Much A Flood Fretting Voiceless

 

sundry problems while calm overheated by misprints. those convenient assessments those black eyes inside social blackdamp. use of beating hearts a field of cabbage or flatness seeming settled in. the borderline those pipe houses as one falling into a firehouse – the days are for soldiers these stripes are meant for survivors while a soul was just abandoned – a little soul a maimed soul a soul trying hard to believe in ideals – the gravity of webs so much a dying drum while beating nonetheless; wilder vines into aching signs as one a dozen would try to harm. those eyedrops as filled with misery so shocked – we communicate through melancholy: an itchy blade a grain of sand or sea music. we must break freedom, there must exist goodness, we must locate our missing sentimentality. so uncultured so much a missing identity if but to taste a hint of this land – as a frontier or a pioneer on lines meant for casualties. to see bodies to cry wilderness to eat a jaguar. too convinced those scars where we believe worlds are wicked; a bashful identity a screaming malaise at cages in grief affronted by miseries – those yelling clouds those small havens while hell is a pack of vicious hounds.

warrior orientation, for this is life, a travesty on repeat. oaken graves or promised worms where bugs crawl through eye sockets. aside a matchbook next to a lit cigarette sits a cockroach. its tentacles are wiggling. it’s waiting to feel a vibration. we were told they cause asthma. a ghetto farm, over a broken horse, we must put down existence. so fair at our best, begging for clarity, given a gift no one is accepting. each to their thoughts. for much isn’t destined anymore. so cramped in this coffin. to please our minds to appease our adversaries much a combination.    

Bouncy Immortality

 

like being ensconced or gravel laid crookedly or sensing winds at that second.

 

I trespass a thought: “Real love has no obligation.”

 

while a great aphorism, a tender expression, love has demarcation. maybe rosemary chicken, or steaks on the grill, or to glance into a person – to sense treasure, or topaz seas, or mineral skies. I wax certainty. I unveil her charm. we might search for her, only to desecrate her. soft unspoken music, chants in his soul, a philosophic/systemic cottage. sometimes a person is a machine. he misses elements – for he craves for intellectualism. others watch, they grow weary, they attack. I wanted nothing aside for expertise while this feels uncanny … for most desire some remedy some cure some allegiance. never to agree, but on one note, most use in order to be used. it seems like vertigo or palatial illusion as a person becomes self-possessed. they run us into valleys. they massacre our trust. they grow angry with our nonchalance. so much an advocate for peace, but peace seems dependent, some seem to chase our authenticity.

 

I broke a padlock, I burned a noose, I still have a problem defining freedom.

 

I know a place inside it mourns our gravity it has become gravid water. like baseball, running to plates, we only touchdown to try its repeats. but Love was a feeling an observation, it never felt beyond its quarters.

 

some are quite unsteady, in a harmless perception, while our world has developed jackals. the war is inside those conceptions are roboticized while those ingredients become habits. one man is assured of tyranny, another of preciousness, another of combat. we need to know rightness of thought. we need an immortal treehouse. but we need more those acquiescent walls. so small a gnat. I chase it indefinitely. where easiness becomes abused perceptions. upon a vine laughing where suddenly, a fret becomes a feeling and I tremble. (I hope to surpass birdwatching.)      

To Lose The Pictures

 

it might terrorize us but we claim we need it as some brilliant beautiful bossiness. all day I was high as some creature it felt good not to feel – as a machine so enlove, I never felt so much pain. some ironic language some fretting in scissors so cut it bled out. I can’t describe it, it’s a miracle, I keep sneezing. sugarcane on apples or pleasure in disgrace, so wild how most feel shame. our bodies our bold billiards by affection to forgive much of those actions.

 

I ruined myself. I became overburdened as overborne. I was close to a person in my skull.

 

leaves speak to me. I see faces. I feel like sadness. too much to believe in us so much to condemn us while one says something is askew.

 

I can’t fathom why it happens as a person so excitable like cocaine in our veins. bamboo sticks or coconut carcasses in some part in me. I can’t say smitten. I can’t say attraction. I have this woman too plumed in my intestines. I will never see skies again, I will never drink juice again, I must remodel a manic memory. how in hell! so much by root. in needs of resurrection.

 

I was young in life a bit to scars I projected too much. I thought words meant loyalty I thought people held to devastation I was forced to realize we travel our orientation. that face is blurry those omens keep screaming I became an inner ghost. I found love like truffles or floods as certain an instance.

 

we hate to discuss it we hate to relive it but we keep doing it. by rawness by curse by parttime delights. lime in gin or peaches on pie or steak with a stranger. to have adored what I couldn’t see to have craved after the seas. like octopus’ hands, or seahorse memories as in dreams attacked by tiger sharks.

 

I met her in trance I was aware I tried to play a guitar. so circumspect too wise to ignore while I felt so detached. some women make it fair, as to recluse, where it couldn’t possibly become pleasant. others dance so wildly where it couldn’t be reality. but a man is his thoughts like whales are their memories or mice are their mazes.

 

I must reappear as to myself while it feels I have lost something pictureless/crucial.   

