Ghetto Christ

a young man with his visions attracted to something crucial or busy ignoring his situation; rain ponds and city horses our souls with teardrops our love so soapy and desperate; our watchful sun-breeze so correlated for failures accustomed to ghetto laws…our religious elders after living this life and many are going to or have been in rehab; this thing about recovery this new existence this somewhat judgmental outlook; able to summons deep energizing ghosts or radiating a particular fire where something shifts and needs its status. Many kids are bused to church. While becoming something positive. Or somewhat possessed and fanatical. This holy ingredient, this pure feeling, where it appears as a faultless element; those abiding rules those moving furniture pieces at settees and ottomans and spiritual cedar diamonds; to learn about this feature, our Ghetto Jesus, to speak with such authority—for how does one absorb Jesus with moderation?

I reminisce a clove and rift into those trauma years with Christ—that flame that edification such dedication upon positivity while excavating negative principalities—this war that cave where goodness was pumped in and severe maladies were charging and rushing upward—those fiddling mental maggots or mother’s high-wrung rages into something too clever to decode—this systematic stigmata those pathological attributes or traits that seemed indicative of ghetto militias; our rooftop parties or our darkroom fights at something those eyes ingratiated by roughness and addicts; but Christ this machine this reason to feel goodness this time in life where one is useful; our days backsliding or our evenings backbiting where Jesus is watching and we say things like, Lord forgive us; our church picnics or speaking church with Suzy or feeling something spatial that talked about holiness; while something in someone worldly congratulates something standing taller and tacit enough to look like wisdom: this strange conversation where a mother, and eyes and body melting, suggests this powerful and awkward praise: You’re a good boy and you deserve the best—while she breaks and shivers and her nails are dirty: Your daddy would be proud of you, to see what you have become, but he is in another world right now and you can’t be to blame and you need not feel sad—because I love you.

It pains to no small degree when verbal language is contradicting bodily behavior; but times are dreams and cascading into Suzy where we forget we are dealing with fallible creatures; our days putting our minds to tests as souls battling this war and we say things like, Idle time is the devil’s workshop. We cleave to ideals and ignore inconsistencies while putting our ink to recording scripture; our deacons facing traumas our pastor in a scandal and our choir losing strength; But the devil shall test and we shall withstand and we shall not lose faith; while family has reneged on participation and mother is somewhere further than before where one whispers: It often gets worse before it gets better; some type of ancient wisdom or something to prepare a child for a long road where nightlights might blacken-out and become damp.

Indeed, we rewrite Jesus making Christ our Savior while trying to erase a part of our memories; we see doctors and endure lies or get help as becoming quite intelligent or critical or both; many returned to familiarity rough-housing their intestines and consuming so much it was hard to unstick such trauma; this breaking away as survival or so entrenched prison was destiny while many, misunderstood, laughed and thumbed plenty tacks into coffins; our masculinity our macho madness or women so tired of stigmas they fail to fight it anymore.

Ghettoes weren’t meant to Spread Out

Let the ghosts from ghetto halls and cells and walls be so gentle that night into deaths—our breathing irregular our hatred askew to despise so deeply we fall into love’s haven; those blue eyes this detriment skin those roses and daisies if but to abort this feeling; our cobble in chains, our aloof creatures in cocaine and God knew well nor did She intervene; those musical ropes as looking and madmen while madwomen spoke crazily and danced before traffic; this beer dynasty this filthy floor dynasty or this toddler staring and soundless reaching for eye-composure. I darkness an attraction so uncured and unhealed peering into terrific fantasies; black walnut eyes or sap too thick to dishpan and terrible affection filled with concrete lusts; this friendly roach this flea with teeth or this young possum found Watts in this eclipsed city; those dreams but mommy-made those tears into white sheets or this old black woman that despises blacks. I can’t shake a smile lurid into sandpapered carpet a bit friendly but angry as rockets; gazing for ghetto-born always interested in businesses and so opinionated one might listen.

I felt lyric at hands those streets so abused and dynamite upon a an earlobe; our righteousness determined by blood-diamonds our women losing identity where some elements aren’t as important as money; this ghost with Jesus this private room face while granny hovered aside a bed speaking Galilean—to check her pulse so wrapped in voodoo or repenting and running from those intimate brains; such scandalous loses to become too involved a skeleton a map a beer and pure free loses; defused and so dark or radiantly ugly at children losing but taking where a son just redeemed mother. [so coastal speeding and racing aloof and gutted at miracles this mad-man meant to pass-out; so luxurious a woman out of Brentwood and such a curse and such force wrestling with big phantoms; to hold her business to die her allure at pictures plus a miscarriage; this pill thing this wine thing this beer for one so present it became pretty trauma; losing leads where panic tackles and stars were want for appellate court].

Ghetto glances a bit harsh a bit hard while father came to visit; indeed to hit indeed to bounce and not a coin for the penny-bank;  firsthand notions or livid back hearts as amazed to feel a woman in Oxnard; this dance with wings this fledgling losing mercy while father forced son to fly at two; mommy is crazy this Christmas our lights are on a tree and plus a gift; this muscle land this magic crown at something fat with vagueness; our brains hung our pots for drums so excited forging a good time; such sugar-water such rice-cakes and granny is wrestling with schizophrenia; our genetic harbinger, plus, his side, while mother is keeping peace; glowing in red velvet and talking like mystery while someone is prone to ask for forgiveness.

I change to dash looking for healing-hands while days are sick with Miss Incognito; this deep addict so ill towards sobriety but solemn a good sense; where ghosts are drugs and phantoms are heroin and goblins are myriad personality battles—this warrior, he must die, this Pharaoh, he must die or this Gentile Jewish zealot. I live in shadows; I set fire to closets and God appealed on torn sentenced ambivalence; this deeper ambition this lunch for dinner-ambition or this dinner for breakfast-ambition; or fasting for years flown in gravels and nibbling Chronicles; our unfair harms at something a corner-market while left and needing rightly; our twenty-year furniture or this plastic covered couch at grandpa an insulin rush; so dead into it so alive into it where resistance proves something needing maintenance; to adore you so much but mainly because you ignore temptation and I hope by gods and demons and life this forever frequency.                      

While We Change Titles, it is Still Abuse!

I laugh at thoughts sudden into electricity a bit refueled for a poem. I recollect in nebula too suffused to sit still while a thump springs into fusion. But time be gentle and ours be sweet if but to pretend we’ve never met. This aging machine this ghetto agent while comfortable around a few people; or looking closely listening to patterns while becoming a bit judgmental; our tentative curse this investigation where it flew back to where it came from; this thing in honesty this current of fuses or this mystic socket; to churn over something simple or to feel particular hurts at something educating and producing literature. I ached for love or casual a tent for love nor were days polite where mirrors shattered; our anger as sustenance our pain as wisdom where it was nice while it spoke freedoms. Those cagey anxieties wherefore this missing life if but to feel so enwrapped at rapt’d junctures; a womb his own, indeed, a bit gray, but we’re decided enough to fathom that some are plural; where men are defused or men are angry or one manhandles while another caresses; but we must go deeper, this need in some, where an animal needs to feel ravished; this conundrum this pain while a relationship is an eight day a week responsibility; such constant communication in a tacit world while deep into silence we sense our ghettoes; this heroine line or this pill with cocaine or this leaf when nibbled we see hallucinations; those mushrooms those percocets or deep purple ganja or pebbles and crystal-meth; this need to escape this trouble with algebra or those times it just seemed incredible; this hell in blue-lace this magenta glass or so bent for ruined a slew of partners are maneuvering through trauma; our fueled mothers our ghetto fathers nor was a son alert enough to protest.

