Few Have The Feathers

 

the paradox is unusual. it says opposites may be true singularly—placed together, they show confliction.

inside a conduit, flowing into seas, becomes essence, under skies.

most pristine in his eyes, needing such perception, asking for her hand in marriage.

she wrote a ballad. he wrote like in return. they are famous.

one may appreciate the process, doubting his ability, surrendering to application. small ripples, holy ink, hearing as others deny hearing. he will fight his trial, he will die with glory, the message will be stifled. another will read closely, picking up truths, she might take the torch.

as she approached the counter, he said, “You’re a free spirit.” she knew history, so she replied, “In a way, I guess.” How to address such a question/statement? he seemed in awe, moved, uncertain. she mulled over it.

many taste elixir. it’s spoken in media. many times a man will move forward, debating his conclusion. the sky is breathing, wonders are yet revealed, most, awakened, desire nothing—the message is enough.

she gazed afar, in mid-sentence, he didn’t know what to interpret.

maybe we never determine, some casual essence, most everything rearranged; some thunderstorm, another sits, waiting, existence is never like those comforts. instead, a new comfort will enter, in due time, where it will be unsettled.

many have powers. many watch. silence seems skilled, among a few.

Fingertip Earth

 

she shelters her mind, it echoes indirection, patience proves its calmness.

he kneels. internality is a wizard. tempest winds swarm his essence.

if to love like existence, like romance, is love made a promise? devoid of contempt, howling at adversity, past life, past time, future internality.

needing an anointing, pleading in prayer, patient, waiting, heavy with unclarity.

she palms raindrops. she decorates tombs. her mind is a voyage—through spaces, different identities, cleaving to one made clear.

aside an ottoman sits a diary. she riffles through it. she finds a page: “Clawing into skies, gnawing insecurities, cycles continue to vex motion.”

such fullness, the poverty, its apex, its arc; many blunders, many renditions, paradox is pensive.

inside of a breastbone, lives a heart, filled with sunshine, bursting in fever, subdued by application.

upstream is a hut, the old man is wise, his wife is wiser; it takes structure to tackle life, or life to exist at all.   

2 People, Are 4 Halves

 

by the eye of the phoenix, made wild in deserts, surrounded by emptiness; much a fierce creature, by the ashes of resurrection, a symbol for perseverance. a soul runs faster, adrenaline racing, haunted by his mind; pure perceptions, made difficult to vet, for they chase after themselves, depending upon themselves. must be rare, the correlation, by a thought carrying its evidence. not as scientific, but a random thought, walked to its evidential premises: earth vetting skies, seeds vetting soil, or a combination working in conjunction; some dear mystery, cleaving to facts, some of which are fabricated. we might take behavior, as some critical evidential, until contradiction becomes evident. one might say, “Something remains true,” indeed, it must be located, vetted, brought to its surface, in a land starting to dispel abstracts. most need more tangibility, more certainty, while we hamper, hustle, heave for clarity. saying these things, it might disrupt, it might register quickly: much of the discomfort, the ambivalence, comes from knowing in part, or knowing, one doesn’t know—the fullness in its purpose, those guarantees in their shadows, our endeavor meaning its schedule—as more eternity, exospheres, axioms meaning majority—to land on existence, to live greatness, enthralled by life, love, family. at times, polite, again, distant, working through minutia; again, filled with fervor, most receptive, made into four halves.   

Sky Man Horizon

 

by the measure of a man, his sadness, his pendulum, his swaying; by his blessings, his condition, much is inevitable. he will see his fate, wrestle with darkness, subdue his beasts; he will behave accordingly, or act out, either way, he will feel tugged, moved, certainty slips his palms. promises seem fulfilling, or idle, or miraculous; decided by a compass, pledged to adore, moments in time alter a man’s future, his perception. many will forfeit ideas—as concerning love—many will become aberrant. it must be studied. most see ripe soil. many see souring fruits. by the measure of a man, he will become hardened, irritable, he will watch with alarm inside, what he needs, he will clench. he must undo experience, enter into newness, without murk suspicions; he must like, love, surrender—at each horizon. many aren’t aware—of what he carries. many never muse his essence. most seem to enter life requiring satisfaction. as it stands, as I see it, humans have certain necessities: security is pivotal, reaching inside is needed, holding, like losing, is another. by the measure of a man, morose at times, filled with joy at moments, affected by both status and love. things seem different for many—happiness is internal—affected by others. in tender kindness, in seeming esoteria, in passion, in deliberateness. softer music, dearest motion, loving one another, until getting it together.  

