria: those solvent eyes, cleansing our doubts, so rinsed, so baptized, so ecliptic: soft spoken fireworks, unchaperoned emotion, so tragic, so encountered, our bodies slowly destroyed: such residue, such orca channels, arranged in sheer intangibility.

Tigers are watchful, cubs are at play, and some are wildly at love: snails are near grass, rabbits are sitting stillness, and skunks are spraying trees: bull ants are marching, those eyes are trickling, our understanding is tested: dragons are afloat, monkeys hang highness, where tomorrow seems uninteresting: feral cats harass dingoes, those legs wiggle, our guts suffer from laughter: prehistoric feelings, besprinkled dreams, at genetic skylines: quartet hearts, sound-blasting emotions, such tactic, such sacrifice.

…never so closer, never so intolerant, where reasoning is off-balance: to imagine joy, used, misused, and using: so grabbed, so electric, so purposed: to have this feature, embedded in roots, while one taps into waters: temporal gazes, titillating sensations, a bit indebted to women: our incredible famine, to witness survival, to determine character: eating shewbread, sipping our screams, aloof to the feeling of nets: cyanine poetry, austere mannikins, while life becomes deciduous: incessant passion, forgiving disinterests, while dying to adore you….

Furious Fire Frames: An Intimate Picture

…out the gate, a losing flier, a broken wildness: something whispering, something dying, as fire is raging: a lone dog, a crazed hyena, a devastated coyote: those tile sad-planks, this muddy gravel, as rain pours and falls and laughs: so accustomed to chasing, lost in this fantasy, if but a warm, crazed, disobedient womb: finding clearance, dramatic appetites, as needing too many to survive: reading Scientology, sensing something havoc, where chaos is spreading: while Agony beckons, and Pain soars, alert but dislodged: physical catastrophes, bodily neediness, as attuned to something naked: our brave horizon, our gutted phones, pleading one last departure: to think by you, to masquerade alone, to converse with chairs in you: gestalt ravished, blue green eyes, hazel hair complexion: dancing with grandpa, hilarious in hells, afforded one last hello: so cut from tables, too passive to assert, but rumbling a cool explosion: those therapy brows, those allergic sequences, seated, inebriated, crumbling to a soft voice: this need in humans, this gutted index, this furious ice-cream pollen: so destined to lose, so destined to placate, while others seem accordingly: at dark secrets, at losing-winnings, while Love just lost a bet: intimate cravings, such attention to dying, while actualized to lose: this rare creature, this furious summer, if but three wishes to suffuse progeny….

…soft spoken energies, a rude embrace, a fragrant fire: to adore something taken’d, where reality is wrong, so confused it feels pure illusion: but hell to facts, and hell to funerals, at needs and cavalier concerns: wild and crazed, obedient and dead, or compliant and fitting criteria: to dance like singing, to sing like radiance, while too beautiful to subject to words: this fueled fool, this frantic fire, this flailed fury: if but to awaken, this marvelous feature, if but to sound out phraseologies: so detoured from Love, so ached in Love, where another popped up and spoke a feeling: as destined to curdle, or destined to arise, where seasoning is pure confliction: our lemon salmon, our gray earth-winds, searching and needing afflicted havens: so cursed in Ana, so alive in Heather, so abused in Sophia: this constant test, this incessant riddle, but so indelicate, and so engaged our bodies laugh, die, and rest in hells: such stimulation, this old stigmata, too afraid to ask for Eternity: this machine in ears, this language in teal, those brown tresses….

It’s quite obvious, this tragic liquor, while courted for sanity: this man as deceased, this language as traumatized, where polarized seems apropos: so nice with profession, so adequate with horizon, or so appealing I had to ignore it: our senses at one thought, our needs to procreate, while taking precautions: those shadows, Live One, those screams, Dead One, this fury, Jasmine Cries: but a pair of dice, but a long walk, while something rages: to sit that office, to look at reality, to die a smidgen: this life for me, this tier for rain, those aches and angles becoming deep messages: as long we live, as short we rise, so attuned to something speaking foreign.