There is true beauty in realization to come to terms with exploiting interior maladies; those liquor souls those vicodin souls or this tender and so precious opiate soul; those years gazing into something typical-nuance while fortifying desperately if but to sing or but to dance where something normal might appear; such adderall and ativan or cigarettes and wines at something too divorced from social normalities; or soda pop and codeine at curious eyes so floored in something permitting a stronger essence; if but to deal if but to die where one is too numb to adequately socialize; those oxycodone(s) for interior desensitization or rock-cocaine swallowed where something famous was filled with ulcers; our ghetto lexicons our ghetto encyclopedias at something terrible those nights mother had to work; hereunto a particular adult but little Jinny is but nine-years-old and little Jimmy likes playing house; those muddy fields those stacks of hay or this large box made for harboring grow-up kids; this plate of chicken these string beans or a loaf of expired bread: all night parlor homes or loud and crazed domino-games or such and such was so angry he slapped light from Jinny’s face. I can’t explain it this valium community where a group of kids are smoking angel-dust; as one kept jumping through windows and laughing insanely soon to become one of America’s Most Wanted; this trenchant ache this life we must carry while some become ruthless; a crazed maniac with little to conscience while peering and darting into a fragile circumstance. Those mics inside this landmine inside or those years chasing after an unhealthy admiration. Indeed, this thing about morals this thing about ought behaviors or something as rewarding, in which, it’s purely mental; but hands make sense or fire feels good or a gift would be nice; to meet where we land or to become this interior, and thus hiding, semi-psychological beasts; insomuch our creation is environmental where unvalued behaviors are mastered and essence in colored by shifts and moods or something we harbor deep inside; our music with flare and swagger, our attitudes a bit arrogant, whereto we offend quite unknowingly; those poolhalls this nightstick where a cop is releasing every death-zone he ever owned.

From Ghetto to Ghetto & City to City

by places too dark to explore where ‘normal’ becomes outlandish and critics point and prod and discover behaviors; a slew of fences plus sandy-blond grass and a broken lawnmower; dolls in streets and stray canines hungry while little Jimmy just brought home a bull terrier; our homes with fleas but Jinny is ecstatic for she found a friend that listens. I sense a felling or abnormality or something too gray to defog. This future this welt this complexion or something a bit alarming; this accepting space those wings this choregraphed harmonica or something so aloof it feels good to decode it. I could but surprise us this mother those screams those demons; as left alone where family knew while a son played multiple accommodations. This fist of fire this friend dying or this film on repeat; our restless honors or this world or mestizas where a quadroon is raking pertinent questions; but to whom this night or to whom adequate answers while a soul ponders in pure dissatisfaction; this melting-pot this ghetto made for survival while looking at something too possessed to gain clarity; our minds needing jazz our souls harboring blues or our icons deserted for crystals. This daughter in plaids or this mother steep in concentration while some thoughts are more important than others: if but a new Chevy or a bomb ass woman or a pocket screaming with thousands—but rarely, if but college!

we met by mistake or happenstance or something metaphysical; or maybe she was sent nor did I contend while new things took place; but a silent unspoken man or a radical survivor where one is bold in writing, a bit sensitive to reading ears, but humble and imperceptible is public; this private wish so lost in dreams as redeemed a second in adoring something gentle; this game in blood, where deep work-ethic becomes flowery and astute, but also tentative and dismissive; we crave for such people, this rounded personality, this sweet nuance at something resisting captions; those old ghettoes or this realism in Beverly Hills nor was one so lost but those moments; so used at segments so abused in fragments to have arrived at deciding those gray avenues; a true human something fretting our behaviors for most are accustomed to something scandalous; we confuse such creatures we believe in such creatures and we place burdens on such creatures divested of certain facts: Love is human and Love makes mistakes and our responses determine how deeply this relationship shall journey.

I sought serious sensuality or green gorgeous generalities in a world wretched and winsome. I thought about screams and silence or chaos and conclusion assailed and mailed back to ghettoes. I found a few mixtures and dined where men die but Angelica was penchant purple pleasures. But it was good to meet them and it was hell to vanish neatly while something glimmers a new horizon while remaining unvetted. Those terrific calamities or those bright dark lights at something symmetrically awkward: this beautiful worn-down salaciousness this candle in deeper windows or this negligee too heavy to maintain; our trips from slums to appearances if but to locate similar behaviors while Love is adored for looking cleanness.

I could love aimlessly in this game of foreshadowing where an audience sees something the author has mistaken’d; either a brilliant cloud, or a hesitant apricot, nor was pain too secluded to initiate a convert; but dancing was forbidden and racial slurs have been committed in a world making jest right before our eyes; as days appear and nights join for circus where clowns and pantomimes converse over misery beers: while Love is something normal and art is something most tragic where communication is forever hampered by core-views.

Irrespective of Mirrors

It kills to invest into cherries and peaches those terrifying grapes; too damn sick or too damn abstract or tortured for something mother gave me; this negative force but it became positive where it elucidated human relations; this artist bleeding this woman at ends or this horrifying poetess; those prose those blood cells this magic so granite I panic; searching for expression afforded capitulating lessons so stressed so sutured at both doctors and pseudoscientists—this interior metaphysic or this loud distraction while adored for partly uncouth; or hated for countenance or so arrogant and blind to it while fretting this mental magazine; our pure frustration afflicted by passion so alive in something a rejected seed—as soil upchucks where personalities become evident or some typical atypical demeaning response; oxy-prose or oxy-medicines accursed enough to dance softly; losing what souls are feeling becoming something akin to a grimace or battling like crazy to respect this mirror.

I saw so glorious so affectionate where blue fire distresses loins; to invert into silence or condition so sweetly while resistance is immediate discrediting; those valued feelings as torturing others while we rarely speak to those margins; this free-going state those uneasy emotions where a person’s honesty is subject to jury and trail; irrespectively, and unrelatedly, those mirrors rejecting projections and speaking critically; where a child loves his mirror an adult is disdained by his mirror while an elder might regret his mirror; such dirty madness or filthy practices where some are devoted to ignoring inconsistencies: those diamond thoughts where such are under a diamond-tester wherefore most are re-summonsed to take the stand.

There’s a war going into orbit this warrior mirror this notwithstanding mirror—this cold creature this person’s insides while looking I cringe and glance away; those deeds unlike Augustine’s or those confessions unlike Rousseau’s at this fate unfolded in Kierkegaard; this Luther cell or this King empire while so inclusive it became impossible to resist; this mirrored psych this younger mother or this furious full pledged father; such resemblances such feral frustration where an inner voice speaks to sanity; this mirrored catastrophe or this mirrored tragedy or this pretense exclaiming fame as tribulation or force as bliss; this interior resonance this filming professor or this oldie repeating: It’s a thin line between love and hate.