Silence Makes Appearances

 

into silence, echoes creep into focus, old faces appear; seams come apart, never knew such heights, listening to silence.

early into essence, substance spilling, never meant disruption. when it comes, we interpret, it takes several persons to conclude.

silence disappears. where has she gone? myriad sounds take center stage.

boundless depth—irony speaking cadence—rhythms inside.

to evince sunlight, under measures, is a miracle. one might rethread innocence, tugging at himself, he might become his greatest parts:

to smell her eyes, to hear her voice, to sprinkle into her ears. hearted ceremony, a private den, a sublime covenant.

silence would return, ever disappearing, skies carry sound cards.

surreal seconds, noisy atmosphere, sudden occurrence; by an internal tempo, one with its universe, to appear to self.

deepest regions—sacred satire, more opposite reception; inward urgency, outward countenance, something remains indistinct.

certainly, most know sabotage—self in tension, mind at concerns.

life as an anthology, an autobiography, a long narration—with silence visiting from time to time.

can’t possess silence, can’t monopolize her, she is free essence.  

Gives a Glimpse

 

from deep down low in her soul, she dismisses atheism, she has no regard for religion. an individual, made in power, worshiping self, goddesses. choice is pivotal. abandoned to wilderness. many days seized by anxiety—a small pocket, seated within, she measures its source.

through thickets, into deserts, situated in oblivion. most days are smooth, cadence inside, at times, others interfere … many inferences, many motifs, splendor seems close, accessible.

I wept as a seedling. I lived a memoir. I palmed mystique roses.

certain words are in her mouth, they convey meaning—they speak to discernment. she secludes. she’s public. she trembles.

I was ensouled as a child … they put fire in a chamber … we are visionaries.

she is a symbol, a human, no one is looking further. how would she share herself, in such a capacity, it’s too much authenticity?

much is criticism, social anxiety, at times, pleasure in other souls. like euphony, symphony, mental symmetry; to have song, to ache in beauty, to learn, it has meaning: lights, skies, scars, screams.

she watched, titillated, feeling atmosphere; she kept fiddling, maneuvering, took lessons, became formidable.

I know nothing, everything in part, is speculation, every religion, every soul, in part, is cultic fire.

to enter, we chance effacement; going deeper is a journey; each trip, takes a portion, gives a glimpse.      

Bless The Soul

 

rubber bullets, metallic vests, hard to remain, as something unseen. harder to make soup, built in humility, the soul chases itself. a tendency made opposite, so invested, it becomes inversion. silent days, opalescent nights, a bucolic region. trees on high. leaves like life—so brief, so quick, against a fence. framed in essence, a gift in blessings, moving with a sluggish urge. if to feel like others, if to experience others, it might be heavy.

sunshine for kids, corruption for others, or whatever is made by soul.

what have we—more experience—less facts?

life inside, different than mediocrity, many upset over energy and perceptions; shot a blessing, received a blessing, prayed, went low, devotional atmosphere.

I do it in Christ, others in something different, I inherited it from family. many are powerful, owning skills, quick to evoke healing. the skies are foreign, the faces of spirits, trying to build for the orphans. rereading, studying closer, reaping where it was first missed.

many move madness, sunk in air, floating at times. the march in waves, pushing through graves, a slave of something inherent.

trying to get closer, to pure soul, so much a moving miracle—listening to science, aching in response, trying to figure out a solution.

more inherited, claiming individuality, fretting complication.

by a compulsion to unchain, by the wealth of souls, reknitting, trying for a perfect quilt.     

