Closets Seem Social

 

maybe it doesn’t change as cycles are familiar where screams are unvocal. maybe predicated on wilderness those cacti those desert tumbleweeds. by force to come inside where mountains never disappear—as instigation is internal, or we know each other, where I use you against you. a man will be silent or he will sign his language like winds chime as night falls. some nightingale some rooster as some daylight might appear in the morning. dusky falls dusty interests or we will deal with each other regardless. so much a clear, filthy rag or a decent hurting soul while it becomes some type of normality. a channel to islands a place on a sofa or another pointless cigar. many sober seconds followed by intoxication, and often a man speaks too much. we deliberately behave we carry ourselves a certain way, it surprises us to be out of character. like trained dolphins or skilled seals or so many elephants in a small section. a man will play the buffoon or he will perform at passing graces or he will be envied, honored and dismissed. a kettle sits in a box alongside a tiny set of spoons, looking has become obsession. a deck of cards watch the room, it becomes some sense of foretelling. a mind might foreshadow, we might never get along, our cultural training prevents us from mingling—aside for happenstance, despite culture, two have the same habits. if I compliment a soul that soul might compliment me, where we are saying the same essence. a lotus in a garden a lady is watching it she mimics its stillness. I may never accept a soul that soul repays in kind, it becomes drums thumping into a man’s character.       

Bungee Jumping With Parachutes

 

it wasn’t sound as disposed with healthy outcomes. it was angry it laughed it wasn’t near to clarity.

 

machines become us so alphabetical too much to submit.

 

many would discount magic or non-science, while crocheting a neater net.

 

I was pondering, it hit harder, many elements lined up. bad times or bad rhymes at bad experiences. remapped like geography or subsumed by existence. by math to hear you by pains to adopt you so many pleasures for a dying industry.

 

it might seem powerful as mini-deciders as clouded or feeling beautiful. assorted or ironed out so ferric so much fire—a loud man a genetic heart some arc at explosion. I can’t do music but love music can’t do automaton only autonomy where it doesn’t please most parties.

 

a man chases, we never confess it, a man is on display.

 

couldn’t please it couldn’t appeal to it, it was displeased—but it asked, it wanted a response, many hate for a wrong display; a mile to juggling a jagged edge at problems for displays.

 

I should ask permission, from each person, and put together a definition for humanity. would we get along? would we love politely? if a room is crowded, will all get clarity?

 

we need what we challenge while we ask, they keep motion.

 

some I never required more than a few minutes. I never pleaded or begged and this was met with irritation. some put jewels in a blender. they grind precious rubies. they have no one to blame. an empire a way to respond while too much helium demands a hearing.

 

we meet many people. some pick up each person. others wait to discern spirit. many just come to pass by.

 

this is life at points where discontent or not, it doesn’t change where reality is dancing. I can’t say it but to say it, no one is depending on me to become famous.

 

I notice I need to a degree, where most try harder, while I fathom a plan in motion.

 

if I begged for clarity, and it made some strong, would they give up their strength to see me with clarity?  

Baby Is Bad

 

into it like an anthill so strange when alert too mesmerized by tears or alive in angels spoiled with fire so gifted when it hurts. an inrush her neck a hundred million tattoos—diamonds on skies pilots can’t drive a hit a cigarette while I need you; mashing gutter style so ghetto so infused trying to have zillions; a stunt for me a lie to me such hash for me.

 

I heard one speaking with ethics while foul like sewers. I made long winds I shortened my reply I noticed we hate each other.

 

a new bag a new car too live to sit still; no hugs a few kisses wild into my face; so difficult so damaged while pain becomes billion-dollar airplanes. an inmost tendency as hearing anguish—partner treats as if she couldn’t count—a mad penalty a ghost with body while it was never such a feeling.

 

eating seaweed running through marsh at a swamp in Los Angeles.

 

it isn’t meant to win an award, it’s straight by gut, so stupid while we can’t stop laughing; to see beauty as writhing a shot for balance.

