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.