Blessings & Water

 

into silence of the day—the function—the grievance; dispersed but whole, an inward compartment, to celebrate the living. sacred sadness—I know it’s expedient—absence makes it unbelievable. between uncertainties, fashioned by lurid skies, light has heaviness. I hear a hymn far away. I trek a valley in my soul. many are meditating for The Great Pearl. a blessing to all souls. a tress for a young infant. miracles are made tangible: teal sunshine, perfect sequences, mirages made of clarity. the silence of the day—the function—the grievance; reading lithic scripts, treading outer regions, sailing through feelings. I felt absorbed, preoccupied, split, I felt the splice—deep movement, wilder properties, something many take for granted. ether portals, surrounded by life, a little weary with time—one major blur, debated in souls, observed in spirits. I see collars. I see centerpieces. I see trenches, caves, ponds, even geese. I see an elderly man, with a bag of popcorn, feeding myriad birds. a humble man, an easy man, moving gently. the silence of the skies, the absence of the soul, the many in limbo. with motion in mind, with cold weather, with certain prayers.   

When Touched, Made Impalpable

 

some will be given indemnity, freedoms to fly, flagrant promises, indirect apologies. like banshee winds, like painting hopes, flitting, scudding, over sunlit passions.

rustic squirrels, country coyotes, we sit in valleys. like fulgent spirits, soft at sunlight, or probed, bursting open, souls loading the deeper parts. an inrush, a biblic inconsistency, a woman’s irony.

more asphalt, needing abstract reasoning, needing passion on a plate. some creek between us, one in us, there is no us. by a legend in time, ancestors summonsed to lights, fire in us.

wilder atmosphere, gullible beginnings, much in needing to believe—in persons, in science, in logic; those zenic eyes, omic waves, cursed to believe in activities.

so indebted to wars, so alive in goodness, a vote for love as it appears; like jewelry in souls, open eyes filled with tears, a castle becomes a casket; if to swim in us, if to die in us, if to become

essence in us. like memoir margins, so original, too graceful for fairer wolves. as we arrive, we cogitate, we become different. love will remain indicted, over purple woodblocks, aside a vacuum.     

Garlic At Her Doorstep

 

much into healing, a woman was specific, the curse is with us: the blood blue-brown, the soul screaming, I need mother in a safehouse. open! a simple gesture. faith has healed us.

            from the darkside, maybe a warlock, running fields; I imagine two, one stranger, one gnarm. sweet welkin hells—dearer tomorrows, fleeing, flying, returning to square one; those eyes, they’ve done much healing, undone, keeping seclusion—those midnight hours, gazing over, listening to snores—at wonder, spiders beneath the ledges, bed bugs hiding, if I tried, it wasn’t enough, if I failed, I deserve the curse.

            I was unkempt, I lost sanity, I bounced, a slow return—still aloof inside, so intimate inside, like waltzing with irregularities. many are watching, I apologize, I hope the healing is in effect—changing vatic decrees, with clauses, needing each to go further; I’ve seen cliffs, I’ve jumped without a bungee, hands reached out, miracles are underrated. if half of silence, resilience, in some souls!

            most all of what it was has been marred, the murk is evident, let others continue their journey. I’ll pray today, filthy this spirit, all giggles muffled, sincerely at diamonds. the years keep rushing, gossip is unappealing, what makes us, has become a floating leaf—where it swoops, settles, picks up again.

            I have too many issues—listening to intentions—most need to outwit an inanimate brick wall. if thoughts are life, most have hell to redeem, in a situation brought by self, to self. maybe fantast winds, to winnow terrors, to cleave to a pictureless spirit. the curse of the rose, the vinegar of the roast, the garlic at her doorstep—meant as a wardrobe, gossamer at the corner base, an unfriendly pet bull; a nimbus at her scalp, a tear paused for winter, a cauldron in her basement; frozen daisies, foil around the quarters, facing a terrible quandary.

one needs selection, determine what will be believed, before losing sanity.

Illness Becomes Legacy

 

awaken, Phantom—bleeding ghosts, swooping, swashing, swooshing. the father of the daughter, big soul, living like dying—a dear secret, grogged, laughing, hanging with people. a vat of prose, a keg of poetry, a yonic woman too much to reach. got clowned, a polite insensitivity, meaning, she felt it wouldn’t work—too neat, not enough hair, not raw roughness. I come from legacies, I’ve spoken with warriors, players, people collecting salt. it feels different, to know too much, wondering, How often we excuse ignorance! I need a drink, eliminated early, I came back—like an infant, I chose Edith, I woke up quickly.

one burden, one problem, both would multiply. if people knew, by a gravid anchor, how I specialize at autonomy for women. gazing into a minx, realizing, it isn’t marriage for most, it’s economical, its love, but business, I just need to know, Those are my kids. one-to-one, a tamed monster, this becomes affection, if to break, she’s there, provoking laughter, making excuses, cleaving to a mystery.

