Social Silhouette by Geometric Behaviors

 

so much succumbs its needs, its prowess, its unvetted passion; to die forever as to live one day such light frost upon the leaves. courage would kill him. his death killed his mother. where we might outlive our children. pavement is disastrous or determined while late life mimics its ink. so romantic in thought, while love is required, where to have is to neglect. some wooded area, some organic agenda, or some shed to bury his images. it seems too simple. this agony of humans. the precise alienation. to regather ourselves, in hopes of havens, or to designate a man to fix all woes. our needs for beliefs, our errors in forgiveness, or our dear expectations. to give with mind, to bereft art with bodies, or to resurrect with soul—such bundles of memories, as connecting our watts, as presumed with much credence. by aches in chains or terrors by mirrors to have relived our histories; such a coarse moon or a drastic sun where scathing becomes its baptism. to have loved some creature, in some deep desperation, while feared inside by its conceiving agent; such miracle in a woman or such protection in our vows while most are asking for clarity. a father wept, as condemned as culprit, guilty of putting child before mother. by voiceprint or imprinted codes we identify something we dislike. but one was diligent, angles were memoirs, it was necessary to manifest a scream. it stood in agony. it pled for mercy. it begged to start again. but wilderness spoke, mercy is insufficient, our tales will run into cultural saga. I have said so little. I will be held accountable. we don’t seem to escape our habits. fulsome behaviors as meant for others in a world they seep into. inasmuch as scientists at times shifting to poetry at seconds as it becomes what one needs to gain victory. but her soul her internal government as such sweet epistemology; to have essence into soul while shearing ideograms—those symbols those scarves those masks. to know in one breath, to agonize over realities in some sense obstinance has claimed an entire family. our years seeming jeopardized. our futures by commonsense. where many are damned as examples.      

Some Pain Is Healthy!

 

there is a condition. it is fiberglass—shattering, explosive, unidentifiable—we call it pain. this is an umbrella term—for malaise, suffering (often without a source), or insufferable agitation. we do not omit times of happiness, elation, or heightened sensory material. indeed, material is a unique word for consciousness, but feelings hold substance, substance is made manifest, but we might feel resistant to internal properties; however, pain is its ransom, its machinery, its indebtedness. why have we said, indebtedness? it seems a deep intrusion. it seems to agonize until it dissipates. we say indebtedness for it creates art, beauty, impulse, or drive. but we go further. it often has no home. we must call it into question. yes, we must impugn pain.

attraction to joy becomes a drug. apprehension of pain becomes an obsession. but attaining interior happiness becomes a hassle, with its inability to remain absent of suffering.

I saw blue blades of grass. I thought about heaviness—notwithstanding, our existentiality. I say such to point at an inability, a chasm, while we assert pain can be balanced. one looks at a redbird. one looks into a sandbox. a child is eating sand; a mother is wiping his hands; if alert to beauty, a sensation will ripple slightly. this sensation comes from a reservoir, a cascading essence, which requires a modicum of pain to register in an agent.

such a claim! one might ask, “Can we not feel beauty absent of pain?” to that question, I am uncertain. but it is argued by the author that recognition of beauty requires a drought of some nature in the observing agent. one might say, that is senseless. to this, it is argued that appreciation of beauty requires training for assessment, insight into condition, with a level of understanding our human predicament, which generates a level of healthy pain.

oh no! we are not calling some "pain" healthy! indeed, we are. speaking of internal operations, we say healthy pain, pain in general, increases awareness, appreciation, plus, keenness.

Bifocal Sociality

 

interviewed for classification. it was decided. this one is inner regions. by age or dirge such edifice in displeasure.

            I watched a miracle. I saw her past. I became its shadow. I threaded whispers, subdued ghosts, or became leniency for a petal.

            mathematical coordination. ebony blight. ivory mimicry.

            I need more to say simply those wars we wreak; by anxiety so deep to clutch intestines so sped into delirium. by tug of an ant where it becomes a lion as an elephant might roar. but outstanding lovemaking or ancient characteristics by some aesthetic genius. soft avocado by rich onion, plus, a tomato. our social guacamole our souls unthreatened so sure into some essential need.

            it meant so much. or so much has been lost. where it isn’t all-consuming. to encompass a garden to plant a tree to watch thirty-five years of its growth. or as life to grow in pangs to etch survival with one there like interiority. I haven’t said much, upon a petal, where everything relied on one belief.

            by paradise such a person while it depends on brain activity. to reward for gentility to crave aggression so morose otherwise. seashores are whining seahorses are groaning such par excellence. a mask so public a touch too intimate or a mistake so sacred. inner jambs inner doorknobs or silver skies.

            I have an issue. I wonder if we all do. where first glance is beauty—but interaction disenchants its initial thought. many catbirds. many reasons. while it isn’t always interpretation. as perception is paramount or analyses are a notebook. so much a kitten in an ocelot’s world, or better, those fierce canine bifocals.        

Game Life Or Identity Survival

 

I loved its life. I was wilder than most. I took to it to master winning. a gated person a deeper maxim a loyal participant. I hit hell giggling I raised warriors I lost friends. so many properties so enlove with motion too blitz by condition. mother would frown, unless it was berries, so much sugar in vinegar. to hate self to live like hatred or to disagree with winning. so much pain, as it inverted, where it wrecked guts. nonetheless, sure talk, or sure beauty, where books took on an appeal: self-help, psychology, a pushy person or two. so confronted such pain sipping a brew with a homeless person. a professor or three, a diamond or guts such laughs when he tried. a friend spat facts, where he never knew, I saw his core person: a good man, a family man, where pain is too much to efface. by certain happiness by certain repercussions as eyes fixate on crafts. nothing too fancy. just getting into axioms. while an aphorism tore guts. I wrestle I see residentials I see an exit plan. so much a picture as reneged by cameras where a woman might die for me. such philosophies such a curse while accountable for each word. by core reality. or core happiness. where each pollinate. those auras or so cold while claiming love. it frets me it shoves me it sounds delirious. so many questions at times, or hell to those premises, or so wrong it’s better to just evaporate. a person tricked me, as such a cool person, where it seeped out. I vowed some unreasonable posit, or I felt ridiculous, while I learned we often put too much faith in potential. I haven’t said much while losing me or becoming some anomaly; not as badness, but as goodness, where we value eccentricities. so much attraction, so much aged, certain into a dilemma. I would need something. I would be denied. it’s hellish, but it lives: from Watts to China, from California to Australia, or from Europe to Mexico. it looks as sameness. it speaks like something is collected. it has purpose in its agenda. or it adores by furious irrationality. so much in needs so much to welcome bittersweet, where anything raw is like syrup to pain.           