 

sometime I get ghost I hit the highway I exit the doorway. sometimes it’s good while we ignore fancies (life as is—is different than those damn fantasies).

 

so real a true mentality like winning with anguish—those miles this block our midnight tendencies. many soulprints our connectivity, while many chasing like heathens.

 

no one comes, until it happens, while it took one to see potentiality. so actualized so dismounted doing like 50 mph—the sidewalk is illegal those poolhalls are lethal into a package like dying. I had a vision the music hit me Baby is bad—so crucial or a magnet if a chance—what would you expect?    

I Am The Cave

 

I never thought to you as trying by angle if but a boomerang. I was unfair. I think you as dangerous. I seem like one a bit interested in himself. it isn’t that. it’s cranberries and gin. or vodka and eggnog. or it’s something I’m reserved to say: our needs our ambitions where connectivity feels enormous. upon sugarberries, in seldom quarters, again, bent off of rum. a damn drunk, so discount me, or laugh—so hard we forget our existential. I ate papaya or mingled in a daze at etiquette and roses. she faired differently. I speak it plainly. but I do not desire more than a visual. as occasioned, they dance, fretting repercussions, if but to exist as a desired creature. I was counting mockingbirds, they’re most immortal, I play clown, or buffoon, or harlequin. so much to ignore you, so much to dine with you, anything becomes a challenge. I drank a beer a minute ago. I ate cashews for breakfast. I, too, a palm filled with vitamins. so misleading. such a bad-good person. I wonder how it feels to be nicer. let’s ponder it: nice is good, if a lady, but a man is misunderstood. he must desire something, something acute, something he might not earn. I just need niceness, or something human, or I need business, or delights, or I sound confused. hinges are reinstalled, the world will test, while many monks are sensing a koan. if you are a hundred years of age, why were you just born?  a zephyr a miracle a ladybug.    

Fire Feather

 

I welcome myself into myself a shadow knitting itself. the flame as in rain sure to die this round. a beat for roses a drum for souls while adoring you might undo me. I ran in stillness I presumed in calmness I undressed in showers. soaked. dripping. clothes screaming a shot in a glass—those beige begonias those bled gallicas while a jamesia is a scar. I brought liquor I brought self I was aware it would be silence. it becomes subtle or overt such islands gunning home. to feel selected to be accepted, even prided for excellence.

 

refueled a bit regauged a tender tomorrow. touched it hurts where loving is a miracle. so temporary as one indebted while we might ask for eternity; if at intensity, if eyes locked in temptation, where becoming us takes priority.

 

richer souls rolling rivers at rakes humble over loses. fingers in dirt or nostrils and dust so much sheared grass.

 

I watch dancing I see sullen salaciousness I wonder how often we must be seduced.

a wall unbreakable a ceiling blown back, a tree with one piece of fruit.

 

a miracle coming much glory in a chair, while knowing you has been interesting. atop a table, tearing a mat, polishing jam stains.

 

a young soul is watching, those days back when, a vase was shattered. reborn re-evolved rewired; a delicate kettle, a cup of fine arts, if to remember it’ll never be envisioned.      

Legs Walking By

 

I see hummingbirds. they come close, sipping sugary water. I see silence in humming like strumming a guitar. I hear snares so wild many nets along its path. it was pain first, many interior omens, trying hard to accept us. a little ant ignoring a larger world, terrorized by happenstance. one giant anteater, a happy dismal creature, so simple, one objective; to efface me to erase ink, beauty sleeps in misery.

 

I’ve thought of one, communing at points, affronted by phantasms; core isolation leads to awkwardness where too, it becomes certain answers. Art is fruit or color or tone – tender musicality, European fire, aesthetic hips and pains or hurt deeper into sweetness.

 

Art is without death, given life, it has no rhythm when lonely. maybe fabrication, where mind wakes up – it’ll entertain its cluster.

 

I see starlings, purple-red-black skies – Africa has pain, glory, and death.