Mythical Made Magical

 

I’ve changed so much as hungering for ownership to accepting human pains. we fear it as so tragic while needing desperation – at lights inside, sitting at red, or thrashing through yellow. roadside distractions or a feeling too deep to remain unspoken – so alert or much an offense where it comes accidentally – our television channels our stage life where many are living Shakespeare. I was restrained like locks on chains it was hectic impatience. they passed assessment, it’s quite natural, but I kept with resistance. some fail to realize this, as dear to our souls, we select which people we care to acknowledge. if one is beneath the spark or seeming too judgmental, we become defensive enough to discount them. but enough of that, more to an Amazon, more to anaconda ropes, tugged to freedom across quicksand – as never to erase, nor disenchant, while paths seem similar. I never spoke offensively, I wrote a dear message, it seems our closets become our holiness. a record on repeat, a woman I admire as years have struck a chord. darker days or passion ways where she might watch on channel human. I lost that round. I passed that round. I retreated into that round.

            if to ask a question if to feel the best in Angelica while so close to begging for clarity. so much effusion many bleeding halos at a party in this bottle. by a miracle in her face by pride in her lineage so smart too gifted where something appeals concerning ghettoes; rolling faster a cut to a giant a fret to his bones; to outlive me to sense me, the only one to give oppression a shake – gripping handlebars or steady on a pedal while swooshing and swooping at interior reclusiveness – the guard on alert the prisoner set free while freedom costs new brains.

            Love was acting a way like she struggled that way where we work to deceive spirits. so close to broken fences as screaming to mend fences or hectic into a gated curse. how many are in on it, to know cultic truths, much a family of radicals – to enter to retype genetic spirits while followed into a fire.   

Old Calendars

 

I try in some way to vet so much born tragic for a reason. it must be telic some design as opposed to mere happenstance. there must be emeralds or marquise diamonds or a jasmine trinket. the sun must be immortal so it must have intelligence or some frequency quite fatidic. I lose track of the many pains. they just excite in me, some fight as stumbling into an abyss. like I said, it was nice meeting you, we’ve tested intangibility, I imagine many aren’t as strong. they act in ways as to suggest superiority where you watch debating clocks. but a grip on nothing while sustaining existence in a patch near a field of grapes.

 

I pluck a pomegranate or pride over insignificance or listen on a rare evening.

 

a chair is a great audience a person is better but a soul, when it appears, must take the floor.

 

I’m with pictures of me but pictureless nonetheless at some bridge looking at a halcyon countryside. I’m close to seven, wiggling centipedes, learning to listen. I come to a well, I gaze in, I utter some sentence. I feel awake in some sense. I haven’t gone asleep. but the forest looks huge, and suddenly. I run towards the house, but I haven’t moved, I hear mother yelping for me. wood speaks by nonmovement. each ridge is a discussion. trees will bleed in the final hours. I regain composure, we seem all pictureless, but mother is running faster, screaming my name, it all seems so frantic. my arm is in her hand. I have eaten some berries. she slaps them out of my palm. I didn’t eat many. but this is an issue. we’re in the fields of Kansas. I drank water, took some type of syrup, and was not allowed to rest. so much voiced in illusion, so many wolves in spirit, so much a native experience.     

 

calendars afar into a special dungeon alongside a naked gravesite – I see mist as it projects.

No Sense of Releveling

 

the rules change according to tendency which alarms me. if I will an action, I will it for others, otherwise, it seems unsteady. many mind-shots, I do confess, a vat of antiquity. a bit charmed to meet you, you stand out, like a kitten in a daughter’s arms.

 

we seek happiness, but we cloud what it defines, while any joy seems payment for our souls.

 

I was thinking. I begin rethinking. I got lost in thinking. a woman appeared as a breeze her intangible essence, it was so close. we chatted in spirit. I felt like a sober k-9, wagging his tail, but aloof from human emotion.

 

sails are up those feelings linger but reality causes intervention. I imagine you see glee or beauty captured by a baby’s gaze.

 

a train crashed. it was invisible. but casualties swam to surface. a man was pinned even screaming more anguish for a widow. she watched her existence terrorized her beauty crumbling her hope raked over coals.

 

I try to stay on course but life is scrambling through gusts where particles are blinding me.

 

like rescue so emphatic or flashes of good times where a man is riding his carnival. I would love on a manic spell or a curse with blessings. to wrap minds around it, it takes contradiction, something we seldom believe in.

 

signals make us breathe, anxiety makes us shutter, as miracles make us switch our minds. I was unleveled at some strange point where another was frightened. I rethought my position I was silence in angst I was smitten—it could not breathe.

 

to a soul so low it unbolts – those seams in deliverance – our job is more faith … we must feel others in their capacity.   

Crops Determine Worth

 

let days establish pride – presumed in concrete – but let seasons remain humble.

with skeletons dangling or insides ashamed let beauty reign in the fields. but a fierceness but dear pain so wild how you enjoy life. our days as flayed asunder our inner beast is torn in parts, we have particles crawling on glass. so meant to move differently or too existential to quite breathe, or too pictureless to paint a picture. many tableaus many regrets as a man living to relive – his nights by sands his seas by tears our oceans by islands – to dance a little to pride destiny or to ache our embrace.

we might pretend, if to ask in questions, the evenings seem confusing.

those times you debate those eyes in water while underground you swim. those miseries you conquer those telepathic charms or to utter kindness. so tender those times so restrictive in lights while we never boss tragedy’s chalk.

I was in pottery I sculpted an item I kept thinking of playgrounds. as a kid I played kickball. I was so free, kicking so carefully, the ball would go so far, so high, I would live in that moment. at a craving for his past, a bit nostalgic, looking for father’s face. no surprise, but still disappointment, alas, we hope for impossible realities. but a child is a dreamer, by rich abasement, where our minds go to some space. I was so much a man by illusions, launching a deep chasm, or ensuring a laxed anointing.

calendars would perish at some gate with wires as one needing a bit of assistance. some type of balance, upon imbalance, with a problem with trusting instincts. they seem captured by tendencies or self-absorbed or too primitive; so, we use logic or intellect or intuition; more wrestling, more grappling, the land was bleeding Jesus. our rice was abundant our oils overflowed but our amoral compact was killing our examples.

my crux is my faith. my art is eclectic. my innocence is waning.     