Pain, as an Experience In Happiness

 

pain isn’t the absence of happiness. it is a dearth of its being.

            I have investigated the core of pain, as it is an expectation of happiness, a rationalizing, a given incident. to utter it is its life. to dissolve it is miracle based. to keep it too silent is its heritage.

            I have a genetic pain, an oceanic sentience, where simple things may cause a tear. if one helps a child, if one feeds the homeless, if I buy a bottle of wine for a suffering person—these things have a changing in me.

            but pain is an absence of a core reality, a sensation, a state or presence. pain accompanies irrational decisions, hostilities, or, moreover, a feeling of hopelessness. joy is an absence of happiness. to explain. joy is a fragment of an absence of pain, where happiness is a totality of soul, joy just taps into happiness, it never becomes happiness, because joy is fleeting, where happiness is a core property.

            we ask if a person under happiness can experience joy. since happiness outweighs joy, the person would be experiencing her own nature, namely, happiness, where joy is a lower frequency, which peters-out. Happiness, once attained, never peters-out, notwithstanding, a level of pain.

            One is quick to suggest that happiness is an absence of pain—this is our first inclination. but happiness is not here argued as a state of perpetual bliss, it is rather a state of perception, an inner location, where, in spite of pain, one is centered, enjoying the pain of happiness.

            we bend our minds to understand the premises, if but to then assert something in opposition. but it is here argued that pain is also an ingredient of happiness. it seems counterintuitive; but imagine a bipolar person, one steeped in self-healing—she feels pain, but she is steeped in evenness (happiness), where she asserts in herself a passing of the pain. one with happiness discerns the turning of the times, understanding that pain, unless aberrant, comes to pass.      

Hypothetical Happiness

 

If happiness is constant absorption, and joy is a moment with bliss, then joy is the absence of happiness. Because we see happiness as continual, while we see joy as an interruption of uneasiness. So, to feel joy is an admission that happiness was absent. When happiness is continual, we do not notice segments of joy, we only feel and recognize a state of happiness. By saying, “I feel joy,” is next to saying, before the moment of joy, “I felt some discomfort.”

            We are defining happiness as a constant variable, while we are defining joy as a cousin of happiness. Of course, we understand that happiness must be continual, if but to claim happiness. But one might suggest that happiness is not capital but felt in passing. Or, we might say that joy is happiness, and happiness is joy. This is with some difficulty, for happiness is a state of being, and joy is a feeling associated with pleasure. So, with happiness it must exist as something that cannot disappear, whereas, with joy, it only comes that it might pass.

            If happiness is a state of consciousness, we do not suggest it is without affliction. One may be with happiness and be sidetracked by a difficult, or even a pain fraught situation. But the agent in question remains in a state of happiness. With joy, the agent must be in a state of lowness in order to realize a change has come, which the agent calls, the visitation of joy. As with happiness, the agent is just consciousness, despite, those inescapable dents that present themselves; or better explained, the agent is happiness, where joy is never a realization, for happiness outweighs joy.

            By happiness, we mean unchanged. Joy is always changed. Where happiness remains unchanged. We do not suggest that happiness does not fret, or undergo sadness. We more point to a core kernel, which permits for sadness while remaining happiness. One says, “Happiness cannot feel sadness.” This position is flawed. Joy is overwhelmed, overpowered by sadness, where happiness experiences sadness, while remaining trance-fixed by happiness.        

Ghetto Terrific

 

so ghetto terrific. so callous or bold or deceased. so small so coarse such sophistication. I splay myself I add a recipe I disagree with every damn premise. a wreck in me a fool in me such laughter as days grow wearily. but beauty is heart or haven or hell. I loved, I thought. it felt consuming. but if it turns raw, was it love? a thief those nights a general in soul a theologian those mornings. such a fire, as it envelopes his countenance, the white lady was watching: “Are you alright? Do you need help? Are you religious?” such fine grains such slaves of goodness while a world grins—it waits it gives little respect it hates too much strength. (something reminds us of weakness. we see so curtly. our forward, unspoken demands. but ghetto terrific. she went to college. she obtained five degrees. no one knew they couldn’t breathe while forced to leave her ghetto.) depend on me. I shall arise. where hell seems so beautiful. how has it changed? where was its waterfall? so much I need instruction. as a feral king with a furious queen we get so close, nothing else matters!

the vice was watching in elementary. something gave leniency. a nine-year-old caught a murder case. so much as asking, how did it all go wrong? at seventeen he was released. his guts are agony. they seem more respectful inside. no apologies no mercy such filth as it tastes like candy cane. or acidic acid or a first hit or liquor through licorice. a beige evening. where evenings are shady. the alley is filled with hoodlums. such boom boxes such pistols such a cruel ass argument. our lad our soul so much facial alienation. the pavement with stain those angers in rage our lad stripped apart. intestines screaming at sociality. whispers from a grim-reaper, darkness as its envelope. so much ghetto terrific so many gates where fire is explosive; those mind robberies those true feelings while many expect non-threating: our souls in fury our bowels in in wreckage, our dreams in reality’s color.       

Great Grandma’s Home

 

Great Grandma: a Catholic, saintly woman. She is head of Nathan’s family, a Cajun woman. Her husband of fifty-years died last month.

Gloria Solace: is Nathan’s wife. She is a sociologist at a prestigious University in California, a European lady.

Nathan Solace: is a mulatto man, with a M.A. in psychology.

 

Place 

Glory and Nathan Solace ring the doorbell, Great Grandma answers and invites them into her well-kept home. 

Time 

Takes place around six months ago. This would put us in November 2020.

 

Great Grandma: Nicholas was quite fresh with you, Gloria. I’m sure Nathan was peeved.

Glory: He meant no harm. He’s a bit playful.

Great Grandma: We see only vaguely, soon we shall see our faces.

Glory: Yes, Great Grandma Solace.

Great Grandma: Nathan, how have you managed—with our recent loss? Times are changing. Covid-19 is taking lives. Sanford was good!

Nathan: We’ve come to discuss something keen. I feel it. Great Grandfather would disagree with all the popular inconsistency.

Glory: Time has provoked us. As a devote catholic, I wonder if it’s harder on you.

Great Grandma: It becomes religious for me. I imagine a coming, a gathering. I imagine Sanford smiling on me. You know Nathan is concerned?

Glory: I do know. We talk at times. As you know, I was raised Baptist, just as Nathan. For this reason, we are swayed by eschatological documents.

Great Grandma: I never claim absolute knowledge, but I do claim absolute fear. Nathan has always been a curious seed—so filled with zest—finding you, Gloria, was his blessing. I know you two have hard thoughts, but no one is watching closer than you watch yourselves.