I became unsettled, too phrenic, too many intellectual wefts. Edith was giggling, big bright beautiful teethe, pictures sprawled on the table, conversation facing editing—used, threshed, abused, fraught by kef; aiming at galaxies, cramming for an exam, loopy, spaced, rereading notes—hearing softer emotion, spacial in a scream, intimate with her phantom.   

7th Nature: 1st Beginning

 

pressure, without an origin, surprised to be tested, hit harder, I passed the madness. winning is by strategy, losing is a mystery, enduring is a palace made high. many hertz these waves, as stated afore, some are skilled: too keen for me, too much aroma for me, too impalpable for me. I reminisce—walking inside-out, I see a creek, faces, many flexing muscle; I head to choir, after running streets, once a soul undirected; looking at it closely, a soul’s choreography, tap dancing, eating snake, a side of frog legs.

across those ponds is a fiesta, Latin spirits, many can’t compete. Love is shadowy, implacable, over steak, insatiable, big boned, flying, skiing, surprised some trek away. I was thinking of a name, more a mistake I’ve made, gazing at celebrities, missing the wealth nearby. a small epiphany, it shan’t change, save, I grow into an ideal. many epoch problems, many epic women, I wrestle with labels; I gallop, I surrender, they say there’s a new passport—something trying hard, a pestilence in our backyard, a mask, vaccine, a booster shot.

so well-beloved, so far away, I hear she has a new man. trying harder, abandoned to a wildlife, it’s not a big deal. I wanted immortalis, I tatted my flesh, I seem a whit in a trance; staring into a mirror, thinking of an associate, retreating, left to pine, nothing major in this; made angelic, smiling at points, often on camera; mind calligraphy, photogenic pain, Sammy Davis performance.

getting closer to differences, beauty in cultures, festival in wilderness: exhausted, pleased, thinking in space: transcension, first origins, anything I hear, I locate.         

Metaphysical Unreality

 

I summons Thecla, Moses, Mariam, & Yeshua. I send them flaming in smaze, trekking deserts, laughing insanely.

some glint, feral as time, relaxed, knowing darkness is first. plight of a rose, petals adorning temples, herbs, balm, another resurrection.

soft into it, raging as it caves, petroglyphs with ancient insignia.

a large flint has fallen. many are irritable. government are keeping location, sterile in some sense, able to uproot an entire nation.

suffusion. effusion. pouring into light. a craving for esoteria, a battle come lights, a war in dreams looking at a half being.

I should be grogged, flat, rising on predators, sword gripped, laying claims to pure retaliation.

I know will is filled to brim, as thetic seekers, at a second, needing a swoosh, a capture, if to surrender all of our suffering. I know we shall not surrender, if but one face, one shoulder, one arm.

so uncalm, so much harm, such a vat dangling midair; so Ethel, so Naomi, so dear to rivers in Esther, to summons, like it happened, to die, feeling it was righteous—fretting Polycarp—deep emotion, falling quickly, landing in skies—such transfer, such fire, an Arch Angel, her name is …   

Chasing Will Be Trying

 

karma has done its number. it’s good to suppose, some will endure by a valley made of deaths. unsung. made pliable. rejected as goats.

most pleased to hold hands. it was promising. out of mud, into sunny skies, released to a desert.

one never knows hubris, how it generates cockiness, how arrogance dwells deeper into its crevices. to see a person open, spirit veins, something floating into intuition.

might seclude in a countenance, as made of easygoingness, bones, graves, Ezekiel.

neither beginning nor end, most significant, Melchizedek the mystery. or second, by faith, as, is/was, the same person.

much cosmic art. as going deeper might kill us: not as physical, not as spiritual, one becomes something unrelatable, suspicious of what he loves, cagey over spirits.

a mirror is frightening, revealing, most often, silent. to gaze too long is eerie. to avoid it is forgetful. while, nonetheless, planting a picture inside, of self, is difficult, is dangerous.

sitting at a portico, is a number of new believers, it will go sour, before it becomes even.

most are steadfast survivors, moving with winds, exposed to different elements. made alluring. made suspect. made subject to investigation.

let Wisdom be gracious, consoling, while she vets inner souls, determining if love is genuine.