Short Ode To Blackness

 

I play Marvin as soul tickles I keep thinking of blackness: our cool hats our noisy poolhalls or blues blazing from a Fleetwood. our sons and daughters their eagerness as chasing my past—to have excitement to steal a kiss to jib and jive hoping upon physical jazz. sore at this war or raving over possibility while most blacks are overexposed. needing anointing speeding through currents as afraid we missed our own handiworks. seesawing along skies so torn on product—too sad to go deeper. our women so turquoise our eyes so glossy at Express stores buying denims. a need to feel brand new, like rushing away from mud, while we can’t scrub enough. our bible verses our cleansings our ritualized existence. as beautiful lawyers or psychologists, I think another is in the White House. as communicators racing phantoms so much genetic frequency.

 

we just dance like that we get funky like that our grandparents play gin like that.

 

I feel sad, gazing into a short period, while ecstatic the dynasty is soaring. early morning water at noon boiled eggs while dinner is composed of fountain memories.

 

if Angelica an art or ferrets are witnesses by so great the craving.

 

most can’t defend on that level. many are unsuited inside. it becomes taxing to strengthen resistance. our color schemes as internal the way we disagree with pride. so much our walks our strutting our pants. years at it like genetic allegators it has become evolution. if but to see – most sad souls with such happiness in a given moment.

 

I say sorrow in us where I must say joy in us, while pushing for happiness and sound in us.   

Looking Into Skyglass

 

the spaces the agony I’m sorry for using an article. by blades or teal grass at jasper sunrise. a bleeding/breeding man, a military mind, by war in these parts. the noose is a sign it’s disgusting but many live by that symbol. it was over too long ago it came to life most recently it has lingered in shadows. I can’t walk certain spaces, you might endure a million, as lethal into a cut but loved. so much to die or too critical to live with kids begging to be grown. after souls comes dimensions or to come back unaware of the last journey. if but to unlock if but to realize as souls regurgitated. too many fights, Love, or too steady, Love, while angst kills in valleys like our private thoughts. we see cartoons we see a carnival but partner didn’t mean what was suspected. sure defensive as without reason but convinced it looks like begging. things we sell or thoughts we harvest where no one knows what we’re alert for; never-you-mind, or ever you sing, while this man sides with mystics—not some gimmick, or some magical elitism, but more communication via states of consciousness. I was angered inside, but I was bad karma inside where serenity was challenged inside. by heart to feel a presence by heart to become aware as souls longing, nay, adoring an experience. it was crazy. but I knew to say nothing. it appeared in me—lights flushing or watts blinking, at currencies meant to muse. an underworld an underdog as I sat near a tree filled with sap.

what was our agreement? I stuck to it. I usually do. I lost a daughter, a precious person, I see in her the legacy of lesbians. an aria in g-minor or a feeling in flatness while wild over the way you ignite me. a fool with laundry a mistake I’ve supported where Love didn’t deserve my smartass antics. so much exploding much a gut while running to you is appropriate. lines never crossed a humble manic a man looking into skyglass.

Nightshade Musings

 

I would fret over baptism like a mother frets over a firstborn or like a student frets over an exam. there was desire for excellence a made feeling looking at its praise. years would make expert by craving for public merits. we might agree, or hassle over agreement, but many put a deal into our perceptions. I was moving faster or seeming a circle where scenes appeared to stay sameness. lots of people. varying voices. most alarming convictions. it amazes me when we see an event and most saw differences. one is authority. another is persuasion. where another is fierce. to know what was seen, to have it with intensity, while deferring to another’s picture.     many calendars later, seated in a classroom, as to witness such systematic detangling. the biggest concern is a concerning concern, while many walk-away feeling unscrewed. but days are something like wood. each voice carves a statement. each mind is learning to extrapolate. in deeper awareness, one learns expatiation, by strengthening commentary. rhetoric is central. meeting resistance, as resistance is intentional, while often pleasure is acquired. skin thickens. assessments are habitual. many keys are reshaped.     I would fret over fitting in, like a child headed to preschool, or a ballerina entering a prestigious academy.     it comes easier for some, rather, expectedly, but one kind gesture proves expedient.

 

I was feeling gray or stuffy or irritable. I was watching faces in memories, I sunk into granny’s eyes.

 

today is put to sketches. it falls into many calendars. one might recite this day in his future. a book of thoughts, a few ideas, or a memoir waiting. a blueprint, an outline, a few key characters. maybe a corrupt/moral protagonist, or an untidy antagonist, or someone going uphill trying to preserve his breath.  

Pockets Of Electricity

 

the lower frequencies as alarming me what has occurred to me. too much to live too much believing too much distraction. middle-heart-child or deliberate mind-key a dear to my lonely aches. at a frequency sudden by a fantasy, by fever so feared too vacant for me. born distressed. mother wouldn’t push. while I care for another’s story. can’t return, it hurts to remember things we endure by resilience. a movie in me as appalling in me but steadily on repeat. are you a believer, well goodness in you, while many of us are cynical … by two to hate each other … by two to loathe another’s reality … so convinced it works better, our convenience? pain rebuilds it takes to avenues its longer than Pasadena—at an anvil or an allergy while we strike out of streaming. too much hardwork afforded one hard chore with addicts at discomfort; the rage in angst those pictures screaming wild as undelivered; so many fights with color chasing while a little is too much.

            tooth by nail a bastard by birth where Love comes from hierarchy; a decent person suddenly a wounded person as trying to help a dying person. enough as sinking a sewer as existence but people find delicacy in partiality. by moving forward but unsunk whispers at a cage where dying seems premature.

            lips’ part, sound comes out, it often feels good to listen to you. by sunny glow or holy anxiety while we decide upon each feeling. malaise intellect, it steadies its appearance, one must delegate those emotions.

            life becomes screendoors attentive to dust disregarding mites.

            days looking at purple feelings much in royal stars while placing Love on higher ground. lower frequencies or plaguing sounds where one just needs a ladder.

            while bathwater drains one might see a ring, he must clean it immediately.          