 

by azure or plumbless seas those sea-green explorers. or brown made sable or sabertooth eyes. round or made almond at cyan made blue at reasons to give warmth to coldness; a callous defense, or readily with kinship, where outsiders try desperately. time waited forms false impressions. firebrick looms by distance. a man palms firebrand.

 

dusty underbrush. another force of ants. one vibrates in order to succeed.

 

I know why she’s extraordinary … where she blossoms … she’s meticulous.

 

sugarapple(s) or breadfruit, a cup of coco, a bit meditative. upon mandrill strings, into a mini-field, looking at tornado eyes.

 

a person watches while plucking berries a place upset inside. or relishes in a stranger, exhausted from joys, eating figs. certain to fall by love’s chamber unsure of tomorrow’s gaze – a cup of guava a palm of gardenias.

 

one looks at a symbol, as a lotus, we might find solemnity … a reason to push further, a second to make distinction, a glimpse of legs walking by.   

Happenstance or Design?

 

a bit mellow sidetracked at visions so dead at bones so alive in friction a man cut inside. longwinded or silent while fire strikes caves; maybe blue lights, or fuchsia pains so dear the way you smile. too much ink by deeper grays I was waxing a fence. you see a threat it runs in color we embrace those adoring us. seashores like seahorses so bled of boundaries. too close to ignore too unclassified to mingle or too unattracted to feel more than discomfort.

 

a risky business a notorious kingdom while salted and salacious.

 

those ways they probe those voices kept minimal or spirit as sullen. a pound of bacon a house of elders, mother sipping coffee. a good day a better week a pained element. a nice month a bad year while pains are intermittent.

 

but a ghost in a window while buffed away. a veil in life, not much to presume, where to admire is to form cravings. a broken problem a beating drum a strummed violin – at deliberate angst, as it was enveloped, a crime to call a vase aesthetic. at art at fate a hate inside; too much for some too little for others, we search for spatial whelm-hood.

 

too much permission we never say it but when correct, it seems to get better.

 

fed a seabird looked at sea-skies at a turnpike smoking a cigar. revving inside gawking at dusty winds, listening to what’s found adorable. a mind different, a slant envied, so great to feel received. at a tabby as at a husky fingers beneath fur. owning inadequacies so livid over injustice while seeing all things as mandated.

 

defrosted or thawing an opus so cured so awakened at terrible frustration. pure contradiction while driven like warriors looking at a gifted remedy.

 

measured by unhappiness or cultured by infractions while I wonder when we dismiss color. if fact, a problem, an unsteady suggestion, where human action seems oblivious at points. so much running as whereto at some mountain inside.

 

a bit infused a bit into those feelings while smart enough to ask for assistance.   

Itchy Nervousness, Chasing Angels

 

most pride integrity. behavior bedded in personality. or, with timidity, we call it serene detachment. in a sky of anguish, or accepted condition, maybe not searching for a state of being. to tremble at facts. to die one last fruit. at pain we come to become into. so cultic in design, too human to depend on, while we ask, “Are we simply chasing happiness?”

 

suffering is deathless. a mother finds peace. we seem to endorse and resist individuality. what is being? it seems eclectic – the definition that is. namely, a freedom clause, in a contract, that hasn’t accepted your freedom.

 

we meet people, causeless people, in a causeless world, where this is contradiction. for causality is a law, insomuch as we search, and there it sings, a reason for action, interpretation, even fear and trepidation.

 

one watches, sleeping misery, it feels pathological, where too much acceptance reads like passivity. a person exhibits anger, it seems nonchalant, but when ignored, it becomes a vendetta. we remove first person, as if first person has disappeared, while popular science pleads for pure objectivity. an aged old conundrum. a subject can’t disappear. therefore, a subject is making those analyses. (just a heads up, the subjective person is always a personal projector.)

 

topaz intelligence, made sweet, like roots in dandelions. to sit in sweltering heat, inside an airy office, to realize something delicate: those different experiences with an underlying cause while it’s difficult to separate persons. something positive is derided. frustration comes with maverick realization. a cactus separates two people. both are beautiful, pain doesn’t weaken that, while both are suspicious.