Sounds Infallible

 

deeper soul might kill us. deeper virtue might hurt us. so many crosswise strings.

smaze fills the skies. undercurrents are flooding the sanctum. it’s been confusing, pleasure overloaded, a screaming sweet tooth.

it should be sugarcane, atop candy yams, poured over with syrup.

no complaints. it seems irregular. as wondering what many perceive. such as believing just because: if black, than x, if Muslim, than y—most might feel uncomfortable.

must admit presumptions—nevertheless, they remain shielded, it may still hinder understanding, it may still prevent the furthest reach.

so comical, so cosmic, often hard to dissociate; dusty thoughts, dormant beliefs, boundless, tough, a free thinker.

none prevail in presuppositions. many prevail in pre-thoughts. most will alienate much of what’s misunderstood.

excluding piety, for one is impious, so, it can’t be.

the ram’s horn sits on concrete. a mask is aside it. there’s a lamb, refusing to be silent. maybe spotless, maybe filled with mites, the sacrifice has come.

cradled stars, stillborn anxieties, much will go unexamined. someone will read a chart, it will say many assessments, nothing will be determined. in knowing one, one is counted on, as dependable, so what’s said is infallible.     (sound familiar?)

The Person Can’t Always See

 

healing is a process: years of introspection—vague, irregular moments, made visceral emotions. no one gets it entirely. not from dearth of empathy. more from the depth of the misfortune. (not many will go in there, suffer the phenomenon, as opposed to seeing what comes out.) topical becomes inner regions—conversation releases demons—one will accrue a description. these assertions are irrelevant, meant to decorate the subject, the inconsequential is deemed important.

if fortunate, nonresistant, capable of travel, one will aid another in unlocking the trauma—finding its root, uncovering its origin, occasionally, affirming the discovery. much is left to chance. much must be preempted. many feelings will float to the surface.

there is treasure inside, somewhat dusty, hasn’t been activated in some time; one locates his fortune, he mulls over it, he must be brave enough to claim his riches. so much smoke hinders perception. he might forfeit his gold—for he feels aloof to his rubies. he doesn’t see his self, albeit, he examines his mirror, the beauty he sees is made muddy. he can’t grasp his humanity. he travels into deserts. he is captured by his existential grays. one tells him to care, to love, to feel his power—through voice, electricity, or behavior. he wrestles inside, he flits away, if fortunate, he learns to seize his treasure.

this is a dirge in some sense. it requires self-examination. it carries pit holes.

the posy is a batch of roses, a bouquet, deep in the interior—much is placed on inner activity. too much maybe—in this society—where authenticity is first dependent on validation. this is normal, I must assert, while eventually, one takes the helm, the stirring wheel, the oars, determining his own propulsion.   

healing is a process: years of introspection—vague, irregular moments, made visceral emotions. no one gets it entirely.

there is a wound in humankind—it comes from perception, a sense of expectation, pride, trauma, misappropriation; many will exit the maze, many will drink at the shrubberies, many will be guided, many more will exit accidentally. it requires painstaking effort—constant musing, in all cases, suggestibility.

Distinct Presumptions: Pockets

 

ink is dripping, pens are empty, the trashbins are full. writing is a habit, those delicate cries, into timing the silence. brass knuckles to sentences, like waves to seas, inseparable, overwhelmed, ceaseless beginnings. blueness in jazz, feelings running, I’ll never see time unveil. more stargazing, eating ashes, incarnate as a phoenix—the dying in temperature, the angst of the pencil, an eraser for the challenge; hearts croaking, fingers to big business, lovemaking seeming cultural; so close in those moments, so enflamed it must be, so indistinct, so impartial. by a smile, broken in bulbs, tiny fiberglass in my palms, those days are countless.

religious science, religious independence, as worship seems necessary—in some capacity, into some building, down steps, aside a staircase, next to a cotton dungeon. made with bright, brimming lenses, made effulgent fire, sweeter cadence—there is none.