What Do We Suggest by Cultural?

 

how do we act cultural how have I seen sunshine when was I unaware of being black? we ask a soul its name we listen for an answer as if a name has told us something. chains clank minds gore themselves or mansions become metaphorical. a smock for cries a garment for bad breaks a feeling in a second to act uncordial. hands high those triggers so spatial in a jam. doorknobs take on meaning, monopolies cause injustice, while we say odd things—to reference time to ask for penalty to encourage metanoia. some issue I have some realness I endure when looking at inventoried eyes.

I entered a coffeeshop, days seem incorrigible but Angel was sipping tea. I looked at a gentleman, I spiraled a bit, as deciphering what we see. one is secure, be it false or steady, one has a grip on what’s transpiring. I was four miles over, I saw selfsame woman, but company was different. she winked I caught a feeling it seemed strange. of course, I’ve said little, but one might get insinuation.

but back to blackness as to what it denotes where many have several dictums. some database some carnival while it feels like sinning. are we first color over humanness or humanness over color, or by whom is color made evident – self or another person? it might be both, as aware of sensitivities, where one discusses your response. tables turn in terror as tried in tyranny such tragic ways we view each other. some are like hydrants, either beauty, venom, or both—at moonshine such undertones with people trying love over color differences. what makes one more feasible than another? to look at taxis or ride the lines or see so many fighting but unbeknownst to their fight.

 

such a ringing door so many vestibules I walk rooms filled with ghosts—those takes on life our ceremony made digital our souls rummaging trashbins. a doorbell awakens a skylight is precarious a binocular entered another’s quarters. so many safeguards. I must confess: if taking life on its actualities, a man or woman might lose sanity. so we debate pains we sense through a filter we analyze the fibers. but back to blackness, or even whiteness, do we have raw, hardcore definitions?

            some utopia for some. we see it and grow weary. we need to know if this person is crazy. but further left, one is too pessimistic, too blunt, too philosophical, where reality is bending, it seems sharp, or too much acid, while pain churns or minds scream, if but I never met this person!            

The Face In The Mirror Is Much The Person

 

dear old self — you were too uncritical too unenlightened and too certain of things uncertain. your screams were too silent, your dreams were too vocal, and your deceit was underdeveloped. enthusiasm shields errors or deaths raise character while some have destroyed you. in avoiding grudges, or not venting hostility, the personality has acquired quirks. I know more about you. I have a trust in you. I seem to settle in our sullenness. (I wish we knew more let unknown.)

            I bought an orange crystal or reappeared an instinct I handed myself leniency.

            discipline comes by practice by study by diligence. we shoo hard inquiry for surface pleasures never claiming full acknowledgement of another human. we set goals for writing but never went deep enough, we shunned too much uneasiness. we never hammy much. it has become what is resisted. we slipped into familiar, unfruitful habits. we laughed expectedly. we put on charades. where others became comfy with an unsuspecting façade. I negotiated with you. I promised something extraordinary. I came through in parts. (we now trust a bit more).

            her face kept changing. it was noticed. until we refaced her entirely.

            skin or eyes or riches; pain or solace or familiarity; sex or drugs or easiness — by flow of oceans by sky-fixture, by experience when inspired.

            I came to conclusions if but to survive, you were displeased with me.

            I no longer hassle over bodies, their texture, their location. at incipience, there was great impugning, tremendous grief. what we need can’t be given. what we write is far too upfront. and what we want is debated sorely.

            dear old self — I never outlooked you I merely revamped you, while I understand your perspective: an unfinished notebook, or a reread magazine, where most cravings are cosmic.       

No One Existed Before We Met

 

I long for surprise as dies a feeling so undercut—by life’s machine to heal quickly if but to bring out majesty. a man cringes in face of what he loves so wild how you deceive me; a villain a monster such confession such repenting too enlove to see your face. too much for me too many raw problems such a tremendous lover. bars as never curses as clever such penalty for heart-fevers. I chance weather or storm in angst so afraid to battle the crocodile. bring it out. show me something unique. re-understand the losses we took. so much to exhaust too much to revamp while it’s not a deal breaker. I was once smitten or twice overthrown as a king finding a child in himself. so much an instrument so channeled like remorse so deeply aggravated; those heinous ways those heathen caves such a beast in winter. so sweet for patience until it shifts as souls bending winds. such ruthless behavior I stand in rain anything you desire I shall oblige. so quiet as lusting so evil as an angel such cuts in spirit—I get to relaxing I freeze in art to imagine one so good in my perception; as never a clue as never an inquiry while one gets the best of what he fails to fathom. it often starts that way. two trying to close doors. if but to suggest communicable passion. to have that feeling, to know it’s possible, this reality plagues the relationship. or we meet, of course, we have no one, of course, we have silence as omission. it’s grownup city, it’s terror at a second glance, I have never needed sex as I do with you. such closeness such writhing bodies such heat we make. too much to sustain too much to unleash by hearts too innocent to actually sustain purity. but it was altered it was changed there’s something I can’t tell you. (we have this this monster while we beg in silence.) such forgiveness such reality such exposure. by dynamic of our needs our wants to have worship we die in such deprecation. our value system as always probed while we try to believe it would never occur. the pain we give the loneliness we shiver where Love is so near, so close, such a memory glued to membranes. but heat in body such familiarity as confused by those trials of old. so quiet so elated with skies screaming or falling such tender outlaws.     