We haven’t met as of this moment but we mingle in mental physics where darkness is too bright to claim our names; or we mingle periodically under this lamp-sign at symbols or characters exploding into dissatisfaction; nor was our introductory gentle plus love was unexcited while caricatures plagued a simple question; to scratch skin while delirious about skin if but to asses every person’s skin-mirror; or to asses something a bit smarter something a little formidable while confident where skillsets are blatant adapters; such adaptation in such aqua green or blue blooded pantomime eyes; so desperate to displease us or something confronted by something personal while at a certain point where traits are permanent; this sheer deception for diligence with determination as to retype our genetic personalities; so long at this battle so uncured by subtleties where we might be at reflections against our mirrors; nonetheless those mirrors as they single out our guts where true mirrors point to gray matter.

Open Diary 1

These pages come with resistance while harboring our truest selves and relinquishing particles and segments of something so distorted of something so flawed where writing is but a second. I’ve come to adjure you in this wave of dying souls while grandpa knew for deaths. This partial fork and claims would vitiate about anything a man can justify; but love is crucial where love is wretched but more love in order to remove this bed; our morning jousts our afternoon goodbyes and anything to renew what was first so electrical; this sad man this manic lover or this person becoming tenderly phlegmatic; but love was asking and love was seducing and love settled upon ruining something precious; this raft of beginners or those abject reasons so alive and so hectic while love is feeling uncomfortable; our partial views our distressed hearts where pressure causes a migraine. I knew for weakness this kiss in public while a foolish caveat struck its intestine; but love was passion and love knew games and every monopoly was such sweet surrender. Those terrible ladders this infant regress while father is so far deep the angels are screaming for pity—such delicate beliefs such purgatorial harbingers while love would watch and serenade and laugh like guts were a fantasy; this pitcher of gin or this picture of sin where a daughter means so much too freaking late to apologize; but mother ponders where mother gathers and maybe not academic but mother knows survival. I chance a relapse and I chance a fever but hell to playing too close to fanatical rules. This feature in me this vocalized architecture or something so rued I need God to sustain. It lives by orientation this fever given so early while mother said to say the Lord’s Prayer; as years would develop and opinions would harden a man became more drawn to mysticism; this running fool as watching characteristics for Lord knew it wasn’t a psychopath; so gray this language and so rude this insinuation while love is lying around every block; this social characteristic this trait in humans where one watches for an entrance to rule over brains: my hurting gut, a child and life, to ignore so much and lose, nonetheless; reprieved by ghosts, so deep it voices and but a villain became a theologian.

—about too much for redemption about a decade in sulfur-lakes and Jesus was late when the chair exploded; this concrete and steel cell this little lady from Siena so struck with tremors or medical problems; this ecstasy in fanatics at something seeming holy while abrupt and nonsensical chatter seems to rule a room; this deep mystic this flying fire but something is deeply askew; but screaming into El Shaddai and whistling into alleluia or gripping carpet and piecing together Elohim becomes a formula for becoming such wicked and despicable creatures; indeed, this open book, this deep rebuke, for it has become difficult to tolerate. In this small vessel this removed brain as accustomed to something too long ago to recapture; but visceral feelings and cut emotions while looking at something freaking his bowels—

This rant and rave this depletion and catharses or looking at a woman obviously stressed to gore: crimson prayers or deep repentance all but fleeting if behavior remains but sameness; but a loop in turmoil a person honesty beyond wits and terrible with human composure; this fleet of fleece this feral phantom or those pictureless photos; our grandparents but lunatics while contained in fancies if but a locomotive prayer warrior; so lost at this monopoly so charged where geese fly at something too enigmatic to explain.

Unfastened Sketches

I was weak for something spatial, ridiculous, and crucial; those blackout moments sensed in coincidence while pedals collapsed and dynamite hit; our mannikin seconds peering into aqua binoculars while nibbling an ecstasy leaf; red lava eyes or turquoise fires at a daydreaming starfish; such unfurnished lies so assailed and released while vultures act that way. I adore an image this intimate tarantula but love is out to lunch where our horizon in under surveillance. Those days debating you or moments sick in visions where those aches trickled through; a dynasty man a fueled foolish man while I could never adore accordingly. This trap in souls. This emerald frozen and shattered. If but to live and die like spirits.

Too much truth is eerie while too little becomes deception or so close to eternity it kills to breathe; such foxy hands so intimate so relaxed while softness becomes those trapped rainbows; to adore freedom or to surrender freedom while there is need to rebel against freedom; cobra eyes has destroyed innocence and love rejuvenates innocence while I never meant to break chains; such uncouth flesh as simultaneously holy flesh so abandoned while I feel absence.

…but a sluggish letter as each line comes with difficulty to imagine someone hurt behind something platonic; those nights sitting alone a house snoring sacredly and a child sudden to his restroom; such intimate discussion where little fever is at questions and mother has hid a glass of cognac; we resume to something pertinent or we relax in puddles where it felt good to stir such energies….

I used to get lost in detailed love for it was adrenaline and it was life but time stood in illness and something realness poked its balloon while love became too powerful to capture. But I ponder this sickness this healing those ropes and cliffs those diamonds and gems if but to relocate for a moment in tremors. Or maybe to get near to one vibrating sanctities and lost in wilderness while we find and drift and sky-heaven our distrusts; that smaller creature those taller powers as aloof to anything posing a threat; this rarity reality where something treasured must be protected and something cherished must be reknitted daily; our terrible cursed blessing this fervor too dynamic where a person becomes intoxicated in your aura. It couldn’t be essence or it must be behavior while we rarely admit it’s physical chemistry. So weighed by options where a woman has suitors but a couple truly speak mother’s language: a soul but dragon flies or a horn but one frequency or polite disagreements become mountainous apologies. Or becoming actuality for you our living room filled with iguanas at something seemingly purely inconsequential—those blue SweeTarts or those red licorice while screaming in satisfaction where this is natural; indeed, we desire to do something incredible as to hear something salacious while true love requires much ingenuity.  

This tawny light this unsacred tension or those few so drastic at portals insomuch to die or to re-juice in you this mythic mystical madness space. Our dearer dynasties our clever chaos while albeit it hurts, I must maintain this course. Those primrose porches those gated autonomies or remodeled so refurbished a bit sketchy concerning love. This stranger avoidance while loins are growling and it has become our interior nature.   