I heard in passing, this returning casino, while furious a slot and dancing: so tatted, so saluted, while swans chance mother’s engagements: at grandpa a memory, at granny a chimney, so infused but ignoring this long held liaison: those caterpillar eyes, this bone crumbling, this spine rising: to sense in Love, a gorgeous body, as dies a purer infraction: so cut its good, so flown its wild, where we pretend to be oblivious: this writing frenzy, this sheer concern, while Love became a motive: a short leash, a longer socket, to infuse, become numb, and desire something strange: such numerology, instead of random numbers, to break each down and add singular digits.

Deprived of Absolutes: Determined by Measurements

…such cadence, such death, organizing, focused upon principle: enlove with ghosts, fueled to ignite, at a fifty year old engine: classical arts, fire mavens, alert to beauty as oblivious: sunbird concentration, to know this name, so close and dying in me: my soul, affixed to your soul, while, nevertheless, we shall never meet: as truth floats, to need opportunity, to shift insights: so crazed at struggle, to feel humanity, rising so low speaking tongues: such psyche depletion, such psyche hypotheses, as never an encounter with physicality: social death, peak embrace, so accustomed to actualizing: but tears, Love, or joy, Love, trying desperately: our daughters so casual, so hip, so hip hop: our girls laughing, our pearls damaged, so categorical—this whirl sin, this whirl pain, at a psych so un-gathered: our endurance, our microphones, this indebted decade: this ancient mystic, this ancient community, our garths, our jest-flame, or tyrannies: but Pain is awesome, and Pain is passion, and Pain is remarkable: such pantheon pleasures, such rain filled politeness, at rails and roads: so forced to scream, so primitive to live, while something new is quite afflicted: so conscious, so cognitive, or too casual to pursue: while staring deeply, or acting unaware, while sure to send appropriate symbols: our first fall, our last legacy, so remote to cymbals: to want more, to need more, to live an uneven state: so close to adders, so intrigued with venom, to die, suffer and feel normal: too much wine, or enough with dying, while humanity is feeling unsafe: this cure lingering, this shame extinguished, or deep misery upon hiatus—those small features, this petit attraction, confused by distinguished disdain: but hell is beautiful as striking peaks, while one woman changed our perspective: such transformation, such running infiltration, where a simple notion inverts a simple conclusion…. 

…so wrong to exist, so good to die, running from fruit: a Jewish claim, a world’s complication, as affected in psyches: sewing furies, sewing nonchalance, while Love is crucial affectation: so many repeats, such reaping montages, at action by purpose: so attuned, so smart, so evenly crazy: ha, Love, or, ha, Friend, or, ha, Sanity: so long this road, and tearing up, for life became hell: so low this epistemic, confronting Jesus, asking for both design and meaning: such purposed behavior, or such an overseer, or such a delicate asylum: as falling for Love, or running from Love, or so impassive daylight is hard to locate, Love: such negative enforcers, such negative emotion, to invert and become a positive rationale: so indefinable, so remodeled, at core, crux and complication: those streetcars, those inner wars, at twenty years so detached from becoming robots: our meals, our baths, our sex: while others seem fury, and others seem life, while Love just finished a novel: searching into unity, fleeing isolation, while Love was habits: this curios daisy, this revving rose, such totality, or totalitarians: our ruminating characters, our life-mission, at serious, convoluted consequences: looting Sisyphus, asking too many questions, and living Sisyphus: or so indirect, so detached, our audience is attacking: too much an independent, too much a threat, too much a winner: or high delusion, or higher peaks, or an absurd hero: this black canvas, this inner appraisal, where one might be a problem…!

…so nihilistic, or so sick, computing our differing locks: our separate Kingdoms, our different perceptions, where one sees authority, another sees a charlatan: this God Person, this Asexual Being, while default nouns speak to masculinity: this Feminine Principle, this interior Gatekeeper, or this Imaginary Horizon: as completing our myths, in order to sustain humanity, if but to promise something beyond our reach: indeed, this man by Faith, this rapture by Experience, so cured, so decisive, while debating myriad positions….