Nathan: What’s on your mind, Momma? Why did you call us over?

Great Grandma: Some imagine me as meddlesome. But pain strikes its deepness.

Glory: What’s wrong?

Nathan: A tear for us!

Great Grandma: I read your blog, Nathan. I came across some trouble. You know, we give beauty to people in sorrow. You take concern with deaths—let those poisons go! Learn to fly again—where wings aren’t great speculation.

Nathan: So much condition! Our central imaginings. It changes us as time goes by. I find myself inactive, but occupied.

Great Grandma: The river just is, as birds just are, while too unwise to witness death. Humans are different, we give best our years to worries. Who are you, Nathan? Why have you come? What are you giving to wearied souls?

Glory: Nathan is concerned by time and condition—pain and redemption.

It's Good to Feel Culture!

 

so mad at it, those decades at it, soft into midnight bars. to exhaust a haven those shivers at dawn, for times are burning. a bit crazed a bit lethargic while Love speaks while languishing. a coquettish talk a wild ass gangster walk, so dear as one lost in limbo. as days churn or bold like beautiful her attitude did wickedness. by soothing voice or hoarse from screaming those two bad ass Siamese. so much a liar so curt under fire, while memories are undercurrents; such strength such prayer where a holy man knows demons. Love was happy or Love was sick, I couldn’t figure its spectrum; so much to pretentions or laughing in his grave while God might visit. I met her at unawares, I was sleeping on duty, she swooped, broke dominions, or sacrificed like winning. such cold penguins such alphabetical turmoil, while heavy a comb in his afro. one fist for Jesus one dungeon for panthers or sliding into another family. the iguana watching or a chameleon with giggles such a maniac bending Crenshaw. (so amazed, looking so angry, while they say, “Black men have problems.”) not in halves but a whole the harvest looks good!

            I watched a gibbon. it seemed sad. we know primates have feelings. I looked closer, as afraid of self, to find us in monkeys; a foul fellow a memory fellow beating into hells some female monkey. we seem so crazed. it must be monogamy—for her or myself? I drift smoking a cigarette looking at time pass; a curfew a virus so much to believe in religion. I go silent running into beaches, a mask on, playing softer destiny. Love is watching Love is fury where we wonder about our President. they say a little something. they’ve said nothing. while we see different strokes for different folks. a cliché a riddle an indictment. to form like acne to hit acme while roses seem so rare. I turned down Slauson, I reminisced, it seems different as time merges. I kept cruising into bourgeois land, so many too high to relate. but fire is flaming the sounds are dropping it’s good to feel culture.        

Unspent On Rationalizing

 

out his soul such grit so imaginary inside. the ceiling chess-pieces those whales we carry while loving so much it hurts. at a gravesite or sipping existence to adore what she might do! no evidence aside for a countenance, we learn to read them. a dog nearby a sun to its sky a feud so dry. such itching such nerves where Love might understand. so singular so in need while success is dual. (we assess blackness, we ask questions, we request undifferentiation; so long at roads such pebbles in his shoes while climbing atop a tsunami. too bold at times too insistent at times while many are shunning the human agenda.) too much to take it. too ruthless to ignore it. or too smart to defend self. a dear riddle while we must assess—to what a person can handle!

            out his ghosts about every line where old rivers still flow. hushpuppies or hush-whispers but something hushes. it would if it could or it might if it should—to hold gravel to sip vinegar while kneeling to tie her shoes. a war inside a cave nearby where ecstasy was popped—those years those demons where a brain attacks its owner.

            “to his person, so damn arrogant or it seems to change me.”

            if I may into a green apple while biting into our guts. broken steps for a broken economic while many are displeased. spotted carpets, a damn roach, or some creative mouse. too much to complain or too much to listen, because the social worker is depressed. sirens flood our sociality young souls are unclean where teenage girls give us baths. indeed, a bit funny a bit to why, while despite being hungry many are freebasing. too raw too little as never enough!

            I reappeared. its pain was heavy. I tasted disbelief.

            the Chevy hard into its life—a thousand dollars on a 350. so gross about it so intention about it where many are living by intuition about it. class-hood ambition. love at its seams. such metaphors for elitist. sugar upon an aphorism. apricots for wine. or eyes unspent on rationalizing.   

Below The Treehouse

 

such upon a hammock, seated rhythmic-like, a few disturbing ants. I see a mound those dirt volcanoes where it’s easy to disappear. (the world seems unsafe or reality is bias or I have a damaging flaw; to identify with a mat or to pet a stray pit-bull with senses becoming agitated.) many fend for a cause as souls needing meaning while many seclude producing a fever. a portrait of a settee or a raggedy beanbag or carpet removed within; to ask about intention to learn for ten years—of academia, to agree with warning signs. I saw a kite as I walked the park, I tossed a clump of grass. it seems like dancing or palming shrubberies or identifying different flowers. I saw something, a younger soul, hugging a Retriever. I smiled inside as I trekked inside, life seems so unique by prima facie. (days blur into months. a woman works a manuscript. she’s filled with determination.) jamesias are in bloom, or waterweeds are rapid, as we create watchwords for our souls. a lady is mad at me, or interested in my future, or unveiled deliberately; another reads, she analyzes, she disagrees; in other quarters, I submitted a chapbook, it shall be reviewed. (such music-symbols as chess is on its ceiling, or a young prodigy; so inside of self, such a ways from self, to understanding self—the elusive chameleon, or some riddle in its joys, something hurting its controller.) I received a book. it highlights upcoming poets. she said, “Why aren’t you in there?” such ease in me, or such doom in color, or such privilege for an allotted few. (so, I wrote poems. I separated documents. I’m hoping on a chapbook. if to edit by mind or to reread every line, or to submit, as to find an error. it becomes dual, as we duel for recognition, in a city with one bullet.) the waltz for ballet, or a ballad for lies, or enmeshed too serenely to divest: our cherries with shakes, our blueberries as snacks, or our souls disagreeing with polemics. too tender to win, or too vicious to trust, or too uneasy to build friendships. (some might laugh, they might feel shocked, but some speak or befriend or come close with a purpose to help.)       