Un-fantasized Postscripts

the tragedy of pigmentation as the tragedy of unkempt love or worse the message sent by hatred; those days roaming those pavements or sung to silence a gentle abrasive kiss; this whisper in dynamite this care so crooked while too selfish I loved as one ruined; so defensive concerning this adoration for ignorance and devastated a culture so mistaken for honesty; arrested by bodily chemistry and dying for one last miracle while sick for abandoned attempting to discount race; a mulatto’s nightmare in another person’s dream while distinctions are made concerning resistance; such for fair those fairer wars and such for brown a trenchant dance and such for dark a grueling challenge; such internal passion and such internal war while we too reverse this curse; so inverted and so external where books and traumas become inward harbingers. I look at lines in this land of lights where they speak to one’s life; those deeper crevices or this depiction in face and eyes or crow’s feet speaking about slavery; so maladjusted and so psycho-dejected where a mirror reminds about insanities; our courage to tillage those internal minds where each thought is placed under surveillance; so uncanny this mental machinery as it splices and chances and holds to positions; where each motion is real so radical those caves while neatly protecting the most peculiar behaviors; to capture a ferret or hug a meerkat at something a dream to get away; those gates so rare those fences so high while pushing and pulling to converse with something forbidden; our days placating or becoming angry or playing chess like geniuses; those doubletalk feathers where ruins depend upon participation but tell this to a three-year-old boy.

the tragedy of existence but how else to win in a city filled with celestial beings; those uncanny people all searching for utopia or suffering from dystopia—this post-apocalyptic land or this village of undead moralists where a preacher wore a mask too heavy to carry; our women as writers our souls as disturbance where a woman’s reservoir is considered designated duties; this touchy topic but a daughter is at wars and many sons are unequipped to advise.

we pity the living and mourn for the dead with little to any evidence concerning existence.

I used to gripe about people and feel a bit subjugated while carrying suffering this well shall appear; at surrogate emotions living surrogate tribulations while held confined by something lacking its crises; at constant reviews looking into futures finding it’s possible to make a few predictions; our souls filled with tacks and our minds dripping facts and our spirits dreaming at us to gaze closer; but some thoughts are cherished and some are desperate for attention while others are hard to divest; but the radio is blaring the television is yammering and the dishwasher is running; our fans are on the tub is in motion and the ceiling is screaming.

it too is the tragedy of unknowingness in this world fraught by impressions where a bright lady pushes at hearts; we never realize our sentence or this process of composing where true genius gets closer and closer to what she has to say; indeed, this language, as but so much, where many souls are serious about writing; the tragedy of ink or the flippancies of scrutiny at something too tragic to erase; our minds needing to comment upon beauty our aesthetics too restricted or finding a person attractive that has proven a mean figure.

Ambiguous Existence

It becomes true passion where needing dangerous but desiring holy; this field-vest those ancient conundrums at something near Rome; our battles cleaving to memories our experiences dictating behaviors or our souls needing mother; but this beast in men but this gorilla in women as these two meet and love and become kamikazes; such ruthless debates such argumentative disobedience where both are filmed and captured and disgustedly enlove; this fire in storms this parade in Projects or this Tower in Watts; to imagine dictates or to resolve something unstable while sex and detriments seem so apropos; where we look at innocence this essence in behavior where one is acting our instincts; or meditated souls where ladders seem trickery and gumbo might carry a curse. I used to love like sinning this wonderful projected creature at ruins to learn for Love was human; this shank to spirit this sieve to guts so threshed and gutter and unruly; those sewers giggling as a man runs from ghettoes expecting to meet something so pure; those darling sinews this elastic matrix or something so galaxy it erupts upon impact; our dear dynamic if but to destroy authenticity where, and though it angers, it appears as genuine dislike; to impugn everything as never to settle upon nothing if but this hell wrapped in sugarplums; our pomegranate excuses our telephones ringing like holidays or a hunch so engrained one wonders if it was self-created; our lights fretting survival where a man studies her body while guilty for something she deeply desires; this fragrant animal this holy Eden or something too reckless to admit; our hells as comforters our nasty alienation where combat becomes I need something dying; released from jungles, running with crocodiles at caiman and drastic deaths too invisible for one needing hiding—this wound and welting this womb and subversion while never a sight so gorgeous; our foolish arcs as something accursed and freedom where we never understood what a woman was living.

I change into attire and leap into hearts or silence and concentration into a warzone; so alert we dance and we see it lightly for we desire something tangible; a person to claim us a person to swear by us while we portray something seeming anti-normal; but to something scaring our souls and best to something losing grace or best to something superficial; our years with immediacy our cries raging hormonally at estrogen and palaces; to lose a crucial component to feel mortality as becoming too resolved to claim clarity; but holy entities needing something devilish as creatures moved by something despicable; or soul sold soldiers debating with deception those gates as fated too high to gauge clearance; this man needing more courage or this layer seeming too thin while one would sell us an ambiguous relationship.

I often ponder this elusive and rigged pain where something feels kinship—but Love is vicious annoyance and curt friendship or judgmental irritations; to need a certain class but so much to earn a certain class where one enters support at an inferior status; this fuse in us all this reality at some level while we fawn and desire this extraordinary person; as wanting and needing so declined to be holy and wanted for needing total admiration; this beauty exchange this bodily exchange while realizing something seems gray; to be treated as we treat others this rain convoluting our minds where we desire something most are unwilling to give; this refilled glass to hold to something similar where both feel like heaven has bestowed a favor.

Singing Something often Unsung

such recurring fantasies our breathers from harshness so subsumed in trenches; this myth in our souls this all forgiving creature this romantic and sensuous machine; this intelligent due for dynasties or due for deaths as something incredible and fantastic; those days to pacing and looking at images and imagining a nice conversational and pushy existence. I deserve a little winning where most would sense I’m winning while I possess intimate details; this sexual polite essence at once a cruel and unforgiving treasury while life rethinks our agendas; to plan for seasons and disappointed for millennia while a calm approach avoids expectations; but essence to guts and guts to hearts while brains are running into fantasies; this welcome in us this village in clouds or those sky-cliffs. I have sung arbitrarily. I have wrung out feelings. And I have sought to see you in sheer awesomeness. This place in emotions this elfin atypical charm while dialogue seems so devastating; as pictured souls reliving tortured existence to locate solace in fantasies; such feminine sexuality or masculine assimilation or something switching its coordinates; if but to an unsung fire or resonating in tragedy but un-cursed and deliberating.      

I mesh colors and dine with roses or a bit maladjusted; such deep concern in this mixed world where one claims normality; those aqua blue eyes those green pearly tulips or devastated where one has projected you; this outward music as it seeps into majesty where one communes with sequences; such daughter justice this inversion in blood where reality isn’t neatly put to bolts; so up against this system this dynamic and glorified philosophy as burning this sentence into existence; but days get old and eternal retribution seems askew and thunder has appeared in our Cross; most despise Jesus and most despise cultures where most adore celebrities; a woman envied by the masses or a gentleman discounted for reasons while one might attempt to step outside of their creed; this feeling in magenta those teal purple cries as aloof but near where one attempted to oust me; but dew is honest and skies are foreboding while something so vicious is adored as something so sweet; these renewable centers or this renewable curse while niceties seem apropos; to tell those expressions to love like students or upon and thereinto gravity; moreover my mind, at radiant fantasies so tragic so bliss poignant and so regular in our eyes; those further criterions or those deductive lies where a man doesn’t recognize deceiving himself.

we meet certain mornings this unphysical relation where another is a bit to grayness; for I never see myself, instead, I see tribulations, while another might see something beautiful; to need and decide to push and tug or something so high falling so low; those preconditioned responses as never claiming psychoanalysist or becoming this pseudo-psychologist while nevertheless a bit too astute to ignore osmoses; but Tender was special a tad bit angry in this world firing its realities; those realists prisons this daughter Bastille or something too complicated to call it as human; but those fantasies in deep dialogue at gestalt shivers—where another is keen and another is wondering and I feel like unachieved; for those eyes that configuration those gesticulations to soon upon depression in a world needing dynasties where flux seems too heavy; to hate his guts but to ponder over his words where something hits its terminal; this turnpike phantom those un-churned feelings at something too regular to feel as if normal; those pedicured grounds or those manicured rooftops as trims and cherries but filmed by self-reflection; this permanent manifest this person so interchangeable to love today something hated tomorrow; to adore something unreachable to sing at silence or so cursed a soul must win.