I palm a relic nail, I have thoughts, I ignore what becomes of deepness—looking at mother, a day in an asylum, like a week in self, needing guidance at her side; my sin is my dynasty.

            feeling like a soulquake—I ask for clarity—why have some become angry?

            enough with senses, enough with understanding, I must put goodness to use.

some people watch. they have skills. they determine, with approval, what baggage gets through the checkpoint. they live surreal lives, they remain starlit souls, they have an issue with sharing. I claim baggage. I live in a dreamlike state. I believe in interior happiness: jars of sugar in some people, excellence in others, feelings going deeper into latrines—one lantern, one shovel, collecting golden nuggets.

I am a problem, a good person, a problem. many are like me, stressing balloons, flying kites, holding to a code of honor. assertive in time, passive in essence, watching as many take an issue. judged according to a song, it dwells in my quarters, it represents a portion of my life. another played my CD player, he put my song on repeat, now, he says he knows me. play the song, don’t confuse crosspollination, I could never become the song.   

Discernment is Acuity

 

perception or anti-conception, a merry-go-round, a shoebox of indiscretions; traveling weary roads, making accommodations, compromising integrity. many have amazing grace, faith, more adapted to axioms, molecules, and the atoms of human relations. they permit for error, discussion is optimal, they forgive 7 x 70 times a day. most are different, an infraction must be weighed, if it is too large, the bond is broken.

life is like a fairytale. selection is discreet. belief is primitive.

I try to remain upbeat, in a unique design, no one needs categorization. being trapped, feeling inescapable, it hurts too much to sustain it.

I make peace with naivety—something desirable, often projected, despite, its opposite, its contraire atmosphere. if to abate sensation, running a risk, skies seem dim on sunny days.

a woman absconded with parts and particles and old faces of me.

I’ve made it to crossroads. I’ve swam through murk, mudslides, and marshlands—eating ambition, associating all creatures, based in three people, as does a frightened person, scared to chase, to film, to find, some person, in this whirlwind.

an ardent soul, feeling, disappearing, fancies, friction, reasons to turn left; if to elicit some facet/fabric of excellence, met with grace, it is argued, I might not make the cult.

prime genteel space, alarmed at dislocation, listening, watching for maestro’s instruction; neural ecstasy, some main wilderness, like a flickering lamp in darkest tunnel.

made to forgive—carrying earth—redeeming in time.          

Human Harvest

 

elegance, maybe terror, if to feel, as life was/is eloquent. her nose is her heritage, ours are a whit bigger; our kids, such make-believe, we’ll never meet again. glints of music, feathered features, familial pains—a tinge of color, like a Lebanon woman, while rain causes closure. so daunted, looking at alphabets, trying for a lucky combination; remote basements, panic/anxiety, changing interior furniture—drinking with harlequins, eating abashment, or baking, watching yeast, gripping a friendly palm. if to survive, out early morning, seizing aqua horizon. rebuking inner rails, raided by insecurities; sparks sprouted shelters—treasures torture triumphs—at utopic undergrounds, headed under water. a slight consistency, never off another soul’s pain, sensing how many are exploited. so close to closed gates, suddenly they opened, I walked in made humbled. much inconsistency, to locate balance, too much skin bleach; watching flipper, flagrant promises, so carefree, so collective, most seem agile, alert. elegance, made perfect, so much a human might give. so angelized. so artistic. or suffering allergies. supple trees, sweet cherries, casual talk; like a screenplay, much in consideration, many characters normalized.         