 

daybreak is yawning. a wreck is wobbling. it debates forgiveness. we vitiate happiness as kernel. while experiencing happiness. where happiness is a state of being, while contentment is a prize.

 

what is utter contentment, or dissonance, or pathological survival? a man makes it clear, there is bitterness, where a man is irritable. maybe scientists understand, maybe Phoenicia is redeemed, or maybe Israel treks the desert.

Rugs Speak Symbols

 

so denied with self so wild with flame abused and fretting a life sentence. refaced over diamonds riding through Westwood I pause my mind, I inhale a cigarette, I asked her identity. so minute to me, sure a distaste in me, while pitted like ghosts in fetters. night brooks most accursed while wilderness seems lively. pastures or meadows a songbird – as speaking passion or choking off laughter we imagine days are good. looking closer so abandoned to Urban life, so confused we arrived earlier. a tale of a stoic a bleeding habit at bottom it looks higher. by premise so cooked where a man believes his illusion. but a pirate but a made-man but an inner adversary.

 

many offenses or prided a sculptress so caged in freedom so free in prison. naked kindness unclad awareness astride like dying.

 

I vamped again I came back again people examine like a vacation. (most expected something. Love told pain. I never tripped.)

 

people do as expected they fool a few but hounds roam the mansion.

 

unlaced a broken aglet, or entwined, reweaved, running back to those tall walls.

 

reread a vignette at a problem ebbing with waves. upon a wreath so enchanted so strange how it never mattered. just a habit, just like hopping, we play monopoly. too drenched eating dialogue a willing participant. full filth fuller deaths at a gravesite with dice – to ask a question to obtain an answer while remade, restitched, at a rug midday prayer.     

Clear Silver Rain

 

some eat shrapnel some have patience most are pellets of interiority – fields full of life symmetry left unbalanced rationale left behind – if but to live if but to exist, a man coaxes his brains. by deficit to lean on attraction by inadequacies to feel simplistic by absence I was here. we sat on a scarecrow. we became crows. we listened to sublime mockery. I was clad in deceit or dressed in shame more music more regret. a bag of problems a gallon of ambition or so close we hate each other. a man spends himself in trying his wits where life is one fading gallica.

 

to grapple at walls or to eat worms, pure indecent delicacies; impatient art, whole pictures, a gallery of images. if possible, I’ll love you, like a man asking for love – raw, formless dolor, as improving vocabulary, nothing as beautiful as spirit filled morosity. to imagine rights – if I protect you – you’ll be indebted, thus, loyal … if but to our contract.

 

aside white snow stands a black river filled with monkeys; next to a soul abed trauma lies our last anxieties.

 

I think to tomorrow a life without tension a world we create. some fable as a story one we observe. as falling or swimming or unwet soaked in dreams. dry concrete with memories or pure ambition. it’s unusual in time – a person with many flaws – considered perfect in those eyes. it’s commodity it means so much, while we vie for control. certain passion certain love, I promised concentration – those alleys those cars surefire un-relaxation. by splendor of city blues at a bar to have met one so distinctive.

 

a bit too numb, a bit too many jamesias where we inhale looking for closure. as a last sentence, as tempest weather, eating what was served.     

Bluegrass Ghetto

 

I won’t insist on flatness a bit more holiness a bit more secular. the blackness bled me the mothers girt me, a bad gray pit bull—to see it growling to see it menace we keep kids at a fraction. they used to fight dogs they used to sell cocaine it was the mid-eighties.

momma’s fried momma’s high for momma was raped. to see her sleeping, trying to wash her brains, I can’t imagine being by imagination.

most sisters turn bad into good most sisters are something androgynous or most sisters are trying hard not to jump ship.

I met a woman I met a scream I made love to a dying terrain. I had a friend, like broken to be right, so wild the years without a reference.

 

I sipped champaign I smoked chronic I read Chronicles.