So Holy So Bestial & So Conflicted

cloud haven skies or radiant black sorrow our nights pitched in crucifixions; so white and so pure or so dark and so sure or such middle existence poignant and uncertain; those sexual feminists those sensual womanists or seduction those eyes those features; to cry but three tears while acclaimed as unnormal and pitted for thrown while deception is clarified; this creature in Germany or this vixen in France while every woman visits California; those red carpet appetites and always so glamorous and always so altered; this essence in rites those actors dying if but one scene too close for humanity; at a fragrant figure and fullness with grace while no-one is ever satisfied; but Love is statuesque and Love is Junoesque and Love is picturesque—such a vandal or villain such a rude personality but ever so humble with patience; our purest portraits such daring framework and such an aesthetic derrière—those risqué comments or cleavage meant for artists or full blossomed lips meant for caresses; such flowing mare waves and so deadly with smarts as most know a man’s brains—those daring suggestions as a soul tries but fails or nights are laughter-cries and wailings; never an eye for others or so consumed by our passion where it kills and destroys something harboring its hostilities; looking at porcelain flesh confused by holy flesh or dominated by this need to feature brilliance—those mahogany essences those holy mountains if but our reasoning cemented in abstracts; to die in closure to realize such freedom where chemistry struck my island—as purely unsavory or purely holy or something gazing into characteristics and misdirection; such a deliberate actress acute and dismissive our crude and slanted and such a holy creature; those tragic lanes nor those deep emotions where we must journey this village of demons; our tragedy bliss our bodily memorization so fueled or so close where she dies to offset stability; this hostage in brains this kidnapped agenda or this payment for seduction; to love is but a title where we assess attributes while deep affection enumerates its pillars; to chance in those feelings to arise in your essence to become so much more in your horizon; at sitting dimensions so involved in mind-matter where your presence becomes passion; this field of lullabies this infant’s crib or this Otherness reaching its exhaustion.

it listens to itself it becomes its nature and it dies time and again; each death as it moves forward our souls unlatched our minds and guts fevered hysterically; such turquoise flesh such radiant energies those freshets and glens those avenues and valleys or this city star too beautiful to claim; our forced participation our sterilized sex or something so inviting we call it exclusivity; as the most holy we have encountered as the most bestial we have met or so unclear how you have ruined me; this bouncing Ecclesiastes this innate Lamentations or conflicted for running but so damn appealing; this fist fight with ghosts this laughter in our mirrors while looking at lady love; interior church so mystic the thought or traditional leadership and configurated beliefs.

it must be experienced in this fair war where adoration seems segue; to sense a monster to council self or to ignore as much while something intuitive is groaning; our curse as powerful agents our screams as defeated agents while often we lose something to acknowledge its meaning; either deep treacherous loses or meaningless perpetual truths in this vexed and underhanded gumbo; but Love seemed holy as this is but a part of something complex and distinct; so much to having this ritual and so much to falling like grapes or so much to love.     

May those Bodies Match those Minds pp. 64-65

I never observed this feeling where a person looks and sensations erupt; such otherness and alterity or such up and close reflexiveness while a person lives more in fantasies; to desire sexuality or to need something tremendous while pensive and undemanding; this identity undercurrent this rich security as something gathered but left behind—to adore your essence this thing I can’t reach while your aura is such wiccanism; mental magic or magenta prose at potential passions; to associate with love or to chisel emotion so aflame and nigh delirious; our working hearts while pumping invisibility where I gazed into something too terrific. I grabbed coffee and walked sensation where rooftops giggled and beckoned for comfort; whereupon our minds our dangers our pains and gripes our felicities and detriments—to die in pure attraction or to summons but features if but one to adore freely; this welkin rope those welted brains or anxieties and angst so fretted a face, arms and hips; such cultural confliction while studying sophistication or listening to a woman comfortable in her flesh; this fair experience while Love has demons and Love is a gymnast or such beauty as it blossoms at an infant’s palm.

I don’t ask to fawn while avoiding mawkish sunrise but such are adored with exponentials; this quick glance those small seconds as dancing without moon-breaks or concrete afloat a sea-less ocean; those perky feelings or this deep requirement where we leave certain realities to chance; our determined hearts at decided memories as always an oasis and then our experience. If but to contradict something laden deep in humans this want, nay, this need, to worship, idealize and hold for life something that might destroy our concerns; this furious flavor at casual beginnings where one possessed becomes overtly indebted; such bold aesthetics so deeply essential while negativities might disappear in those distant horizons fearing something tremendous at bleak and black banisters; our ebony Kerry’s, our porcelain Amanda Seyfried’s, or our brown-souled Jessica Alba’s—as dedicated to surviving our cares or outwitting our lusts or plain to guts and feelings so thrown by such little interaction; this unprideful confession our lives with such little perseverance where something but an instance becomes something chasing and haunting our hours; rereading those frequencies or challenged by something professional while digging into something psychoanalytic; our psychogenic causes our big bright bravery our cohesive chaos.

Those galaxy legs those fuchsia calves or such a small satellite; our demeaners embedded our language that of kingdoms or vernacular mixed with sophistication; our radiant deaths at miracle and obedience so soothing to a woman’s proclivity; eight a.m. wines or noon teas and nibbling acidic berries; those screams fawning those legacies in short seconds or our gala with so many hyenas; as Love is by math a maniac a ruined and elevated monster or some dignified courtesan; those geisha shojis this interior rendezvous our mental madness memoirs—so cursed to need you so forced to abide in you where Love is want to stray and dine with something but a dandy; at drastic permissions, insofar as machines, while patience becomes its prison; to desire like pains or to happiness like miseries accustomed to rigor and polite distance; while too impassive to sudden upon a coin as flipping mid-wave and laughing lightly; our terrible and terrifying bliss, our internal chandeliers, while magic becomes medicinal masonry; this slither of pride while hassled by submission where once effeminate loses become necessary; such confliction this mountain inside where one feels encompassed but behaves like barbarians; those wretched attractions peering into drastic winds or Don Quixote and Casanova one schizophrenic legacy; thither our cries re-listening to something fragile or realizing Love is strength and pain: this natural art fed to zillions where seduction becomes purely psychological; as indebted to her science and livid about anomalies while drawn to differences; but never a naked wilderness and never each division at times felt in motion; believing a man as cold or desiring a mad courtship where a man is obsessed and despised and pleading and begging to receive something given-heart to another; those weaponries or those armories our helmets and breastplates and swords; to happen upon a sentence while everything seems mundane and Love has never a slither those abandoned thoughts; needing a typical man but faced with protective logic while a hunch suggests those two aren’t there; that place in treacheries that damn near death-zone where and while a man commits treason to adore and love a feminine and aggressive alligator.