Hurting Joy

 

or Whitney for soul, or Hamilton for fire, or Trixie for flame. abandoned to Christ or unsolved in thoughts while it hurts to love more. many closed doors many dripping faucets several shagged rugs. to imagine such a feeling such deepness to know, “I will never die on you.” take me as insecure, I’ll take you as broken, we’ll become mentors. so teleological or raw existentialism while bleeding was never a mistake. someone knows us. they will testify us, as good souls in chains. a current of iron, a marinated turkey, or those disconcerting hypotheticals. so banished from culture. so re-meshed by ancestors. or an alien in his backyard. by pain you give, by comfort you supply, our secrets have become glue. too many nails such tearing through bone such missing agendas. to know you if more of you while we have enough. so human it kills so susceptible it kills or soft a need for raw deception: by feelings as overthrown as outpowered or needing to disgrace everything we believe in; such muscle where it was pain such to stipple memory—its curse its honey while we never meant much more. too accused by self so low in self while delicate a creature so evolved—as more means trouble! (if strength it hurts if regular there’s anger if eternal it might kill us.) too much in art or too little in musicals to imagine they live by more; too walk away while looking closely, as to respond to an unspoken question. a lady some days a preacher at wakes where it hurts to be so predictable. as lights flicker in sewers, to walk to some demon—its fire- detriment or souls flipping into spaces where walls have no pillars—those cuts in sociality those days it was easy where it becomes reflexive. he knows some sign some symbol something in your avalanche. I know some person as needing deliverance as cleaving for reality is frightening. take me dry, marinate me, re-bake until tender. mats are with prints. sunshine is with trances. fury is with breakage. to learn if raw, to live by law, such coarse forgiveness. our first moon our morning mildew where we say, unless it’s violent, “No one is wrong—we just disagree.”         

I Want A Girlfriend

 

I want a girlfriend. I keep looking. life is so crooked.     dead-ends or ravished salads so distrusted—it becomes a problem.

such lineage such a generation our minds center on self-vase—by sauce by salsa surefire dynamite; but Love is angry Love is sweet as Love is gifted—such a creature too much seduction too much animal.

into his tooth-bed into his trophy so angelized too aggressive so passive—as it mixes as it dominates as it seems holdable. cold in summer warm in autumn so graphic too determined—expensive habits!

I want a girlfriend. I keep looking. women are so baptized.     those windflowers those wildweeds those water-cactuses.     so crisp so elastic such bounce back.

at our ponderosa or in our pockets such deterioration such raw grain. a palm of oatmeal a cup of syrup—I wake up confused. by dream a lady she walks naked she dresses slowly. such intimidation—to get its job finished—so abandoned to appetite; a doorknob a doorjamb while a door is sealed tightly.

many jambs many javelins many are jousting—by jingle by knobs by knitting; so aggressive so anatomical a wild winter!

I want a girlfriend. I keep looking. so much more than bedframes!     mouthed with vinegar so deep in his thought while stalking with spurs; a blue sky her orange Nike’s as a creature so baptized. maybe her mind into a blizzard or so clear she met destiny; but a sign but a grin but hair-jostled- contention.

our agreement while we sin where most don’t reckon mountains; such a dirge such a dearth so dragged or grogged. a bit unbelted a bit ugly while London is burning.      

“I Will Always Love You.”

 

you will be loved into a scented candle such wine spills such denial as purchased for bittersweet memories. you will sacrifice both nectar and screams wild into hidden wings—so kind to die so much those years so softly into your agony. I will love despite negligence or adore like song furies. by war upon rabis or cage upon priests so infused by some self-flogging nun—or yogi strong as sensitive souls where going into legacy speaks to its reign; our pluvial souls our solace minds while a flush skipped at its keys. so damn unfair so damn excruciating where so much at best is dying; a man to his damages a woman to her caves such brains, whetstone-stainless steel! to touch a canine some gentle invisibility warm to silence so cold to strangers such a midday effusion. or to drift into seas to roam castles to live as best it was evented those lucrative motions—by tender terrain by queen so electric as fair death might renege; our bodies as to each echo wild luxurious understanding. to have met self, as to have known you, while something remains obscure. plush islands or singed emotion to want, need, or beg for forgiveness; as it means its lot, or curious its apricots, while ambrosia is so delicate those mountains.

I will love you, like a man with three hours, such chaos upon every wall—encased in shivers or emeralds brine red such apples to repudiate. so much it could or so much it wouldn’t wild passion or fruits with grins. those happier years as died too quickly to reminisce holding to an olden person; by mind-melee such to become a fool where a person never again those pleasures. to need clarity on some hill while it was her that moment: such fierce fire such agonizing angelica if angelizing while anxious; to come your haven to plead your castle to beg our queen. as he savored scents or tasted melancholy so treasured while so abandoned; such complication as he never mentioned where most write fourteen-thousand words a feat.         

Origin, Point of Departure.

 

you sing softer or distress serenity inflicting repentance—some static current subtle warm hits as a creature so designed. you are early Whitney or radiance whispering as some chimerical miracle. citrus mandarin or sour lemons as a soul shifts in public. I need something solicited. it dies for notice. but often it lives submerged in art. soothing Hildegard such facts omitted while we need our understanding. little woodchips an iron ink pen some gift for its sentence—a man at a second a child afore Awesome while glowing might find you; some place some voice some medicine. certain vocals, we know it’s certain, where voices are concrete. too much desire soon becomes uneasy while not enough kills space. hurt to claim it so hurt to adore it so wrong to evolve through it; a mask in pink a feeling unique—we have entered something requiring understanding. you are early Dolly such eclectic lungs such candescent gorgeous—to absorb essence to access beauty with so much discomfort. I gave alms to a stranger. I ate lightly. I looked over to see a man in firewater. too much realization too many miles to freedom but kids are eager to rest soon. you stir feelings. you seem raw. you might be sensitive. indeed, I sound some way, as to ignore facts, all humans are sensitive—some just voice it differently. our frontier is surrounded. monkeys raid for fruit. something so gentle is so dangerous. I don’t speak of violence, not here, I speak of mind-matter, I speak to interconnected properties. it’s a little left while craving light, to imagine one kneeling into mental haystacks; so close in me a moment to die in me while I can’t reach it to say it! a woman to laundry. that woman to bench. such a woman presiding over myriads. this is her essence, or have we missed her essence, while too much romance makes us saddened. soft quilts or softer infant fingers while we don’t realize such beauty in our love. you stir anxiety or courage or uneasy certainty. (what we give away, in some chapter written, as what we never uttered; by daisy to welcome us home by begonia to bid us well, or by excellence to suggest one doesn’t fit.)  