Prose Oh’ Women

…dreaming in turquoise, screaming in jasper, so accursed to adore you: filming insanity, negotiating our terms, holding to something unconventional: great projection, indebted perception, while attracted, even smitten by sandy roses: those archetypes, building our sanctuaries, but unraveled dynamite: so auburn, so blond, or such nappy, well pressed, raven mane: tugged gently, pushed into survival, afraid of becoming damaged: to protect essence, we languish softly, while Love is quite aggressive: to know a man’s psyche, to exist as irresistible, roaming collective sensuality: so consciously unconscious, such a breeding shadow, while etching out perfection: as dead men, brought to life, while encouraged to sing: those purple sentences, this purple evasiveness, or purple silence: to adore mahogany, too penchant for inversion, while addicted to sophistication: our gatekeepers, our saffron women, so colorful, so diplomatic, or such republic democrats: our pretzel poses, those feline feelings, while a man becomes a hero: racing through shrubberies, ten leopards, twelve ghosts, and fifteen pandas: those puma eyes, those jasmine threads, at something incredibly terrible: but Love is hedges, where Love adores Energy, while Love is a feminine tiger: those Hildegard women, those Marylin icons, so mixed, so imperfect, so spacial: our tailored minds, our wordsmith hearts, our meaning slipping its reigns: trying so desperately, divesting our guineas, where excitement is Casper sin: our thirst for scorpions, while forcing praise, to submit, evaporate, and return….

I heard fire; I dived in; I met something in those mirrors: seventy eyes, seventy years, seventy women: ashamed to pant, ashamed to breathe, ashamed to love: a young soul, a daft man, an idealist: so irrational, so determined, needing from women what they can’t imagine: pulled asunder, laughing calmly, at hysteria eyes: so marvelous, so demanded, while lovemaking is often robotic: but Love as radiance, or Love as resonance, while Love dies blue leaves: burgundy vines, augmented sessions, or patience too green to win: rattlesnake harmony, shaky palms, while granny nicely passes out cookies: so thrown that way, so alive that way, while prose misses an ingredient: a roadrunner, a gila monster, a mechanical man needing to break freedoms: a centimeter apart, too torn to smile, turning and walking, while spirit-backwards: those taller meanings, those taller curtsies, so modest, so familiar, where a man loses his auras: mystikos souls, or logos souls, such pathos energies: running into, Gorgeous, this familiar fire, alert to something chaining insistence: our rudiment worlds, our ruling principles, while Love adores in parts: our tender mimes, our tender caves, so ruined by something beautiful.

…practically nonchalant, concerned with motives, protecting our cherished inheritance: cufflinks, Versace suits, soft leather Adam’s: a hundred dollar tie, a ninety dollar white shirt, a pair of thirty dollar boxers: or a ten dollar t-shirt, a pair of hundred dollar denims, and turquoise tennis: we can’t imagine, while Love is struggle, while Love is discomfort-comforts: our ancestors so close, our family tree so close, our novels and movies and cinemas—so close: needing fantasy, omitted at times, while something Gorgeous can offset our train: but Love is sanctioned, or Love is Protestant, or Love is Buddhist: so re-imagined, where writing is unfair, while becoming something seen as a threat: becoming rhinoceros, ramming blackholes, seeping into oblivion: so purposed this way, remolded by strangers, while evaluating our reception: at buffalo nonfiction, perceived as too intimate, or envied for such honesty: replanted in visions, harnessed by frustration, while eager for a glass of reality: something beautiful, something intimate, something fawning….

Deaths are Difficult, but Living is Dynasty

…so bred to die, so infused to love, at poisonous grapes: wild and deceased, refrained and deceased, so purposed to share mere seconds: primate souls, gibbons and immunity, or something so firm it stands immortal: mimicked plants, gregarious bees, so filmed, so embarrassed, so ashamed: those leaf cutters, this ant hill, or this fiery desert: adored in dying, an effusion but living, too cursed, too exonerated, while weaving heritage: so much slime, so curious we live, at something too precious to sin: our religiosity, or suffocated inclinations, at ropes, rails, and redemption: if but more patience, if but anti-classism, if but those miracles: to love with clearance, to fracture at lungs, where roses seem important: so many detriments, so many gorgeous creatures, while petting our grizzly bears: tarsier eyes, waking hopes, plus, too resistant to classification: our worlds clashing, our distrusts rapid, so close, so warm, so defused: for life is momentum, where life is classification, while we endure for our strangers: to need approval, to desire your praise, where jealousy might rage as coyotes: but Love is knowledge, even feminine species, so well put into society: our running impositions, our magnet fires, so disinclined to apologize: such parent wisdom, such radical daughters, while mercy appeared in a distant thought: those remora instincts, our privilege and society, our remnant and pride: to adore, Love, this understanding creature, while releasing something sure to disappoint: to exist our caves, to crave our insistence, or to need our unyielding personas: as died to have you, at mercies to extract you, while it has become hell to retrace you: flustered and frustrated, such frantic chaos, to sit their looking impossible for submission: at eyes staring, so unhappy with arrangements, but too satisfied to become estranged: but Love is poetry, where Love is prose, while Love is replenished: but a strong creator, but a sounding gong, at cymbals and dance and opera: too far to retreat, too close to love, or too selfish to wait….