There was a time this particular sideview this particular animated anguish, or that flowing dress those fevered ears where a man realizes he has met with power; those prowess eyes while meditated by traits and characteristics and something both appealing and dividing; this chasm in attraction those negative and positive currents while something is strengthened and simultaneously weakened; those leering side-gazes this disappointed inventory where a man makes too much rationalism; this need for his goodness but this desire for something purely humanistic as needing something so loyal disloyalty must devastate; but I speak as one trained in this mechanism of survival while it used to ache sorely but days are abandoned and beauty has a sister while radical thoughts must be harnessed; indeed, for one so into dying she gives her lungs or one so into passion she wards off deaths and of course this need for one so inflated it takes Invisibility to convince about treacheries; in this ruthless ruth world, in this war of penetrating roses, or this garden combined of every traditional religiosity known to humankind; our guts craving totalities or our minds needing honest egalitarianism at something so gray it reminds us or tyranny and chambers or guillotines.

I mistaken often so drawn to another current but suspicious about this lake of selfishness; to imagine possessing something life-giving or a sanctified illusion or to raise and adore a set of kids, this fury in guts this pistol just purchased this dream unfolding into its nightmare; rereading a confession or gazing at something lurid where lies and screams seem so appropriate; this familiar routine but we need an audience while knowing we aim to deceive; it’s in our rhythm it’s in our carriage and it lives embedded in our skies; as walking upon pavement but never acknowledging pavements where reality is such a fornicating liar; she distresses in droves and she laughs with delusion while undercutting every interior clarity; but Love is rich with understanding and Love is incomplete science while Love has so little in thoughts to lay claims to; this invisible documentary this feeling where you are concerned if but to stop with feeling those subtle ridges; our jagged converse or this slight feeling where albeit for clearance you wouldn’t mind a few visceral and thus agonizing emotions; but I must confess this terrible confession where too much was dysfunction by the age of three; this caring overseer this blighted overseer or this realized and cursed overseer; our tragic exhaustion where so much seeming normal to most appears as over-exaggeration—for one sees jewelries and another sees depletion while a woman determines most of life through those interior lesions!  

Good Night, Love

I thought about aggression those subtle silent scissors or troublesome temperaments; or those haunting tree rings:

Antagonist, never let

Go, never be the house-

Hold perfect soil and

Ideal climate, be a love

That does not know… (The Green Ray, Corina Copp p.89)

…to churn a little to reinvestigate feelings or to sense something too tragic to divulge; but life is beautiful and deaths are grasshoppers while awareness belittles something sacred; at more music or feral fires where we rescue our aches: those days becoming normal ablations where silly time is so vindictive; such underpainting those eyes as valence or such personality unchartered: for

When I was a little cut

I thought I wanted cancelling

lotion, syrup, Percocet

to extinguish my sting

I thought I wanted fire

to scorch my vile shape

or scientific hands

to smother me in place

But as I made my way

in misery and pain

my heart changed her direction

in place of hate self-loved

Now I am a happy hurt

A cheerful scissor sliding

I press the door to send the gas

I ask them for their papers

I cut their paper legs off

As they advance in rows

I lacerate their entry path

on their way from Mexico (Marine, Connie Scozzaro p. 11)

but a short sanctity but a night of diamonds or realist laws losing meaning; to hear at sanctity in blossoms or to un-sing an unsung sentiment; those evenings eating such silence where adults fill silence for but anything but silence; our loud silence peering at our minds reversed in something acing its penalties; to exist as freedom so bold for those things as they mean so much: a treasured ink-pen or a favorite pillow or first to jump in the shower.   

Total Silence but a Buzzing Friendship

Out from graves and ghettoes angst galvanized so determined if but one Pulitzer; those grim features and excellent frantic(s) as accursed and looking into spongy hairs; so published those attributes or so holy but human to divorce this mythology about women; too curvaceous or too thin or too built as if engines needed more space; this curse in me this demented warfare in me as one dedicated to locating God in me; too patient to win or too docile for grins and so eluded in this pyramid kef; those kaleidoscope spirits this fleece about skin or so destitute it became a miracle to receive you; our minds running off-course our souls breakage and prisons or our daughters so estranged a madman might prevail; this rented insanity this vest in beige scars or this dungeon explained posthumously—those crystal cries those gymnasts hips or so dedicated to something raising her fears; those interior mastiffs or this mental leviathan while Love heals, rebuilds and swoops with Magdalene; our muscles bleeding this cigar leaking or fire to guts a flush and disappearance; but Anger is saturated and Anger is elevated and Anger is well those acts for balance; to sit like amazed, to witness pure performance, where Love did excellence—went backstage and broke composure; our flooded arteries or this steak with onions or this shake with broccoli; for Love cares and Love dies and sweet brilliant vinegar; this feud in us this island in us or this remote sinister winner in us:

It was midmorning those blue vines or those secrets we dare not repeat. I met a woman in distinction and disguised in titles while red tides destroyed our seafaring instincts. We chanced a certain nonchalance where something invades deep feelings whereas midnight had purpled our chorus; this riddle in converse or those desk dialogues insomuch nothing had changed; this rare mistake peering and piercing thereinto this casual danger; to handle accordingly to drop innuendo while subtleties are required to drive sensitivities; this ruthless and gentle and sensuous divinity; where nothing was undressed and nothing was blatant and reality looks like something trite; but oh for relations or so gifted it hurts where something adverse screams that nothing took place; our fragile appetites our immediate needs where so much is given and nothing cleaves to its future; this pain in science to become science where our world treats you as science; this curtain but a human this pleat but a breath while realization performs upon never those tides; our minds so lucrative our souls so informed and our infirmities so deliberate.

I shall return to this space so invaded where realists argue concerning telescoping God; but more to you this delicate and steel monster or this woman with a cyan heritage; our oldest literature or our Greek Syntax as something so unordinary a man may speak geometry; this vision a young instinct if but a fantast as having and cherishing and raising an exclusive family: I must explain—this tyranny in our relations where a woman must grow and if a man deals correctly he finds in her a marvelous creature; but deep time is required a little losing and winning is required where a woman gets to a point that stability proves its dedication; so, we happen upon Love and we dote upon Love but someone else dealt with Love these cards we have happened upon; this is true trigonometry those reasons why wives are tremendous or this need to possess that for our inheritance; but Love is entrenched and Love adores Love and Love forgave and dies and shed a basket of streams; so, we let go and deal in this current while Love feels a deep reverberation; those tsunami fires or those volcano oceans where souls water a phantasmagoric garden; this muse for winners this alien for selfishness or this aggressive indigo splayed and riven asunder; those reluctant hints or those definite repulsions where loyalty becomes a true friend.