You Stir Poetry

 

I see poetry—in some creature, it’s easy to die for you. such bounty as so high—our world searches for you. by halleluiah some scream by technique some dream while unknitted for you. some fluke accident some anvil in science or some freckle in a child. to have gloom or morose visions, some impossible to remember. by gifts or planets or raspberries; where nights simmer in constellations while days seem like they moved. opalescent colors, jasmine scents, by determined breath. as imagining requirements while lust is requirement so shocked to learn about ones we love. somewhat an oracle. somewhat a prophet. I might save such language. (so drawn to Love so reflexive of boundaries, so dear to our prison.) you make prose some infernal soul as beaches are made for barbeques. we have stereotyped self. we have mastered stigmata. we have lusted for foreign creatures. it battles in us our design in us which is anti-soul in us. I run a risk, where one sees beauty, but one is aggressive towards one’s mirror. (I was amped upon asphalt some energy as if draped oceans. I was laughing when it hit, everyone desires more: those long roads over a loaf of bread while sipping wines beneath blazing sunshine. such a woman in you so warlike in you while there’s normality in you.) by majestic woodlands or yonic addiction where we’d like to feel lucid: our screams alphabetized our wants magnetized or our beliefs galvanized—as souls feeling substance or minds sought for comfort while we never know our reality. (many images in me some somber in me or radiant discomfort seeming beautiful. such a secret our ways to give all by waves where it would upon a given second. sweet guarantee of its lemon such comfort with its lime while livid over levity.) to have destiny assumed in its cup—as days become lottery—where hearing your voice shall never seem sweeter. by bellicose vengeance so entitled to hurt others, for it appeals to us. but nectar is poetry, where you are poetry, so much rain in a soda can; how was it wrought, or how was it fraught, in a world stirring its happiness?            

Constellations Align

 

it becomes beauty of its death. it becomes certain beliefs. where dying a little is required. I was lost in sunsets or kneeling at beaches or seeing anger as it might manifest. by flame of sky lights, by rapture of its chandelier, or terror of its hourglass. a tussock for its deceased a fire for its hut a rut might last a dozen years. something sweet turned vinegar something salty lost its earth or something appealing became too rough. such alleluia in you, such metaphysics in another, such raw liquor in me. to die like living to campout near a furnace to afire like losing; an outburst a cagey feeling or to speak something might hurt its receiver. as creatures at war, while trying some point, while to expect a little resistance. or a woman, to mash his brains, where she never expected adoration. as many desire pains, for pain becomes love, while I might make a false claim. if but our bodies as writhing in cement where stuck for centuries in glue. by sacrifice of its child, mother’s only beloved, with never a thought to repercussions. such social welfare such geometry made physical while so raptured into invisibility. (so much a face a figure a curse into everything I need; so lost so much courage as to have what I need; upon a petal, into a cloud, wild ass blueberries; those forces where it happened such his majesty another’s remorse.) by literature to escape by therapeutic projection to escape or so solemn into a mistake; to bend corners to try mindfulness as some creature without feelings; to become business our bodies giggling where some remnant approaches its Israel in me. a man last, a human first as second a mystic. so ravished in sin so much a thought while they put this in me. I understood mechanics, I played violin, it was so uncomfortable. I was washed is misery. I was given a ruler. they demanded I act normal. such furious fire such galactic gauges where normal means—I compliment you. but Anger was beauty or ropes were snug as a woman gasped her immortal breath. (a man must die or flourish as both are apropos; such rites to love her such enduring to keep her while many are so ecliptic.)        

Social Welfare

 

we met early on prior to becoming jaded or turquoise in whishes bent on hopes. sure into wavelengths sudden into drifting sipping clear water. I hit a hut so accused so deep into brown crayon—those tales for a winner those fears in a psych while horror for Stephen King. such contemporaries as too close while terrified our dam might give; flushed by fury needing Medicaid as a clown performing its high-wire. so insulting so insolent too attractive to disagree; or dead silence while provoked to realize beauty is often ugly. but we met something steamy such curse in melanin; sure blackness or certain whiteness while lines are too blurry. fire pressed, hearts exploded, volts shot from mind to loins; we wrestled we clammed up we fell while loving its fall. such nectar so much forgiveness while culprits were calling; our ringing phones our soapy bodies our elastic our tightness our unbelievable forgiveness. a trickle of blood, teeth running into bone while something couldn’t change. we met while laughing we ached with fierceness we felt like doctors—of deed or action or anything business wouldn’t fathom. we lied in sin we cried for mud we wheezed by playfulness—our homes those phones while we had much to redeem. our music such bass where adoring was off limits. to bathe to start again to fret insatiable wilderness. to pull away while fighting to jog where detriment seemed by agreement. so dear in winter so cold during summer while our last trip was sure psychedelic—at a main mall by fall or bags where we barely noticed each other. we met in contradiction we unfurled in evening it was midmorning chasing our excuses. a soul facing theology or a mind becoming a doctor or such differing backgrounds. so soft into reality such feelings we harbor while one is accused of those pitfalls—those habits formed, those dreams deferred, those pens she yielded. if one thing or one feeling while needing a dear demand. if but to love us to rearrange gods for us if but Athena knew her fame. so rough on emotion so anti-dedication or reverence to an ideology—if breaking seems vicious!

Walk In Her Shoes

         

            so prurient so ecstatic so casual. a sensuous seductress, a rivaling queen, as more were kings. as a seed so precocious too attuned as an ache or spirit-ashes—by bone by grit by country horse—by Spanish by blood or so sensitive; a valley mirage a grieving machine too alert to pass life. something might remain sum of an attic or clothe of a tunic so much a holy scarf. to adore her ruins to touch in fury so much fire inside—more casualties a body ageless where closeness is a sign of favor. too diseased to smoke too much marrow to evaporate so pure in sheer affection—a woman crushes lemons to mix with gin where passion is sacrificed—by bleeding adolescence by anchor to thoughts so determined to cause a ruckus; shrubberies filled with bees or forced to comply while unless deference it will become bus brakes. a mixture is sensed, be it disaster, mother, or feral creature; to undress honesty, to remove scales from sealions, if it makes any sense. lost big in Vegas while needing a ticket, to happen upon a white force. Love died in me tears were buried or time was addicted to liquor. such a fusion such water into her liver while Love says crying like Kansas. so, show me your title show me your excellence, better more, show me a good person; for pain is colossal, America is colonial, or fitting means most things are kept silent. to scratch until it bleeds. to apply senseless ointment. while another level is raw eczema. to wreak disaster or to make love all under a burning roof: smoked lungs, foggy eyes, racing into climatic atmosphere. a banshee as wife a kingdom as queen while a man must adore where a woman must crave! to hold us to die us while a stranger might know our resistance: “By lands in cities—your first great parents, while sleeping becomes offensive.” such ribcages or radiance so swung afar—torn slingshots body banging brilliance where it must be excellence we chase after. so accused by mirror too lost to claim perception, as a creature too addicted to sullen falls. a seductress a rare mansion while it means so little if undecided.                 