Connect 4

 

someone is conscious of wings sore identity as a wild pain.

sadness became beauty.

we think a certain flame. (if I bring you joy, you will be loyal.)

if I could tell it, the shame, or ear-bites so attentive. (he never noticed he never made a big ado—until someone built Rome.) such shadows at midnight or disturbed come morning such dangerous attraction. (give it to intuition or paranoia so wild the way we distract each other.) a game of sociality while playing dodgeball with cravings like a hound in hell. (we built a house it was mortar-misery, most decided we live it out. so amazed by what we tell each other. where color is an issue.) as fathers, do we side with or against our daughters? if one is wrong, do we speak it, or better, if we see a pattern, do we suggest it? so much passion in her voice such tall terrors as forced to live it out. mind-marks, psychology anguish, would a man be in a rush to unstitch convictions? 

many are housesitting, deranged in violence, never physical, mostly mental—at bays or laughing like dying so close to too alert — hypervigilant, suffering hypertension while sipping out of a mask. my birdsong my parakeet my dreams or goodness at some hating my guts. we side easily we need an entourage we dance partly afraid. we need rhythm they call it games where it must be a plot. psyche asylum, it gets too difficult, as putting solutions together that benefit all concerned. we chastise literature we ignore our behaviors some are screaming at their mirrors. such a bad state or so partial where most are looking to sail a bit further. life is a playground or seesaws are metaphorical while its difficult to outlive embarrassment. can’t depend on immortality, not as a scientist, we aren’t necessarily given infinity to get it right. some friend inside, a hell of a mystery, while even certainty is faced by doubts. popped a bottle or lit a joint or so wild it was unbelievable. scared myself, driving too fast, swerving at 3 a.m. made it home, sat in rain, such a cabin for too much aggression. 

            I repeated a path, a stranger’s recipe, while wailing concerning never me! such ink-delight such ink-sorrow where no one understands what survival goes through. to purpose life as to repurpose life while forced to ignore a great tsunami. at a mailbox, looking for a letter, but it’s temporary satisfaction. so refaced so debated while speaking directly is such a hassle. a room filled with poison ivy. a town filled with carnivals. or a mind reflecting a clown. such harlequins such depictions as running into a dead zone. so much gas such revving as back at square two.     

Asthmatic Blues

 

long hours whetstone or waterstone but heavy against an oiled wall. no chance to improve no one to praise us such internal motivation. Inner City Blues, manicured problems, so facial, so impolite, we know something is wrong. hang-ups and letdowns and bad breaks; taxes on mediocrity or feelings in ditches while neighbors knew before it happened. so much color such digitized responses such prejudgment—our dispositions our calories our bacon with rice pudding. a bit left a bit gray while Al Green mourns Grits. how have we judged each other? how have we forsook each other? but it seems we adjust well.     a problem with breathing or an issue with dying while trying to fit in-between. a bag of laundry a ceiling with binoculars while many spreads the walls with peanut butter.     it can’t be living, such shady finances, bills to roofs and above to skies. a toothache might cost much, bloodwork is more, while gas in now close to five-dollars a gallon. but heyday or haystack a needle too small to cause such distress. a smokestack a firehouse a farm inside-out; a fever a gut a miracle according to St. John. too much to slowdown or too little to pull a job, or known prior to arriving. can’t blame us for needing – even more than companionship – albeit, a person is a wonderful garden. a xyst path a set of watching trees or sparrows listening to the unsaid. it couldn’t be living it couldn’t be that way, while we praise total invisibility. or sudden into atmosphere a person steeped in study as it professes its presence – such facts on abstracts on photoshop on the preacher’s radio. aside a pew near a backrow a few bibles dance in private – a girl knows haven or hysteria, or gate hounds – as living in shadows or studied for more while intelligence is watched keenly. such sweet blues arhythmic music or asthmatic jazz.     

Dime Bag

 

the good becomes bad hassled by existence wild faces chasing dear deaths. a dime bag, a blunt a beer; those years seated doing badness at a curse seeming generational. the people I love trying to make it work or sister five kids and a bird. we embrace misery we find it chill otherwise we feel displaced. a grave for mother or bars for father wild ass kids trying to outwit the ghetto. indeed, we look at you, you seem important, at least, pain seems different; we get close we get burnt or we fall deep enlove—while society is wagging a finger. I ate life I ran life I was abused by life. those windows in souls those mirrors we laugh with while eight souls on a dime bag.

            I asked a soul in cardboard to sense his worth. a burger a batch of fries, twenty dollars and a beer. I skated with anxiety I looked was watched while we do that—just looking just content while wild in a dungeon. so much bad too much to complain much love for breaking habits. Love is gorgeous her man is a maniac she still sees the good. we get so close we chance our sanity wild ass kids sensing it can get bad. a bag of potatoes a stack of bacon, families live like it was meant. over a dime bag, over raw gin, buried in turmoil. a little too angry like flights into fury wild ass kids screaming from the gut. too much love to forsake a grudge a patch of souls riding for eight decades. so impatient most have little to twerk with while wild over Eddie making Stanford.

            we seem stuck on a dream but some come true while doing ninety down Rosecrans. so much to die for, so little to expect, where most hate Eddie. so loaded so blasted sitting on a keg. a cigarette to get right, a bag bigger than a dime, such success while in jeopardy.

            Love is six months pregnant bed is lumpy the stacks are obscene. she pleads with Nathan, begging to let go, while Nathan just took his first bullet. Love held his hand blood trickled but Nathan isn’t finished. the house was rocking the music was loud a riot ensued. such pain atop of rain while we listen to B. B. King. a life sentence, only twenty, looking like Marvin Gaye. a little to its environment a kit to its nurturing while deeper than Z. Z. Hill.   