We’ve Completed Our Circle & Must Start Again

such guts and souls so erotic so explained and too secure; to die eternity to exist in minutes so insecure so petrified; as touched and rugged or too gentle to satisfy or so humble it re-tigers its essence; tied in this removed in this where absence appears as normal in this; too far from its location glancing into movie models or accursed for lust and holy behavior; those names come to fire those angles come as dire so flamboyant or so shy or both in this lantern; at Asian symbols attempting those darker insanities if but modified and under closed quarters; this miracle by heebeegeebees this reaper skeleton at something too terrific to put faith in; those cryptic crystals those trips to sanity this intestinal feud; but adrift in those meanings or casual a guitar while eyes are speaking mandolins; those etched demons where they belong to existence and they pressure behaviors; as uncured humans and stressed for closure while adding too many ingredients to our existential; ravished and released or unhealed and seeking while damages have become this million dollar visa; but marigolds are watching and distress is unchained where one is outgrowing their chambers. We nurture adult innocence where we become vulnerable while inside one carries a creature; such multiple personalities attempting to grip sanity where resistance proves catastrophic; so easy to devoice or so tragic to re-voice at something killing its audience; our moments rebuilding in deciding this space insomuch as becoming this new person; such elevation or deeper shames while glowing, nonetheless: I sense you a thought so clear but never a given sight to adore; it becomes a different language so furious with life or so accustomed to watching every motion; such security in battles where art becomes our travesty—those faucet risks this faulty noise thereinto this ditch clenching and cleaving; such riddle and conception or such bandages and wounds while we depreciate something we’ve built; those indifferent ravens this kingdom in brains or those architectural deactivations; where too much becomes our cares and too little shifts our appetites while just enough leaves us cravings.

I gather in you and I harvest in you as such a respectable and wild and dignified mirror; our incipience so gradual our ruins so emphatic while a man has clung to something he can’t destroy; such sweet thoughts or deeper transference while a soul must be careful; renewed in this instance but saddened near future or philosophic about something so gray; those subdued passions or craving something ridiculous or asking for something we can’t trust to maintain; our battling islands this communion inside where total exposure becomes an obsession; so alert in our moments or so tethered to our scars while embarking upon experiential rendition; as foggy creatures existing in cloudy skies or so effective we have destroyed potential; insomuch as too much honesty where a soul corners itself or a soul is forced to live a perfect impression; our wars with rationality alongside this major hankering if but full measured treasuries; those caves in higher mountains or those visions while resting that space as confident and insecure winners.

I could imagine something this index with letters or this penchant for something terrible; our deeper deceits those boxes we roam where self-avoidance protects something secure; our minds as trained devices and our souls as screaming closure while something tends to leak out; this eventful watching so close it hurts while so secluded in this ravenous world; or open doors raging inside castles and laughing while dying in segments; this undertaking this undergrowth or these things we shall never expose; such fire devouring twigs or such waves eroding walls or such oxygen fueling flames; this thing in you this incurable telepathy or something gentle and dedicated while tending to both sheep and goats.

Water Boils but the Substance is Cold

I celebrate obscurity or desensitize judgement while needing this faculty to survive; as mis-held infants or smothered by insanity at once a miracle somewhat normal; for behavior misinforms a soul mimicking dysfunction or warring against innate moral currents; this genetic warfare this calm examination where most are unequipped; our psycho-ceilings our dear remarks or such self-loathing; at self-aggrandizement so playful and lighthearted where one wishes kindness; but offices and dormitories and asylums conjure up pure roughness and indifference; while needing something personal or requiring something caring with little regard for ordnances; as so evolved no one sees or so perfect no one cares or so balanced our world is exhausting; but over there in that tiny space we see something we can’t keep: a city lemur or a small cub or an aging cheetah; such as living in silence while enduring maniac behaviors where some person is destroying those natural instincts; this vicious creature this misinformed creature attempting at best to raise a child. We ruin with time welded to behaviors re-sensed when introduced to normality; our own versions our own designs while transformed and breaking out in hives; such deep sickness, too far to return, where we attempt to acclimate such creatures; those reusable pots those faithful insecurities or this address to immediate gratification; so sung and unheard for passion desires immediacies and love is founded, rebuilt, and structured in a few hours; as running this risk as terrified about repercussions where one has a child to inform; our nights by sky-fire our souls by re-baptisms or so afloat a second it seems its deaths; at pure acrobatics or sunk too low to whistle or balanced for thoughts are under surveillance; those lioness queens those full figured harmonicas or such pianos unsung but rhythmic; our palatial cries our opalescent charms so ingratiated it’s impossible to sense us.

I never quite met you or I saw my mind’s needs where such confession is appalling; for we had a child we dined and placated and acted with such restriction; at no fairer cry at pure insecurity and we managed a couple of our demons; where deception liberates and false grounds seem but depictions and love was something difficult to fully manifest; our living designs where it’s natural to commune but unnatural, or uncomfortable, to thoroughly communicate; for ghosts were hiding high and phantoms were gambling and gambits were universal monopoly; this deep feeling, at somewhat the disregard, while peaking and peeking and feeling something terrific—as a little nervous as to wonder about this legacy while somewhat alert to something screaming. I’ll leave this at basics this thing becoming normal as going into affairs waiting for our exits!

It becomes self-imposing these deep uncertainties where a poet deliberately contradicts himself; at gates and rakes or chimneys and cages so involved in relating to this animate mirror; those cartoon expectations or so tried and weakened where nothing I give is ever satisfying; those whiffs but despair or so accommodated where a man dies and dies more to please every insecurity; this reversal in time this pleasure satiated this old self reaching and tugging and chasing its dysfunction; or well balanced passion and well adjusted responses where life is educated witness; to adore frequencies to possess circular harmony where life is work, family and growth: those days looking inward and sensing their faces while performing by blues.

We exist precious one reaping a little of the harvest while held accountable for leaving a bit for others. Our souls watching our gravitation towards our reflection our minds debating our deeper understanding. At remote reasons examined by conscience to sense something screaming!    

Turquoise Blue Jays

I can’t but I have as finding but losing so in touch with this figure; those hazel golden multicolor(s), those gestures so studied, where we sense a monster lives in there; this contained creature this obvious or non-conspicuous observer or this feeling agent; while needing responses while flourishing in shadows so astute so deceptive and treading this thin cliff; those hellish hounds those mental mastiffs at terminal frustrations; an aster those mornings or an asteroid those evenings while a cup of tea is not warm enough; our casual anxieties our hits with purpose or so unstudied they can’t see the forest; realized as mirrors too skilled to defeat while certain patterns benefit though they hurt; an in-home experiment or deep complication where something else comes to peek; this aware personality those multiple edges as born to seduce and knowing their minds; a dangerous wilderness those aye-ayes watching or a lion becoming alarmingly friendly; (not an innuendo!), or something sordid, or something gray; these underbrushes at this undercurrent filmed afore firebrand; this fire voice those endless flames while science points to pure consumption; otherwise, a mad creature or otherwise a disjunct at something too terrible but so good; to leave this in dungeons to escape to this sentience where it shall never be decoded.

In most cases it isn’t forward an art that we trust; in most cases we exert certain energies and we remain suspicious of people; in most cases it must speak our language it must placate our insecurities and it must approve of our personas; this relaxed demeaner or this person looking its depth where something spidery transpires; our years thinking about people our screams devouring noise or dealing with those endless little things; rewashing the same garments or drying the same dishes or tending to this child that seems quite selfish; those irrational observations those needy feelings while something sweet is met with suspicion; our competitive complicated horizon those shifts in seconds but nothing was said or our deep emotions existing as mostly unconscious; our psychoanalyses our psychogenic tremors or those few traits we must analyze; this world of pathologies this paining sensation while drawn to complete strangers; this contradiction for passion spoke and we were quite disenchanted.