…by a gentle hand, or a panda’s paw, while pleading a slew of questions: irrational fears, sorrow indebted love, or two put right choosing to adore presence: Tibetan Sutras, our Scottish Proverbs, either/or, those outrageous, intimate eyes: a fire in season, a reluctant sword, to hit, devastate, and send into orbit: our stronger species, our soul searchers, our surrendered successors: at morning mist, at measured mechanics, or missing our madness: thrust, thrown and tragic, banished, bored and blank, or wilted, welted and wrangling: those satire eyes, those treasured afflictions, as never to forget such radiance: eating internets, retreating into discomfort, at media suspension: so dear to imagination, so close to invisible, while nearly tragic our minor concerns: those prophetic palms, those proper palates, so palatial, so outstanding: if but by agreement, to have someone chosen, as two grow into matrimony: our rules, our demands, our currents: as filmed creatures, forever calm, but nigh frozen by comedy: so tragic this art, as departing our senses, while Love was so angry a storm ensued: our jealous hearts, our jousting havens, and so heavy for justice: those burgundy moons, those droopy eyes, as realized Love is now pure….

It seems certain, while it appears foggy, while life is treasure and descents: rebels play antitheses, conformers are a little hostile, while healthy points to adjusted perceptions: those great sharks, our gathered souls, at peril and gravel and senses: too much our flame, too chilled our epistemic, and lights seem so ordinary: to imagine those sessions, locked in demands, where others are taking to adventures: our bodily chemistry, our bodily preference, while selected to meet Eternity: at waves and wretchedness, but beaming with beauty, as such brochure witnesses: this cage we adore, those walls we cement, plus, our garlic steaks.

Fiery Red Cynosure

Thrum this rain, droplets trickling, your beauty killing me: so soft-spoken, while so raspy, our minds dodging electricity: so content, so challenged, our writing needs: at deep attraction, bonded by verbal essence, or terrified about destroying perfections: while daughters flip pain, and sons scream at glory, so submissive, so indebted, warring against mental abasements: so Alaska, too cold to exhale, plus, our chapped lips: frozen rivers, supporting polar bears, plus, two cubs: needing Brazilian sunlight, or Africa’s oils, so accustomed to analyzing Asian women: so deliberate, so mis-earned, where reasons seem plural: our modernity, our medieval sentiments, but so dark, so murky, and such marsh: peering at mayflies, so early this morning, contemplating inconsistencies: such a perfect image, even agitating, where one needs to ruffle those feathers: watching flying squirrels, indexing pictures, reviewing camera-ware: intellectual dangers, Madagascar emotion, while lions are too powerful: an Indi lemur, a cute meerkat, a speedy shrew: to drift this pain, to analyze Europe, while certain thoughts are too sacred: this monogamy sting, this consensus, or this failure to complete tests: nibbling bamboo, rereading Sinclair, wondering too deeply: at something creative, or something Irish, where liquor seems apropos: running for futures, kneeling near a mantis, or conversing with sloths: such metaphors, dangerously too close, while irresistible is not merely horny: odd ruses, odd vernacular, where some of us are too concentrated: such a humiliating look, reciting something incredible, while one is half interested: but back to gorgeous, while exception is lethal, at terror to lose poetry: this mistress, this wife, this hard pressed warrior: those tempest wiles, those tender woes, or too tendentious and wicked: to explore tighter caves, to run a disastrous risk, while speaking to something most men popularize: extrapolating meaning, measured as madness, where a particular grip tolerates insanity: our blank responses, our bashed reputations, at brilliant resurrection: so colorfully anti-colors, so curt, so refined: to prejudge experientially, to probe expectedly, while pressured to hold indiscretions: this oxy-prose, this anti-prosaic, so pictured in a running womb: aye-aye frustration, our tender names, while screaming and yelling and getting closure: this hell-cactus, this fueled detriment, so harmful, so human, or haven terrors: while Love is remarkable, undone, plus, uncaptured: so many eyes, so many disguises, where we’re locating kindreds: at tragedy in you, to imagine keeping you, so jutted, or too irrational in you.