 

it seemed obvious a tree at his gravesite a machine holding too much. an impatient animal a life we presume, while I was made crosswise – the good the bad as momma was proud, we entered college.

a mistake in me a problem in me and no one skipped a chord – same madness same habits expecting billion-dollar loyalty.

we tatted ankhs we spat lyrics we set fire to our intestines. a jackal’s profession, a zebra’s calmness, or rhino anger—as dying men so lost in fields with a child struggling over a pomegranate.

sporadic addictions a face filled with ash a miracle momma made it those years.

sworn nomads, from Cali to Texas, from Texas to Jersey. like grasshoppers like wax-on-wax-off, much a slow process – like finding a father. fluttering feathers, fragmented graves, a giant in her name. a dragon at me I’m churning alleys, I’m doing like ninety – a golden catfish a net in spirit it seems genetics are grieving.

but a wheel spider but a flying miracle where a mistake would blast into fantasies. amuck like heathens so holy like laughter so contagious like liquor. too much to give, sold into addiction, it’s hell how it captured us.    

Coming Across You Seems Cruel

 

by mud to need rinsing by penalty to know wrongness so wrong to think of you – a miracle madness so meshed in panic so close it ruins accountability. a heaving heart much warmth in its chamber so cursed to have loved you – a wild wicked niceness, I can’t remember us, seated in a shoe box. re-affected as years pass so great the sap of intimacy – a running magician a rugged edge at the fringe of addiction. winds swooshing waves swashing bodies in collision: buried in you laughing with you like a fool demanding of you. upon a common pigeon feeding at a park a Labrador approached. the wife watched, the dog was nosy, she called, he didn’t respond. she walked over, it wasn’t time, I was polite. the want for carnivals the feeling of clowns that ache we feel inside. a circular catastrophe a problem in calculation while death isn’t the issue, rather resurrection. still waiting while enjoying if but pure consumption.

 

so torn inside rough color inside at a wildness unknown to me. at a loss at a river at a situation. the face of innocence the body of Mae West the pain of Phillis. like rushing into a husky voice or radiant like a candle such hourglass predictions. I was wanting you I was a furious slave I picked until my knuckles screamed. I faced wilderness so wrangled at war to ignore where Jesus left us. a reason to sketch a second to be a lost warrior while coming across you seems cruel. days of this life or survival as a merchant too medieval to ignore our connection.

 

a man as a machine, we’d have it no other way, where a soul was hung in passion. by crime in throws so ruined so wrinkled. dripping with lust or pure lasciviousness while concupiscence is condemned by religion. to imagine holiness devoid of sexuality is akin to believing God has condemned women.   

The Gas Was Lit

 

if you love me, it’s like pain, an anchor in his bowels – so intestinal so blank a man will die three times. an only child, they call us spoiled, mother said the same … a wreck for family a sandwich for lunch or Grits for dinner. I heard a man ate water, dust, dirt, made mud pies. we fight to express pain. we roll tobacco. we come from killing fields. the company I kept the way we died we needed the brandy we drank. I’m a believer in women, they act in accordance, mostly souls raised us. a violin bleeds a cello aches a viola whines; to unlove you is criminal to understand you is illogical to walk away is terminal. like a filmmaker like a drumkit the lights are out at 4 a.m. I met a lady I was unfair in me I desired to reappear; I walked train-tracks, I painted railroads, I fought like cats. upon a polygraph laced in spirit ten moments ‘til waking up. I haven’t a clue, a naked aesthetic I watched as she entered the restroom. eggs with green onions, turkey bacon, and biscuits. so far into disbelief so ached to cry sitting in a chair the legs are wobbly. so unstable as like his life another stranger headed to her layer. a smothered existence a pictureless maze while bold enough to claim Christ. so much inside me, “I’ve come for sinners,” a soul runs through a maze of shrubberies. I relax, reading graffiti reminiscing on times when getting along seemed easy. before regret before nonchalance before realizing most aren’t equipped. reedited or raw material at a soul ten paces my damages. she wore most excruciating denims. so rich like jewels. while a man is drunk off her delicacies. indeed, I heard her voice, I died in my revenge, I felt re-parted in segments afloat in the breeze.                