We have become thoughts this unverified atmosphere where something sits beneath its countenance.

I can’t convince you about this energy this familiar, mostly unconscious, albeit, at times, conscious, frequency; those titles so alarming, to suggest a psychotic feature, as if it has become a foreign anomaly; so pronounced in some, so alive in many, or dormant acting but unbeknownst; so young at it or so convinced about it or this need to become anti-self.

I saw in her and I saw in him and I keep seeing in others. This familiar space those churns in necks or eyes screaming about a particular thought. Those defined postures as exposed in Hinduism or a deep psychiatrist senses in gentle motions; so eerie in me so haunted by skies as if every human is an active spirit; to notice familiar patterns as realized by existence where something new is both suspicious and alluring; our hats with splinters our souls with categories or our sensorium(s) sparked and alert and feeling sensations; this brilliant beauty those beloved characteristics at vibration grackles so unconvinced so gigantic in this realm of ghosts:

such as flying or enveloped with something strong at once something irritating!

Sky Space & Yokes

It becomes inward activity where moods shift and alter perception; it becomes multiple thoughts arranged by cohesiveness while simmering in distrust; it becomes reading closely those signs that escape where one might sense uneasiness; it becomes stew-meats and gnats and cabbage; those horrifying colors so terrific in Sade where lies were once so beautiful; it lingers during morning hours while looking intently where saliva becomes suspect; our minds needing something absolute while to give all for clemency or so empty in a split second; those heart-drops those gut-wars where we swear never this intimacy again; but feelings are unsuspecting where one is too circumspect while living life should be on our agendas; to lose simplistic innocence or to lose those eternal thoughts while sensing fluid, and, thus, malleable instability—at something seeming clever at dreamscapes and harvests or so close it pains me to alter your horizon; as we think it and so it becomes while true love is pure sacrifice; where two come together and die with grace to lose youth and gain something irreversible.

It becomes our rapture this thrill swooshing dissatisfaction or so to swoon in those effervescent seconds; our lights flickering our lambent souls vibrating where a person needs an insatiable fever; as so into you as no other thought but you where even working becomes you; so close and watchful so alert and scanning terrain or so absorbed I can’t think without presence; this vigil love this all encompassing love where we never tire of this love.

But life is so multicolored and reality is so dynamic and minds are swooping through ideals; those few problems or those few fawners where one is you ten years ago; such overwhelming chemistry or those sacrifices proving fruition at a delicate second where we feel pain for thoughts; as it becomes annoyance or something unfeeling or such to imagine those deeds; to realize pure indifference, as if I never knew you, while sensing anti-us characteristics; so invited to escape or so emphatic with charity or so dense it becomes to obvious to reveal; as brilliant souls accustomed to brilliant stages while so into something ruining your social skills.

This inner city pain where life becomes stealth and interconnectedness becomes temporal; but life is magic this man with vision this habit concerning composition; those lines forming this feeling in concentration this world where, in honesty, we desire our own; those daring spirits those furious readers where a thought operates as a theses; indeed, maybe those hips, or maybe those eyes, or maybe something smiling; this terrible deception those terrible concerns while life, for some, is quite simplistic; it ends where it began it stagnates after sex where gossip and shooting the mess take precedence; this thing that alarms me this essence in some partners where something like that became exhilarating; after so much this ideal to sense this ideal where said ideal was pure imagination.

I get low at points to realize something unyoked where two people should be growing incessantly; as to meet a miracle after all those years where it feels good to fret admiration; but more to writing and more to reading and more to seeing actualities; our feudal hearts this deep relation while pain increases and life expands; those emotions in some become logic in others or someone distressing his humanity; those few undetectable origins those few internal privileges while one day so pure those mental ideals; or life moving about or aches shifting about where similar souls come to this sky-space.

I Understand in Eleven Parts

…wondering steeply this chasm in reflection or this reflexive superimposed escalator; as it rotates and sings so perfect our interior exterior bars; to look at every increment to patter softly where wolves are apt towards holiness; our purposive cries at dungeons vexed or tormented or burgundy skies—to exist in murky fountains this mount so rich or this asexual energy; so terribly a symposium so symphonic an agenda while so affable something wiggles its distrust; to ponder as richness or to salter about parks as generating something crucial; those hypnotic windows those tortured replies where it’s rare to ever know the person we have met; this ingredient in super-magic our ears burning by silence at created entities affixed to false images; as dislodged or recreated where reality has a cousin and this member has a grandfather—those purple curses while well esteemed so fixated upon mystic entanglement; so rebuked by sickness so filmed by pineal glands

at wealth and disgusts or purer attraction; so unstirred or so elated while balance becomes this winter in its guillotine;

those aesthetics in spring or those anklets during summer or so fashionable it aches with glory; staring at a little child, those plastic scissors, while concerned a bit; or mother playing arcade and cooking and chasing this little dream;

so raw and cooked so lovely and angst’d according to miracle a hot tub and a glass of cider; so astute where I ponder behavior while reading something similar to our defeat; this island about trust this world so vicious while studying what we may become; our abraded minds our losing feelings or so accursed erosion is consecration; those perfect regrets or this assassinated new birth or this unborn innate but living insanity; those curious nonchalant gestures those tubes arranged in piercing or dynamite so swift it doesn’t explode; or years observing a creature too removed to sense silence while a great deal becomes this industry—those iotas in beige those motes in hazel or those times we watched participated and never uttered a word.

            I felt cursed a young apprentice staring into Sun Tzu so soundless so subtle but dying too much; such a glimpse into a woman’s life where agitation came and went and renewed its energies; to like something with fire to ignore something too sensitive or to feel a person while becoming more unsteady; as aloof but wondering as keen but daft or so close to asking a pertinent assessment;

            those furious fugues this aggrandized neglect where patience appeared knowing I saw its nature; but what for passionate and committed and neediness where a soul might see itself?

            this maniac silence this person you feel while so indebted it becomes impossible to chastise; those lyrical predicaments or this miracle relation or so much into you and losing but gaining more mysticism; this unfair paradox those deep attires where we realize something is irregular; to want by needs to insist upon one persona while this is both terrible and unfair; but luster and diamonds but pain and glory or so caught in webs it felt tremendous to breathe; those alienated estuaries those tragedies in cyan or so florescent it becomes our destiny-hex; those precious tears as dying so often and afraid to admit that we cause our deaths; so startled to see it as it arises in tyranny but too often so gentle an infant with superior brains; so psychopathic and decent or so psychotic and charming or such a boarder-line causation characteristic; those pale times so affected in color where reasons seem such self-interested;

our welts and diamonds our screams and dementias at meadows and mansions;

so alive to adore you or so calm about this pain as creatures yearning for fires;

those jaunty eyes those dancing legs or something too accursed to rightfully claim;

as cringing to see us or radical to lose us where most hurts remain despite apologies;

            if but to relate this tremendous perusal too cursed too divorced to rightly acclaim a pure undifferentiated emotion.