…into flame, our furious hearts, such a rendezvous escalation: such ferocious volts, so complete in something partial: at paradox and love, at rounded squares, too indicted to breathe: to find you there, eating similes, or chattering trigonometry: so close it kills, so alive it hurts, such beauty designed by oxymorons: so occasioned, if but our colloquium, at terrified fractions: numbers gunning—into this fairer desertion, while petrified of glory: blue blades, brilliant banners, bulbous billows: at foresights, such a cynosure, or too evolved to speak with Zeus: wonder raging currents, or warn rendition colors, so waxy, so ridiculous, so careful: as a dead appetite, brought to insistence, while loving you is anti-consensus: so earth to chains, as musicality to shames, so enflamed, misguided, and aflame: at perfect daydreams, with you so dear, while featured in symposiums: our deaf arts, our inner Beethoven, at violins tacking our souls: burning earlobes, teal gray exercises, while scheduled to meet with Gertrude The Great….

It lives by myth, it appeals by stories, it dreams and laughs and ponders impossible horizons: it’s blended mushrooms, it’s deep intrigue, or specialized resistance: it amplifies, it dies, it cries to something non-discernable: as fire sparks—at trampolines—or leaping too high to land.

Green Fire

…some time to reflect, some time to freeze, where persuasion becomes internal: or shivering elements, our unknown fire, our history stipulating dichotomies: our darker lights, our brilliant darkness, so close, seated right there, or so far torn it no longer hurts: those faces, this trace of humility, or this world battling against meekness: our personalities, haunting our guts, at something akin to a soul-phone: embraced but aloof, kissed but desert, or loving so detached from affection: to need volume, to desire vibration, while rabid so sick for us: thick smaze, ablaze our nights, so early arising for coffee: a sudden thump, a sudden trance, while feeling dislocated: ether cries, ether eyes, so alone, so crowded, so familiar: such sweet ceremony, our spirit-empires, while fluttering fantastical feelings: brought to existence, our cultic telegraphs, those soul-felt stenographers: our phantasm, those knitted undergarments, that bright white too big to wear t-shirt: or snug a pair of sweats, an accentuated waistline, so casual, so alluring, so underestimated: something sublime, if to allay emotion, while sudden a tear distracted: unraveled paradoxes, closeness examined, meaning striking our hourglass: to echo our song, to shelter our disaster, to tug away while pulling nearness: such contempt, bottled in attraction, late nights studying personality: our duty, our Buddhism, our Deontology: so thrown to confess, so ruined for deaths, or so alive a raging memoir: our scattered nerves, our deep delights, reminiscing upon a dream: but life shifts, where wolves gather, where souls are hunted: such kneeling patience, such tempest with storm, such cycle, such camouflage: to drift silently, to entertain this harmonica, to converse with this saxophone: with deep unction, with raging perfection, with such a tug into green fire: those howling crickets, this friendly ferret, or this moving epiphany….

I read a nightmare, I examined sestinas, it was nerve to wall, longing for remission: those hazel lime eyes, this excruciating dilemma, our predicament with wings: to remember, albeit, so naturally, we admired something mystique: so small a dynasty, so quick to attack, so young with beauty: those hopes so stealthy, this light so clandestine, while it takes a paragraph to awaken: those furious legs, this swimming instructor, or so close it hurts to caress: our separate lives, our screaming parents, while many are curious: such hurt filled ink, such distressed sky-sphinx(s), at song with pain, at life with deaths: this irregular pulsation, this irregular address, at eyes sensing such tragedy: so much contempt, such radiant disgusts, while fire is breeding: our barren comforts, our hidden cries, as seated so low, while tigers are empathetic: to have perished, to have incarnated, while alert women are afraid of being called, Goddess: our claws in sandcastles, our brooks feeling poetic, our minds suffering from poverty: so depleted, so depraved, or so denigrated: to live our baptism, to confess our sacraments, while partaking of this existential Eucharist: at ottoman lows, at tender clouds, or so in-between: this terrible condition, this raving alienation, while life runs high upon sufferings.