Painting Rain With Words

 

the head is glowing, the face follows, I submit to spirit. your hair is healthy, fine linen, luxurious pain—synthesized in divine oils. eyes are made of honey, glorious frustration, deliberate in observation. your mouth is pure, delicate, receiving atmosphere, essence, feeling decent in weather. the nose is chiseled, maybe Picasso, maybe Mona Lisa, maybe I imagine in what I see. rioting porcelain, teeth made of liquid paint, I have issues with description—maybe diamonds, gems, provoking self-consciousness. I hear your ears, they play drums, at moments, they become cellos. so strong the cheekbone, such heritage aforetime, unveiling aristocracy. to need chaos, to wither in calmness, a kiss in weather. those muscular, deluxe arms, the field of opalescence, caged in routines—made fierce, lifting existence, crazy wild with skies. to touch hands, exquisite fingers, racing as they chase esoteria. legs by infinity. feet remain with a subtle resistance—at knees born for upright exhaustion. lips invite lust, with minds racing to polished elbows, if but to dwell on manicured breasts—a back made in Egypt, or Israel, or a space deep in Europe; such refined hips, it doesn’t show, this age of bearing offspring. so much more than a body, its parts, or ankles unbruised, or upper parts with evidence—the light of the vacuum, those cliffs, I leap, at a dear museum.     

Empty Fullness

 

the sun was out all night. this was some time ago. I sat in misunderstanding. a mind floated in its quarters—visions plagued perception—a mistletoe was on the floor. I saw a statue—heard irregular science, a symphonic ocean, or opus, or mental ink. the moon was inverted. days, weeks, bottled into one moment. stars would rendezvous with space, appearing suddenly, quilted by memories.

it seems easy for misfires, made into shadows, the mind is a garage, a storehouse, a parasol for inkblots. what unfolds is activity—sensory details, watching a blurred image.

sweetest kindness, intense euphoria, chaotic sequences—hassled interior, gallery ideas, quicker stillness, quicker movements. capturing mobility, as it paints pictures, at seconds, a sensory scent; upon twine, linking dimensions, thrummed like strings.

singing softer atonement—made into absolute reception—effecting mind-aura; voiceless mandates, capricious insights, seated in empty fullness.

an opalescent gem, fraught by unreality, as it never felt so real. most, in with knowledge, see it as intensity, might act with reception; made of rhythm, a tear in silence, mystique, a glint into another element.

I think about connectivity.

in a given state, if mind is heaven, what makes for unclarity? to get closer, pushed back, made indelicate in science.

I must be without an agenda—to determine facts—to stumble upon earth’s mystery/agenda. if I hunger, this is normal, if I receive, this is incredible.    

Percentage One Knows

 

a slight overcast, in weather, on brains, on temperament; a little tired, washing thoughts, rinsing presumptions. the home is its layers, sweetgrass and soil or seas and sands. caves near cities, traveling sewer lines, reaching pirates never mentioned. coming closer has been its tugging, a sincere thought, building an insincere liaison. life, its activities, they seem dependent—on rites, witnessing, desire; nothing’s safe and sure, most, need cement, security, where others need sexual healing. made neat, kneading perception, knotted, slumping to knees; as assertive souls, reasoning out properties, trying a hand at alchemy: transformative maxims, close knit insistence, rethreaded understanding. with life in session, transference with time, would to mention intimacy, accuracy, humans allowed to feel imperfect. the mountain at its end. cages unlocked. emptiness kept to self, close, made personal. walnuts roasting—over open flame, gentility made delicate—those eyes made fluid. a light overcast, portraits hanging midair, dice shaking, rolling, landing on mystery—the sound of trumpets, more triumph for souls, celebration made easy. maybe seraphic eyes, or auras shaded gray, to imagine what one is inside—those charms, titillations, hankerings; to know what excites a friend, to feel it writhing internally, the mind becoming skylights. surety in prestige, pristine winds, winnowing to come near.   

Murk Behavior: Blessing or Curse?

 

in a brush of wits, much flame in wilderness, like monks with esoteria pangs; a soul made fierce, bumps, bandages, a cup brimming over—those wires, as waxing, vines push up from soil—a cemetery in dreams, bones walking, facing Ezekiel; a soul screaming, pausing at an anthill, fretting becoming a sluggard. in a brush of wits, much flame in wilderness, like monks with esoteria pangs; much in trials, much in tribulation, pure beauty to maintain perspective. looking, listless, warn down—bold ballads, brief encounters, I became amazed to understand their dynamic; a daisy as a sign, a rose beneath concrete, surefire manipulation. in terms made easier, one deceives, the other might know, might enjoy it, need it, beg for disgrace. life is put into perspective, listening, watching, hearing something foreign; vigil, alert, while it never mattered.

out deepness of clouds, murky waters, anacondas, serpents, cobras—the lies of the grains, those embedded sediments, eating raw behaviors. so quick to see, quicker to manage, if but to do as one wills, and claim sorrow; the complication of the human, the gigolo running, the measure of the social pressure. a man raving, a woman like deserts, a cactus taking notation. a soul on fire, treading a mistake, seeing it becomes his treasury.