Is concentration both material and immaterial?

 

is life an illusion? we examine thoughts, murky perception, debating some phantasm. it seems real, tactile, until we try to fathom it. if conception is error, and I act on it, I’m traipsing illusion. an old question is, if I landed on reality, how would I know it? this could become defeatist, if I go too far, for if illusion is law, and reality is hermetic, why should I trek deserts? at some point, interior trust is earned, where there is training involved.

 

I’m centered in illusion. walls are filled with analyses. pavement is silent. many will cleave to facts, insofar as science applies, but facts are part of the arithmetic. I seem concerned with inner material – as in mind-matter – where thoughts appear immaterial. (a thought travels, it sparks a ghost, another person feels concentration: how has immaterial effected material?) I might be misread, as defending God’s Motion, but I speak to something more like mind voltage. along this spectrum many have drank illusion, fermented treatises, and asserted definitions. it’s not intended to exact a root, outside of human being, it’s to exact experience while refuting interpretation. so odd, to speak while refuting where something probable has been asserted – based in experience. we see something, some mystic coloring, while knowing something is in motion.

 

I thought of a Zen master – probing human capacity – launching particles of matter; something material, as in our brains, projects something seemingly immaterial, but we call it energy; however, something material conjures ideas, where, by chance, other material, with mere thought provocation, sparks a volt. (some are nodding as to say, “We know.” some are questioning the logic. while I have appealed to experience – as much a vital ally or an ignored vehicle, while cycles are created.) much is at reach, while more remains undone, in so much a sense, a few are with concentration.

 

we see what is unseeable but we see with interior eyes. they account for more than outer eyes. while both are essential. where absence there is presence elsewhere.

 

out of illusion spawn material facts while interior oceans were said to be nonsensical. it might be ideas, set into letters, while intangible, those ideas become therapeutic. are our brains sole space for meditation? have we connected to outer brains? as found in other human beings? one asserts a definite, “Yes,” another says, “What are you smoking?” where another says, “Either/or, does it have purpose?”

 

purpose is difficult to tackle. one finds her pleasure here, another there, even peace doing both. we’re looking at something interior having an external causation. a space, if we will, where quality is gathered, where essence mingles both immaterially and materially. is this illusion? if so, is it harmful or good? if not illusion, if all are invited, why has intangibility, associated with matter, generated in energy, with a subtle mystery (concentration), become not only esoteric, but harnessed and harbored by the docks? we would imagine a spark sets in motion a hunger, which in turn, opens up an undercurrent sensibility.

 

illusion is required to set mind to matter, where two come together. we’re left with a question: Is concentration both material and immaterial?     

Caprice Impact: Black Lives

 

catch me eating fries looking at a gaze watching how we behave. the pain is liquid a drink for a hamster a flame for anger – the demon got free. caged in a cave the year bleeding our officers disgusted – the wicked fury those teary eyes a woman holding her leaking son. we elude at times we escape at moments we grieve like seething. so unaffected by peace so hectic in a struggle while love is up for debate; it means differences it screams while it freezes too long to make tolerance. a praise in fires a blast by faces a case last year on a ride. I paid alms I gave tithes I was filled with Mysterium. she made the problem list she made the lustful list it can’t be tamed – so we accept fury we feel corrupt while adoring the few drops I get. an emphatic sparkle as it falls water filling his baptism. I disappeared it was years I was parts and pieces in segments what the hell could I give? filled with fatigue asking her soul while tripping in a vacuum. most at caution most seeking pardons most eating teargas. I traded spirit for a dominion those parks those animals those fierce beginnings. a soul at a life sentence. we sit in membrance. I nut the fuck out. no one fathoms no one skates no one heard his mother dying. distressed affection, those sky blues those concrete abstracts. so much contradiction so many oxymorons while momma pushed into a potential monster. I weaned early I laughed quickly it was funny before it rained.