…so many complications, as life is skating, even skiing: to have become a cliché, our richer concerns, our territorial cul-de-sacs, this Utilitarian slant: great for many, detriments to few, if but to maintain happiness: this elusive cartoon, as beaks are blown, or measurements are buried: such oxymoron, to love so dearly, while to hate so emphatically: this ‘love title’, this box of attributes, while we numerate actual tangibilities: searching for intimate religiosity, confused by rationality, while reading Spinoza too religiously: our dreams, Princess, to hold our course, Princess, if but to alarming our hearts, Princess: our old clocks, this new horizon, or this regular alienation: so close to remembered, so forgotten it hurts, our loveseats, our souls, our fires….

Flexible Apparatus

…so inclined to adore, something seeming senseless, agonizing over gestures: so unphysical, so mental, such pain sung to choirs: at hell laughing, if but for sanity, occasioned to perish: jasmine lizards, at this vestibule door, knocking, insisting, while something is naïve: our plural arts, our postmodern hearts, where something so deep passes its legacy: if but to parish in you, if but to escape in you, where life is seen through Adam’s gaze in you: so furious, so penchant, at dearer survival: this screaming abyss, this luxurious planet, where your eyes determine our moods: such intimacy, such ironic diamonds, where ants become undertakers: if but your honesty, I could deal with deaths, while life becomes so regular: as men cringing, or women trying, so afforded this nonchalance: our nostrils screaming, our sickness flushed, our mentors feeling inadequate: as primate creatures, familiar with persons, so much as to die happiness: our bouncing thoughts, reminded about yesteryears, so sakata, so inherited, or so founded looking into crystals: those penguin eyes, those iguana eyes, those gecko cries—as men adoring you, as men ingratiating you, even as men losing you: so perfect, so sensual, so classic but animalistic: this sameness claim, this tender voice, our phobias, our phrenic lights, our split psyches: if but to live, as afforded your curse, where a woman adores one man: so sweet, so gorilla, so anti-simplicity—those shimmering sufferings, those collapsed our lungs, so rebuked, so televised, while movies express our chains: this genius mermaid, our inherited daughters, so darkened, so polite, while disposition rages by grandparents: those lemur tentacles, our silverback calmness, our orangutan attitudes: as bendable creatures, so equipped to negotiate, while poly-amorous: goose grass, clumps of sensations, or sediment intuition: to arrive with you, to adore you, while stressed to inhale you: our gnawing souls, eating cypress leaves, or debating mnemonic devices: so attuned to patience, so there that second, while afraid to admit curiosity….

It was icy meetings, infused thoughts, or an effusion of probabilities: to cuss in us, to laugh with us, or to casual a feeling in us: re-pictured and giggling, statuesque and naïve, or a plaintiff arguing for sexuality: this brain computer, these words as gentle, while Love agonizes over claims: such a beautiful monster, our bonobo genetics, while we wrestle with completion: so born to exist, our peacekeeping tactics, while something is lingering: to have for satiation, to gather figs, where one suggests that passing argument: so accused of madness, but Love is our season, such nutshell aggravation: if but to extend, as a willow in sin, where it felt like heaven to adorn your soil: this perfect itch, those perfect scratches, where Love felt motivated.

I close those feelings, while haunted by those feelings, in duress concerning more feelings: this acacia tense, this woodblock statute, so accursed, roaming this island of theologians: a bit secular, looking into distress signals, too familiar with a casual goodbye: our souls abashed, our minds ashamed, while humans, quite possibly, are fighting a winning cause: sachet papers, briefcase anxieties, our ties so tight we topple: those denims, this feeling, our systematic attacks: for men are animals, where souls are lustful, plus, sex was permitted for procreation: our tingling sensorium(s), our misplaced hankerings, too cursed to exist.

Our low rankings, or this camerawoman, including an identic memory: so coarse with time, so challenged by vines, so appealing, so sick, so deliberate: at future frustration, our prophetic happenstance, while we tell our stories: so explored in you, so to abscond from you, but memories haunt solidifying you.