Human Parade or Slaughter

 

I tried being angry with you. we both know for secrets. I was leaving behind old experiences. they came again, the wings were hectic, it seems like ventriloquists are phantoms. a bit fancy but I know you, where another would be detached from my upbringing. such bridal and sexuality such respect for self, at this time in development. but body was unadjusted never refrained such senses begging for pain. too wild to un-notice too vague to claim dominance or so fair many are miscounting your kindness. so subtle so alert while having you is a scream. I can’t go further, but I must go further, or switch topics. such layaway such disappearance such inquiry. but a have-not or a half-knot or haven in pain where it feels better than strangers. I can’t explain it, but it goes this way, we might be angry at others for being human; so, we accept a few, dance with a few, and never trade one disaster for a stranger’s destruction. “He rationalizes. He hasn’t a clue to his state. He should seek something new.” yes. something new, someone I haven’t history with, something learning to love me—where most humans do in sameness. we chase while looking pleading for the most loyal machine.    

I can’t beg for a stranger I can’t reflect on a stranger I must dwell with a stranger. some think more or differently or seem to know human motivation. our needs to feel beautiful. our needs to be seduced. our loins pleading for satiation. as giving our taste or needing our egos at some private elegance. many will dislike me. many will attack my portable mirror. many will ask me to shut the muck up. I realize such awakenings at traffic lights while real enough to call a person on her galaxy. such jamesia sunshine, such nemesia gravity, where we act ugly at times. but reason is this, it’s not the behavior, but more those nosy people.     Love is devastation such purple eyes such long and flowing mane. such hips or body such intelligence. Love is a problem for a problem while we seem to chat fairness—as well into nights or loving on rugs such burns in season. but in dear honesty, we expect humans as dealing with humans as never desecrating humans.                           

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

             

The Company We Keep

 

I keep hope I keep credits I seduce a merit diplomacy. I stay honest fiending in some direction while knowing I might be dishonest. not merely omission but uncalculated such phantoms hovering about his countenance. so effaced at times or erasing color while sensing color means a great deal. for example: each culture has underlying truths, as to discredit them—is to reteach/structure something already inveterate. however, the tides are tender or shores are hectic or dancing is meant for couples. so sad to see as it entertained, she drew pain in middle of the room. so seductive so miserable such a lover of souls. too obvious our cravings our outstanding sorrows where being possessed seems appropriate at times. but a soul lost to his horizon at guts to pavement or intestines writing prose. so much a substitute where another is priority or a song remains in a shell. so abandoned so crooked so honest—as pain was cake or crust was sweet into a face of almonds. never again. some go crazy. but it seems to defeat itself.

some riddle up there. a bit of release up there. while many say, “He’s disappointed with humans.” either that or this or some anxiety concerning what we’re able to sustain. nevertheless, sweet disaster as coming into presence such abandon while at love; a market of souls an agora of spirits, as coming to a lake filled with prophecies. to blame hurts. to ignore hurts. to accept builds a human. so captured by our demands, or running towards our wants, while reality is interested in itself. so beautiful with her, so adored by her, while it has become routine. indeed, so painful. we can’t hear it. but what becomes of two meeting that way? in tears we love, we pander, we explore. (your body is my soul. your art is my mind. I come to you pleading for our best days.)  

Thunder We Make

 

I grow sentimental upon an hourglass looking into a skylight. rays are insufferable pain is sweet as it drives enthusiasm—when it appears. so much cherished such diamonds in her eyes so much between us—taboo truths endearing lies like a man was meant to feel credulous. such a quiet storm such gorgeous rain while walls are filthy, wet, and incredible for capture. too good to feel blank too rare to unbend such gripping winds. it slips away it dies slowly a soul is a mirror. never felt this way never died this intensity never loved like nothing matters. too much to wave too much to crave while metaphysics struck a soul that year. you have a big heart a magnet heart it tugs like its demented. so much to avoid love so resistant it just kept churning—such butter for biscuits such gravy for feelings at some strange emotion. it’s more than carnival or more than a circus such cirrus storms. too beautiful to ensure too raw to ignore while it must be this day forever. if I tell more shall more be enough while I feel insatiable?

            certain moon, quite dependable, while sunshine garners more pride. I know nothing as sitting in a swing at three in our mourning. anything with you is like paradise with you while we weren’t doing much. intimate conversation days at combat such fire in our devastation. such realness such hurting where we forgive just about everything. so keen so organic such rubescent thunder. upon a julep into a daisy while reminiscing on turquoise echoes.  

The Bestia Is Vigil

 

the beast hangs by sycamore those eyes bore into skulls the beast wants to repent. so many shattered colors our American dreams in distant sirens—they sound where some life is at its end or some miracle is at its peak. we might outwit ourselves or out unique ourselves but nothing seems to outsoar consciousness—our miracle our immortality our deepest unfathomable instinct. weaved over wefts or mental crosswise at prayers aside water. into turquoise/expansive wiles sure sugary smiles so earnest so careful such explosion.     Jeremiah in soul as lives a flower such a nameless flower—near a tree such wood with tiny ants such charisma in nature.     raisin ladybugs or floating butterflies plus a beast is watching.     the beast is gathering berries. the beast is making wine. the beast is writing liturgies.     so much patchwork so many tragedies at some private universe.     it can’t be romantic at times it can’t love with binoculars at times and it can’t be on guard at all times. 

it seems rules are cultural     behavior is indicative     while personality is cross-cultural. the beast is watching with flippancy. the beast is analytical. the beast does satire naturally     pointing out irony or discussing insignificance or acting arrogant condemning arrogance. the irony of the beast the broken colors of the beast whether or not the beast claimed identity. so tailored for discomfort or wrestling personality with little reach into the beast inside.    