Our Days Are With Errors

 

denial is sweetener for feelings. hypotheticals might cause anger. and losing is never priority. birds chirp to sadness, or image is of more importance, while a son grips or gasps for absconding oxygen. we lose faith. nothing surprises us. we expect something to change. if I want to impress America, I am on my best behavior for America, where America would want me closer to home. we shall golf. we shall not concede. we will impress our own standards.

but that is long in its horizon. those ghosts are chasing. many of us must account for our whereabouts. crickets are singing, some sweeter respect, while most ignore humble dialects. fires are weaving or thoughts are oozing where dye drips into concrete graves. (it begins as silly, it shifts to outlandish, it makes its arrival at obnoxious.)

society is anti-nonsense, unless emotions cloud runways, where something sickening is meant to become our norm. (but only for a time; for something computes, where we ignore its nudging). it becomes difficult, as speaking to pandemic, where our President is nonchalant. it sets a tone it becomes musicality, someone so high up is unconcerned.

a bowl of punch a basin for toes a cloth we can’t see; a deep dictum, a pledge to overcome, where Kennedy would have us in tears; we see little. we never respond. but one needs our support. it skips being fancy. it skips nice tailored sentences. it gets to a second where it seems trite.

many are converting many are seeing visions many are close to ending life. by pangs in an infant or prophecy in a nickel while I exaggerate. or soft into a meaning to wonder concerning a person as if life at this hour would have more roses. as adoring an aura or changed for goodness where writing is at its monument; a class of minds a myth in minds while one tries to assess tomorrow. by reaming sensuality, or senses grieving, so condemned for thinking of a stranger. or draperies our curtains while we can’t hide from our errored needs.         

Pessimism Root

 

Pessimism Root

 

            I sit in disbelief. I hammer healing in a sense where it’s hard to believe myself. I’ve been tugged by a force, haunted by a gaze, where a face presses through wires. I’ve been hiding or scavenging or passive about my locating. Listening or loosening or concerned about what two people bring to a picnic. I might mingle with malaise, this heavy type of healing, while asserting true dysfunction evolves into an unsteady, but internally cogent type of order. It’s a claim, indeed. One where internality is of more value, impression, or appeal than outer sprinklers.

            A mind will grin as it peruses passions where memories are like math. So much in his present some fracture in his past—where schematics are like stigmata. A man from his begging as a creature to its survival, where we don’t wish to berate a person, as core facts sit in decent people. We know to be gentle. We understand things that might prove risqué. And we agree children are precious.

            I try to regather many facts. I try to see a person instead of that person’s affliction. This is a harder equation. In order to understand a person, we must include what we know about that person, and this requires a certain title, a label, something guaranteeing identity. So, a person might have several titles or labels: philosopher, psychologist, psychiatrist, or professor. We’ve other titles or labels: addict, bipolar, ex-convict, dealer, or schizophrenic—and so forth. Each title or label serves as a mental picture where a compass, gauges our behaviors. We don’t intend to label, but this becomes a part of our social functionality. Lastly, most prize their title. While dysfunction is an energy many persons are hiding and disguising.

            We’ve created something in our society—the assertion, where people are granted an opportunity to redeem an old character, where one suffered from socio-economic alienation. We see it played out in a family dynamic, where, as we say, a certain member was haunted by demons. This person may go to rehab, rebuild, and be given a chance to restructure old beliefs. It’s unfortunate, but we classify cultures, or accept people based upon their social class, where Avenue of The Stars means reception, while anything denoting Projects is denounced and denigrated, or tolerated through uneasiness. We seem to know what we wish to associate with, and the why of the matter.

            There’s a root as it forms where fear frightens acceptance. More importantly, one attached to aches and pains, be it mentally, socially, or both, will form habits others deem as antisocial, abnormal, or disheartening. We include here, most artists are solo creatures. I don’t know if this is a form of being antisocial, but we might agree it requires some attention, especially, if it redeems a given character. But most are carrying a shark, a shiv, an emotional piece of damaged glass—those shards or skillets where reality is heavy. Something might be in our bones, some chilling cave, some deep misery we draw from, or our right to assert ourselves.

            I’ve not found it in this piece. I’ve not asked it of many. The reality of welts, or wailings, or wriggles in an atmosphere where perfection becomes our countenance. How do we address a certain reality threshing our minds and social conditions? How, if necessary, do we congratulate differences—if not, how do we justify alienation? Most importantly, must we include a person where our sociality seems to cause strong contradiction with theirs?   

Too Jarred To Crawl Free

 

so much fighting we un-deliver our souls so much writing but unfree. by maps to you by signposts to you by cavalier ripeness. so many bleeding, sore injustice, while describing you becomes difficult. I have undressed. I have entered a shower. I sit or panic where water pelts my scalp, my shoulders, as I look upward, certain devastation, certain adjustment; eyes reigning or rare assumptions so weird as we try for elation. I graphed you it was easy, for I disobeyed reality. I accept you but I don’t agree you where anger is ever in you. I cough pain so much a last count so covered by culture crashes. as existential primates too pleasing in our minds such men, women, plus, children; to reread passivity or to succumb to impassivity so cold or delicate or sunken into war, wrangles or welts; a known cheat a gambling galaxy so cursed in crevices too jarred to crawl free. I was embarrassed. eyes swollen with depression. so wild how humans bounce! by tone of its story; by wages of its crime; where deaths seem to recruit blacks. indeed, such color implies its redness its rapes its molestations its beatings its abuses its traumas or travails so lost to arrive as a found object. horses gallop sure to certain sadness our earlobes begin to churn—those burning islands those fallen pineapples where a gnat sits on its writers. I fetched faces so fastened to fear too feral for frantic wind. it became a craft to care to covet as running or broken to belong to something we find obnoxious; a community of dying a community of living, we make objections about those that prevail. to borrow your aura to unbox your charms to add ice to hot water; for adoring you isn’t easy, while loving you is a problem, where being away too long might launch a war in me. so developed such ape eyes afforded one chance to decorate misery. I have said little, where seeing excitement might excite—such frightened Forms, such raging rivers, so grated like minced onion. a guard against you; a gaze after its yelp; to guarantee affection, plus, yelling.         