 

I hemp scruples we face a conundrum how to add ethics – this ought-fire those moral spaces while it hurts most are amoral – I do what I did, I neglect my war I forfeit my art. I held an ankh I drifted to roots I screamed ‘til neighbors complained. so paranormal lately. her honor means more lately. I was able to get a little distance lately. cosmic essence, ghetto music, while Love is a butterfly. a big delusion for me a freedom by fate for me a walk where humility baptizes guts.

 

the sunshine bleeding our morals compromised while I need power to reach the youth. an illusion in this a pain in this a caprice nature in this.

The Invisible Chase: The Impossible Riddle

 

it feels like gospel or southern pain while mellow with misery. I roam halls I trespass funerals I go to church – looking for a friend a diehard passion even yoga on methamphetamine. to erupt in irony to whisper over melodies or to create rapping(s). love is so close. I hear her assertion. so much a person over a tender mic. I buff a tabletop I place mats I cook salmon. something light something cruel as it demands genuine emotion; the bikes are locked a skateboard is nailed those walls are recording. so on your side so much proving reliable so dear to our interior. a castle for a queen a dungeon for meditation to explode, to erupt, to break in tears. a kind hand a standing in place a creative piece of memoir. I chase a kite I roam foreign neighborhoods I put self in jeopardy. sweet nectar like no other, I begin to realize why humans get married. breath in its yawning teeth in necks bodies headed to a weekend getaway. our museums our cries our silent gestures. next to an ottoman a room in beige lining, to kneel down, pass over a strawberry, a room filled by diamonds – the curse of its confession, those eyes remiss to die, as rejuvenated, once so tired.

 

I might omit a significant point – those prayers in dens, those lions at your side.

 

I chase ribbons. I look but never gawk. at moments, it becomes insufferable.

 

a candle flickers a wick is showing-out we move it away from curtains. the pool of romance the London in arcs like rising into a miracle. a little Patti La Belle or fairer into chance while so much earlier is better. northern crime or northern labor so much we have come through.       

The Cycle Is Concrete

 

I would outwit a problem or sing with a siren a bit keen on weaving

 

a bus might whisk by     windows filled with faces

poverty holds a vendetta.     aqua scented perfumes     water mixed with mud    

tomorrow is unforgiving.

 

I met Jeremiah. each verse stung. I shared with her soul.

 

nickels or dimes or quarters, but never coper.

 

the sun was chilly the raisin tree was bleeding the patchwork was indecent.

 

color is choking. memories become hallucinations. the plaint has been made.

 

we know it when we see it. charisma is in the breeze. we are left with a palm of walnuts.

 

the winds are fierce, chipmunks are gathering, hunters are sipping beers.

 

organic attraction

or fury in flesh at a sawmill proving our status. Mrs. Wounded Wings, the moon is watching, it testifies to the sugarcane fields.

 

in a mazeway, eating blackwater, sleeping without dreams

or in a hallway fighting a large tulip troubled to awaken

at wars in bellicose lands reading a foreign journal.

 

an unvocal scream into a lilac azure beneath mauve colored grass.

gray fur or beige fences while pain sits in recesses: it hoots or growls or meows.

Drums Infuse The Camp

 

nectar by flutes by drums by existential uncertainty. a pictureless man is an unseen man while walking with labels. prehistoric genetics the world of connectivity genotypes scattered and hiding in plain view. maybe 4 different cores maybe 4 parts of a graph, or maybe too much attention to specifics. gazing at leaves returning to self as a man in his prime. so confused at moments or so clear at seconds where we never ask about meta-arts.

 

hunger controls drive and determination as drastic achievers. maybe disposition unleashed assessments while some are facing different conclusions.

 

a woman will love as in time so close to a man’s vortex; she will fly in him, understanding his ambition, be a part of his dreams – while protecting his walls.

 

one must study neurology or physiology or what it means to have certain facial features. one must study psychology, addiction, or at least fathom attraction. there’s a down side to intelligence, one must qualify, one must give until it churns. attraction isn’t enough, it takes mutual respect, it requires finances; it becomes genetic skylines where children carry traits, while unsuspected realities must be accommodated. (just a few rabid ideas – one remains uncertain.)