Thank God For The Few

 

 

about life as we spoke such righteous hopes so contrary with the good. what was given, where was I, at how did she die? I loved mother but haven was hell while we adjust to problems. to give life to drink the curse while alcoholics are raging over fire. to suffer like passion to touch in pain as souls naked for minutes—to hurt like living but it feels natural it frets normality. I love with problems I feel with regrets the music is too much a miracle. it seemed it was good it tore his frustration it banged on his mother. I know the rumors I distract the rumors a mother broken begging or belonging to paranoia. a cookout a bunch of chicken plus potato salad. we laugh with passion we feel with goodness so many wrong turns. trying to function so untrained while filled with racism. so worried so much wire as one did his first line. a ghetto child a ghetto wreck, a ghetto miracle. tugging harder racing further as abused to win. I heard word it felt like acid where he spoke like it felt good. to lose a few to gain a few it seems like life. I must admit, it meant so much, while spirit was flame. to hate a man, he must be on track, so more the conflict.

            I was anxiety I was lost I had a breakdown. many knew but still chased while people use for hidden purpose. so experienced with misery, so many lonely nights, but it’s never enough. they drag, souls transport for souls, while breaking souls. alert and smashing. hit a cut and laughing. a few stayed so damn real I shed a tear. the image of game never the ideal of game while a few like love the game. we shake the infection we cleave to the remedy while the homy just died. too many cars I was speaking peace I aggravated a warrior, I grabbed his face and screamed, “Please think!”

            I raised many including self with a few speaking leniencies. so adapted to it, so crazy with it, so removed while present. so detached so compassionate so steady in a miracle. the body aging the mind at winds while upon a second, at a dark island, such a swoosh—though ghettoes through Watts into Beverly Hills. such life for a few so strong for a few, while dying isn’t an option. slapped up banged out or smoking like momma died. granny was a nightstand so fused in panic, screaming at walls. a fool for me a daylight for me even a Morningstar. we died for reasons, it always makes sense, to one full throttle at his addiction.            

Personality Has Key Building Blocks

 

elements cycle into circumstance insomuch as position might shift where bad persons become good. as sudden amazement or sudden realization while others watch filled with envy. an old prostitute becomes a nun. a kleptomaniac learns charity. an old con artist volunteers to build an orphanage. wild things in sightless lands we call them miracles. siblings are reclassified. he was once the angel and she the black sheep. now she’s the force where he’s dissipating winds. such leakage of helium. the balloon is near ground. art has inverted. it seems fair for one but anger for another where most wouldn’t do kindness in return. 

I gazed upward looking at a phoenix to imagine a person’s resurrection/revelation. I dined for years at Patmos. I listened to Greek Wisdom for a decade. I have adored, of course, at a distance, a feeling that once came to me. some typical fire, not much math to it, where a glance turns into something more; as for a person, something disharmonized, such ancient affectation; to live for a short period, even a century, with pains when thinking about beauty. 

we change shoes, hopefully socks too, while we prepare to swim. we switch out thoughts, replaced by more pleasant thoughts, if attuned to our mental health. 

I lost in order to retrieve while I can never fix those chasms. they suck at us they laugh at times they feel so unnatural. know this: if you frighten a person, they never forget, and if you hurt a person, they try desperately to forgive. it becomes a challenge, rarely to avail, where we wonder why the curtain has been drawn. 

but we broached a topic atop—the changing of positions—where we try to accept the new you. a vague enterprise an ambivalent jealousy while I need you to survive. I have raked the debris or cleaned my sewers or retiled the kitchen floor. I have become an encyclopedia, praised therapeutic practice, and still, I have an anchor purging me, draining laundry, and provoking untenable emotion. it becomes an anniversary, a celebration—if a day is void of this contemplation. I keep meeting me, I keep meeting her, I have concluded some elements are basic in each personality.        

Ghetto Houses, Unratified Blocks

 

the block was freezing the pain was indelicate most had a whorish feeling. his birth was in prison his mother sold him and his father attached self to pimp academy. so rough at life with a frown at life while they ask for kindness. so angry so bent another bottle clashing to concrete. too far to come back too unaligned to be normal but Love sees something precious. cages or fences our fingers locked at courage to head home. it’s what was made it’s pressure to decencies while we beg our Lord—something to help a mental friend one we give credence.

            I must fly in my despair in my desperation. such death row sentences such heinous activity while being real kills us. abandoned to ghettoes forced into survival calculated, defined, while imagery is more important than humans. so much as it comes, so constant in subtraction, while we extrapolate a life.

            notwithstanding her rage so cuffed in spirit as a son might endure his beatings. our Asian communities right in our black communities, it becomes an unbreakable allegiance.

            please Lord, if but to smile, a tear falls between laughter. a gut blown a mind on heat such fleece filled with pepper. as assumed, we might into a dungeon as accused of infidelity—to curse or credence or culture. a woman a machine a miracle. sure into combat or sure into an avalanche where if lucky a man proposes but once.

            darkside anxieties or curbside sales as a true furnace burns during winter. I must fly like dying slowly a cigarette mouthed during a dice game; no remorse but radiant rage as a man defined more by what he destroys. wired to nausea as aflamed in gems such caprice to maintain. another clamp another mistake while they ask us to keep it silent. so pushed about those edges at a fringe debilitated.

            the winter was beautiful the misery was liquid the flame was product. we danced like thieves we kept close he gutted his funerals—those pains as livid a curse so much deep despair. to shoot left as running right so in-between a tale told tragic. they jumped, it was good, they hate to see us winning. so raw to game so threaded in game while desecrating game.

            the block is freezing the rain is athirst such burials for souls we depleted.      