Ars Gratis Artis

 

wilderness whispers its rara radiance aside its wolves. by cadence to advise so average so accursed. too gorgeous for souls too angelica too averse to sanity. by coarse carriage ride so soft or sullen as music multiplies madness. to lose outer hearing to evolve internally surefire sadness. such dissonance in padded room so raw in forgiveness—as born to once again such chamber sure chaos. to discuss dying to defer to living so lonely at its levy. floating into abstracts accused of tyranny so terrific its territory. we might in some life we will in fantasy so familiar it starts an ache—pure ashes while so enthused we yield to nakedness; a craving for attraction such as it never ceases to become pulse or person. by gaudy guilt or gnats swarming as sweltering some need for surrendering. an absolute paradox an absolute uncertainty while so close it cleaves.

so hypnotic such porcelain beauty, we’ve made buttocks our esthetic; a flame in feral flight a man in his mischief a woman waxing her legs.     sour health or mental allegations such animals as we struggle for remorse.     into haystacks searching for comfort such haven in a mind completed; sodden eyes as art is availing so determined to become imperfect absoluteness.     by a bus aside a track while sudden upon a tangle. by daffodils or dandelions or so cursed it becomes its blessing. too composed too captured while one might never feel such a way.    

Celestial by Brain Architecture

 

I have evening fire such whelming such posture. to have died in silence to rupture freely where most are confused. through paintings of you by diagrams of pity such ink-spots near frontal lobes. a man has fever he speaks with a psychiatrist he is diagnosed as bipolar. as living such a padding where introspection in every second; to know eruption to sing at interior some corrupt element needing its freedom. I read an emotion I wrote an effigy some image concerning some mistake. many get dizzy or angry to see something uncomfortable. if but all beauty if but unraw scrapings where life is summed up in one epigraph. by elegy to meet by requiem to mourn or by roots to make pain our Love. we prune material we hide in our shed I have collected too many tools. its pain is by feeling to have something inside with little force to understand it. such uncooked, unleashed, acrobatic melancholy; but I speak to walks or paintings or submerged in excellence—to make passion to fiddle with reality or to lose for unbeknownst reasons—where one lingers some unqualified source but timing becomes a demon’s dance. but a banshee. I hear chains. we saw at shorelines. those bankrupt winners as I reread Psalms while palms are filled with nails. such shrubberies in courts such ankles bleeding while a man sits in his feces. they don’t need me whining. they can’t stand me cursing. where it felt like hell trespassing. I never knew her. there is pain in her. where two have melded so gelidly. those roses or daisies or lilies; those cars or skateboards or bikes; so much rolling as returning to admit, “I have only moved mentally.”

by cave we mean brains by plural we mean lovers by addict we mean liquor. to apologize for existence or to feel guilty for pointing at those seas or fretting a meeting for telling some argument. or needing consuming love or baking some illogical romance or saying to hell with rationality. as men win hearts or women win souls where a child is lost without parents.  

Candy Bar Sensitivity

 

I dip cloth I hit liquor so sore as a sour creature. to rethink womb to accurse a star while such moved by celebrity. its touch its battle surefire into a coma. she came over a clinical physician we talked unto rawness; the blood trickling those veins bathing as accused of marijuana. so kleptic so devout while meditation goes so far; by cut or rut by stand or land by deep depression. I loved so much yelling to ask a person to be real with its furnace. a bathed man a shaved man a man with degrees—running into fire or filmed naked while his brain went on hiatus. so many cars such a trance everyone looked hypnotized: I laughed but silently; I giggled until she came; we made differences in blue blaze! it dies with me, I will never tell, where names bombard his guts. to adore a star to make love to a model while it happened in the blink an eye! it meant so much that it meant nothing where we never touched aches again. such meraki such aeipathy where a man might deceive himself. I loved a body I called it a brain while so close we hate each other. a woman as a professor to look at her aura while never another soul. so uncomfortable to sense it so gathered to hear it, while it couldn’t if panic was sweet. I looked at another woman, for the first time, I felt my body tingle. such disgust for deliverance, such tender memories, while we loathe each other. the war of petals those daffodils until a man has to satiate a woman. so inadequate so much a curse if or if she dies to resurrect the third day! I hit its liquor as to realize most do not read; to get so close to amour romance if but to have so much of your mind—those days so uncomfortable so delectable so angry one responded so impassively. as a dear miracle—oh Love—you have always remained as diamonds! such Trump dirt such Biden rivers while some sleep on Harris. the fire of its rose those bathing delinquencies while Love was so treasured over a candy bar.  

Complexity of Manic Matter

 

it seems so ancient those cries in us those engines we oil. to see a pattern some condition while art still loves. thus, a bleeding musical, a furious measurement, a scale after solace. I could raindrop or struggle, I’d prefer become a hermit man. some sick tradition something we must muse while it haunts over a hundred percent of animals. I called my God. I wedged a wager. we wait to see. by malaise its storm where souls become anomalies. “I did it for time. I refused humanity. I acted against consensus.” many gestures aren’t received, or many are unread, but I spoke to a face looking at its floor. I spoke to a psychologist. she knows I try. we marvel a little a silent wave. so much an apricot, dipped in gin, I can’t un-wrestle pain—those violent shivers such raw trembling to have importance in another life. by alchemic races or a little more wine while I’ve never hurt so much. — but we must confess, if to raise a finger, a soul has been its beast; so distressed as discouraged as time tinkles in a can. it was pure summer or winter but it wasn’t spring or autumn. I sat at a computer, writing what seemed an opus, drifting into some face by stillness—such motion such rapture such goodness; to feel like Jesus to feel most holy to believe in its purpose. I bathed in disbelief but I couldn’t disbelieve, it was raw or hectic or possessed; some are aware, an old friend may chuckle, a woman would attest to it was uncertain. could we take its pain? by volume of its circumference—where a man is so much in his direction?     [!]     I would love like silly or courage like graves to sit in bed like undergoing hospice. so lost asking to feel found while most overlook artifacts. something was askew, speaking as if past tense, a man better, but un-whole. I can’t fit there, for time says so, while there is special, so distinct, so put in order.     I left myself where it blurs those happenings while it becomes unsteady—by voice of its eagle by rage of its falcon, where one says, “You can’t claim those experiences!”     [!]     Alaska is cold. those days of darkness. it feels like its soul. frozen rivers inside, forced reality checks, damaged receptors. waterfalls stunned in station as eyes are dry. by tundra or tarot or talent bleeding.     too abstract or so concrete, while I have failed to love forever.    some dear fallacy some dear lie where I wonder if love has its correlation.      eight months of hibernation or years in public where no one was truly there. what has it meant? when would one know? as here, at a second, to claim it?     [!]     such sunflakes as radiance as gorgeous nature. at twelve months of fertility, or three years trying, or a decade feeling something is inappropriate. chainsawing oceans. digging deeper. surrounded by alienation. dippers have travelled, our souls are indistinct, so we call it by our personalities. so born internally, as no one might see, to get lost in one, we will survive!     [?]     I never measured you. I couldn’t see you. it seems strange to feel you. such mystery as related to mind where too much concentration becomes its universe. our Caribbean Moon. our Italian Romances. where something is reignited.     such a moment’s gaze it means so much where one was thinking of dinner. by Sahara winds so close to us or so divested it becomes inversion. to listen inside to become meditative where it wouldn’t matter much.     like an aye-aye watching, I stare from afar, but I will give it to strangeness.     to see a flying squirrel as it lands in some random dirt. such a random creature so aged with time reminiscing on some terrific terror. cameras are flashing its mind is rummaging or her thoughts would isolate us.     [?]     aside a mantis, asking questions, it leaped away. so much to mania, so much to doctors, where in public—we just can’t give it credence. while it arrives, it stands out, it notices a lonely inclination. by a cactus near thickets while souls become unconscious weeds.  