 

steep into blizzards, night at 5 p.m., or sunshine at midnight.

 

one must be polite, dependable, early, even desirable.

 

an open person is a displayed person, by much activity a person is revealed. quite pleasant, quite quick tempered, much of an intuition. or open, susceptible, sort of going through pains, repeating miseries, with little insight into one’s cycle. or many sides to existence, a deep need for company, a dear resistance to hypothetical dispositions – at deep dissatisfaction for behavioral assessments. indeed, assessments are habitual, but we like goodness, while badness belongs to those other people – where one is opened to repeated infractions from what comforts some souls.   

Nicotine & Ashes

 

… in fact, most souls are nameless, if lucky, one enters into hertz …. many live bereft of self, an alien in a foreign land, an estranged survivor. existence has a nimbus, but she stands aloof, one might court her an entire existence. pockets filled with petals, problems, and passion. many to roam regions. many to remain still. many running on a treadmill. as in one space, split in halves, our thoughts adrift like confetti. winds of courage infused by justice launched into indifference.

 

by a creek two miles south of a lake sits happiness with a padlock. assert a combination, most numbers fit, many see but one solution.

 

some become birdwatchers, others become ventriloquists, many live passive destructions.

 

a viewpoint is formed in mud, pulled out and rinsed, others consider me different. (is it because it hurts to sense an absolute, a man is trespassing, or we need to see humans a certain way?) maybe it seems unreasonable, pain is relative, or existence isn’t intrinsically suffering? most might argue for mindfulness, this is agreeable, but training is required to think accordingly – plus, hardwon application. art sees depravity. minds are gateways. most overpass human physics.

 

polish a child and he shall flourish even surpass his challenges.

 

most are waking up in a predicament, a human condition, where one is promised resistance. women are born to a war, a difficult clock, where some become ruthless. (it was last year, I met a different creature, mirrors have never been of much interest to her.)

 

many are bungee jumping, dependent on a rope, sensing this is existence.

 

one would be remiss to omit pure beauty in essence: by hopes in a child, by love for a spouse, by dedication to a career. more information might change us, might cause deeper inquiries, might awaken us from a feeling of unknowing.     

Will Cut Us In Halves

 

I need to voice on love, the mechanism bleeding, the future we must predict. those black pits in black penchants so pensive longing for a glance. water made burgundy those trees screaming or a squirrel asking for nuts. I like tarrying I adore bodies as we collide in aggression. an immortal, bled by a sink, our ritual going extreme.

I don’t need chaste but pure, in one sense, core honesty. I realize something as in its blankets, we often run a gambit. those rooms mean nothing, but they mean so much, while we count our heart-pieces. I made collar I made priest I became a whipping lash – some lie thought craving her intestines while begging for an angel.

I need euphoria but I need not euphoria, it’s a core contradiction. so torn apart as barely surviving, on edges or fringes as born to die. many have shattered all I believe as a soul lusting for clarity. it seemed so easy, they do it yearly, they never contemplate those fires.

many vicissitudes aside a magazine, fiending for some attraction. if to live with you, if to smell you, if to know when things are right; a savior in you a woman screaming a log out back. so hurt to know you, so realized in you, I side with you instead of looking for Ms. Perfect.

next to a freesia near a nemesia stands a small face. this is our child our wilderness our bodies collapsing in pain. many gates as walls, so intermit with anguish, sour pride. I see carpet grains I thumb the shag I smell footprints. a little tai chi, or more kung fu, seated face-to-face in an armchair. crying our disappointments, regulated to our hopes, with riches before us.

down a river up a stream close to darkness – a black moon a neat forgiveness, but much hasn’t changed.

pull me through. so shredded asunder. those rays must come from deliverance.

a glow a magnet such unreality making passion.

more rapping(s) more make-believe we hate when a person might see us.

or relishing eyes, hoping on a savior, while many are standing at the front door. a miracle in terrors, a fret is design, I must select as best in tortures.