Neither Good or Bad

 

utilities or instruments or works and feelings screaming through expression; art as a lonely man or groping at walls, like a holy woman. I was enthralled at one point, but a lady showed in absence those moons coming to earth. pews filled with believers, if but they understood, I fathom Moses had much to tussle with. to know upon a dandelion as something accessible while screaming total dominance: ours is more powerful; ours created yours; or ours will decimate your land and crops or mines and diamonds inside guts and coals. too much brushwork. so cold as an instinct. nevermore as innocent as it was intended. medical scholars seated nearby such belief as it flames.

listless upon a ringing bell church is in session a seven-year-old was baptized. Angie was elated. she burst into tongues. an elder wailed, “Look at that Satan. Look at God’s Power. That girl got the Ghost in her.”

social brushwork. it seems dangerous. as trying to hold an ocean in its closet, or carrying a beach to an island.

an elephant with a hyena’s face—or a coyote with a human’s body, or a grackle screaming in sheer agony. too much to decipher, or meant without intention, or a woman we learn to feel correctly. woven into me like grass in earth or bark to its root, those branches graphed in the bark as prime inheritance while branches grow madly with arrogance. we have yet to understand it. our glasslike minds try to contain it. there’s something to feeling expendable.

but church is going fire is in preachers most persons are standing, shouting, and looking for shelter.

what if we knew—in totality—would it increase its value or decrease it? Are we losing?  

Archaic Symbols, Asylums, or Medicine

 

polite/open exchanges made holy projectiles while communing bravely. rosary beads for a sullen miracle or a suitcase filled with commentary. she was lit on flame pushing out mist while seeming undifferentiated. it was easy to admire her. it was easy to be polite. we struck a pose for photoshop. by woodblock we etched kindness so sophisticated, so careful, such pouring compassion. or different abilities in different souls, but we tire of each other. I catered to her, as one caters to wine racks, in so much as age distinguishes experience. some are punished for familiarity, both internally anxious, and externally awkward. some cherish written word, others ignore cooked claims, many feel indifferent. a professor might cringe, a librarian might tear up, as to hear literature is isolated, unto itself, such cadence for a few. but communion was aesthetic or filled with effusion as it poured from city to states. so specific in its chase. it’s operated partially by intuition. it reasons, floats, as coming where it pleases, or going as it selects. a person is a church. I was such on guard. it seems most have a gift. such quarantine such vices while many are seeking therapeutic friends. I met a person, during my turmoil, I have decided to leave winds unexamined. I met another is distressed, as we often decide, it seems inopportune. but delicate gusts or cedar crosses or yoga in a soul roaming deeper sea trees. some atypical sociality, or spiritual anodyne, while more and more are asserting their godhood. a trip for humility or combat with humility or something missed has become a boomerang. nevermore a curse but more a tested soul or dear visitation. to have won more than she lost in so much it feels like pains to remember. by affectation while it was measured where it will hardly come back. to find a person is an anthology or a misunderstood paradox.            

A Mirror Depends On Intuition

 

I cringe the blues like a nightmare so automatic with solutions. another cage so abandoned with too much love—for essence for flogging with anxiety at its peak. I depend on you. I waffle over you. I degrade myself. upon a cave looking primitive as if shaving is a crime. I was so taken or too many fumes with an inability to see closely. so many agendas such disorder, it felt like love. too unsteady or too nonchalant or “serene detachment.” something existential, most philosophers are chasing, a grip to slip passed humanity. a bit cold a bit icy while a bit afraid—in attics typing in basements praying we invest so much in metaphysics—like designed to worship while a solution is close, but rather, it doesn’t fit—for we need our ways we outthink our motives it must happen according to plan. a buffoon at times so warm for feelings while many are favoring science. it’s just a need. it’s just gratification. or we cleave according to stature and status. 

I didn’t make perfection. a man tries for oxygen. so punctured—it changed his entire life. we seem to keep moving we have emotion we can’t figure why she’s angry—to a deafening point, where tears burst forward, while she can’t say. a mystery in a jar, a bottle just popped open, a fret of losing another friend.

like a thief one appears such oily language it started millions of years ago. to need to hear liquid as needing to feel related to, at a situation so familiar. but a hankering a desire where it’s immediate. a fire in a dungeon a ceiling in skies or a tree in memories. such a catalyst so anti-rectitude but it feels terrific—to hear such words to feel engulfed to fret such pressure. so skeptic it seems impossible but the Legos seem to build something: a fortress a paradise while hearing is as good as tasting. 

so privileged so it couldn’t be while deception doesn’t depend on culture. so withdrawn as time took something where experience says illusions. but upon a rainbow lost in atmosphere, it feels so damn good. running to it as enlove with it such a face made of marbles—a museum voice an amazing warmth such as it must be illegal. 

such abandon her soul in chains as alive in iron. to sip a brew or energize a sudden feeling as it revs higher into an orbit such cubes such fancy as needing to depend on essence. aside emotion lives an imp aside feelings lives a leprechaun or deep inside, into a large space, lives a mischief sphinx. so calm about it, such struggle with it, while goodness, a good soul, is rather earned than adopted. an ounce of waiting a gallon of spirits while fretting mind marionettes—looking for convergence as something altering ambition instead of a fleeting experience. too adored to settle so many years at practice, to awaken one day, like miracles aren’t earned. a deep routine such raw inability while praying for someone determined; a pint of ice cream a bag of cookies, it gets that way at critical junctures. it went so wrong. as been here before. while it’s become normal. 

we know much about human nature. we blame others for our actions. while is was there, it just needed a jingle, despite circumstances. 

we say for goodness in an abstract universe where people are immediate gratification. too many problems to locate life or too many complaints to maintain a family or too much sacrifice, ignoring, or camouflage.