Lunch Boxes

 

such disappointment such functionality such need for systems in place — the race of the fox its borderline angst its pain in shivers. the blood black bruise those managed in private while a man beats his wife — as an alligator or a crocodile or a caiman; so much a shoebill so much a lover while pure contradiction; the paradox of the ape those banished to penitentiaries while a person becomes a gorilla. so morose at times so cultured at rhymes while one looks at a machine — so off-putting, for it hurts deeply, the nonchalant conversation; — so crazed about it such meditation on it while a man becomes an animal.     a dear discussion so mad to exist while images come to mind; the top spinning the jump for rope or a group of girls with barrettes — so alienated inside to raise weeds inside while an adult is told to get it right inside! those years running those dungeons laughing such habitual destruction; afraid to ask, didn’t know it was possible, where a woman shows life — the compassion wagon, the off the wagon, those fruits for raw discovery; a field of jewels a ruby for mother — while she tried in dying!     so conversed so thankful so waxed inside; the black pilgrim those palatial cries as confused a man born for science. to remember your slot to master your lot if but to survive with a little winning — not much as greedy but more as earned while little people rise so high. those modalities those charms where a psych is listening. so bashful as so addicted where they left me in condition. to meet a white woman, to exercise a little honesty, as to receive pure scientific feedback. a man gunning as hitting clouds to flip, hit an alley, & disappear. those walnuts on havens those pomegranates in kitchens or oatmeal for lunch boxes.    

I No Longer Wish To Be President

I think on power or fire or vases fraught by blood. needing medicine or more depth flirting with snakebites. the chasm is my name. I am removed from my roots. I have become my obsession. by sounds we listen by sounder flame by noor we hear criminality. one will ask for allegiance. one will discount you. that one will disgrace you. such kenopsia so eerie in our compass where more must die for his ego. at the desert sits a rock. at the forest grew trees. at the house a monkey is running venom. so many idle such idiot parrots such grandfather desecration. we slipped in debates, we were camouflaged or unaware, but thoughts are mobile granddaughters. the water is for distresses by christening we arrive while the violence has become its collar. “I hold pain, I insist on silence, I have killed you to praise at my church”; such a picture, as it meant blood, many would perish for ideogramic mirage. the seas are shoreless our bones are waiting our dripping has threats by eternity. his necktie provokes me. his orange flesh says supremacy. our humanity is leaking brine. by casket by breath by balance! unto house resurrection, unto sheer destruction. “I will first destroy everything!” upon a teardrop while inflammatory has changed insomuch as, We do not control our own! 

the bells are ringing the doctor is sick, we must reschedule America. 

the scarecrow has befriended the crows the scarecrow is unfastened.

 

we have passed rumor we enter facts while continued royalty depicts weakness. by water with gin by sin with agitation by disruption without repercussion. such failing wisdom such formed reality while hands-off has become our underground. breathless abjection such disregard for America such rage for humanity. vases are fraught with blood the plague is airborne while attention to it is nonexistent. such social silt such social violence such raw desecration. such determination to overthrow Democracy. such devaluation of the American Flag while he claims America.    

Don’t be Afraid to Say, “Pain!”

 

“Do not apologize for pain.” “But it seems taboo or unguaranteed the measure of a person’s ailments.”     so understanding or so chilly while most become addicts—its freedom its cage while entering to exit—a life at this rate so average feeling grand or back to dirty muddy layers.

I was optimistic during years while answers seemed unnatural. to absorb energy to look harder most behaviors are deliberate; to know it will confuse as this is its purpose while speaking nicely. or to lose control over lakes as anxiety streams closer: the frame of its monster such tar in musicians such disobedient hostility; as it paints in acrylic or drifting so much in our disgusts. mutual wrath or moments truths should hide such a house upon a cloud—where pessimism chuckles or jazz is sweet or blues gets us closer—by mange of the stray or courage of the lemur or the lofty malice of its authority figure.

“Most people suffer from resistance. It’s in needing excellence. It’s in seeing with our bias vision. Something etches at us our way is most apparent—many will live tenacity. By walls or intangible argument many will refuse empiricism.”

            those parts in malaise as heaviness as a hell we respect. so entwined such broken beliefs while most must have a mind for specifics. as casual thieves in casual lies where we distress for personal misuse—of diamond cuts or drilling hearts to be excellent here as disastrous there. such miracle in life such waken voice such careful disregard or subtle where two must understand—as a pain in our system a vigor so deliberate, for misery has sprung.  

The Kiss Which Opened Its Freezer

 

oh certain denial, children are fading, days are effaced.

rectified chase or demon angelica at boulders those

would shimmer. so special to its map such longer roads

if sentenced, we must die again. tragic essence into

travesty beauty, while a man has lost his name. it fires

insides in tastes acidic such bubbling interior. a soul

would dread, such new beginnings, to have lost greater

fears. too reliant to be settled. too giving to need gifts.

or too much dependent on turbidity; by mud in our sores

or radiance in our miseries—such gentle unforgiveness.

to assume in minds those fragile gestures where a soul

is losing itself. topaz oceans or terrors as nightmares

with pain as resident while forced by silence, oh so pensive.

if to unwrap if to debate life seeing such dear imbalance.  

Instead of a Sestina

 

heartbeat eyes, longing at its gaze, losing what it desires.

so much scraping skies so bled empty too hurt to gaze.

plush velvet lights dear remorse as letting go as it screams.

into its greatness soft into its weirdness while unlit or at

gray faculties; certain to release many raw decisions as

why would it destroy? unwise wicks pure benthic webs

it was first dishonor. a soul looks forward by gray river

to have loved so much danger. crystal windows silver

fibers or glass persons—to shatter in destiny to live out

misery, where speaking hurts too much. to come to arms

sure fever, sure fires, a damn yo-yo! at buried scars, it was

oh so wonderful—certain turquoise-jasmine inner mistake.

burn soft into a grand issue—or attest to weather we kill;

weeks at dark spaces, frantic in skin—it must be to feel.