Headed To Firewood

 

winnow the beginning, threaten time be gentle, or faces falling, bodies screaming, debated, like a damn commodity. such love for you, such mercy in you, so soft on a line made of drag. a dragonfly, a swimming pool, kids dunking, giggling, playing Marco Polo.

so old with it, like a thousand years, like multiplied by two—predicaments in you, roses in flames, fire tasting beautiful.

such burdens, a beating arc, like liver works and crackers; irrigated by gorgeous, made imperfect, perfectly reframed; precious identity, loafers in summer, Nike’s come winter, so infatuated—never a ghost for you!

voiceless, shivering, have they heard, I died!

so damn untamed, so damn tamed, “What is it?” pure paradox, to become satire, a fable, an allegory, a cry for help, a woman in excellence!

too petite, or too elevated, a man has a straight challenge. most see small, think gently, most see bigger, think aggression, like get it right!

tortured melody, apace at moments, his fane grieving.

like a tooth anchor, mashing my brains, alive, it must be rain; too proud, a damn encounter, so untied, at a Bentley, asking for directions.

Nor Sexual A Bird In Its Pain

 

I suspect most need ideals, an expectation of existence, a reason to give in totality—the all of the survivor, the deck of the ship, the swoosh of the swami.

inside sensei swirls, abased made whole, rummaging mental hives; softness, gentility, sullen courage, pride suffocated by humility—a deeper space, a chilling nightmare, asserted by water;

the flame of the conduit, aqua marine animals, aside sinking feelings; if but toes in lakes, bikinis made snug, memories uncursed, smiles offering contentment—to die a sliver, shivering

from anxieties, so tender, made closeness, one unyielding kiss.

I suspect most need ideals, once they vanquish, misery becomes palpable; as for now, we hide it well, or it leaks out, or it’s made deliberate to appear.

cultural, mystic cries; perfect imperfection; a lady I’ll never know—sharp innocence, I would forever lie, as certain description yields fruit—nor sexual a bird in its pain.        

Dripping Liquor

 

on top of lies, plain manipulation, can’t discount control; moreover, those stairs, those definitions, so many, so green; paper like fallen high, like crazy grieving, or pagers at her hip.

dripping liquor, drinking pity, been at it too long. rolling the gutter lane, doing ninety in the gutter fane, Love hanging by one wrist; I love her, so filthy, so bound, like one critical habit; bad means good, good means radical, dripping liquor.

blame his mind, generated, one tapping in—placed in a trance, a California serial number, a L.A. fireball. schooled early, watching what I hear, pushing like decency is illegal.

many sound young, it oozes out, I wonder how I became aged—aside an instrument, with hell a feature, looking, admired, dripping liquor.

what if Love manipulates, controls, lies, laughing, taking one, maybe two, spinning into concrete? an abstract lunatic, fangs deep inside, giggling, feeling good, tickled in spirit, looking demonic. Love is dripping, talking Boss, tripping on the first glance—Ha!

nothing like meeting, as aged creatures, some foreign exchange program—dripping liquor, wondering why we drink, re-spent, exhausted, hungry for our own. of course, speaking it, is weakening it, like never a family earth. I saw her aura, I know her skills, we’ll walk away, never a confirmation—they hate our clarity!

a dear power, is a blatant problem, while analyzing mirrors—a pure reflection. needing it more, split in halves, let the bass drop!     

15 Years + of Deliberation

 

it’s provocative to open wounds. disrepute is something we loathe. and speaking plurality, no matter postmodernist grays, irks, unsettles, sparks aggression. many are shy on being human. we’d prefer perfection. those that are human, are quite popular.

I sit feeling my heart. I love communion. I love the many in participation.

I haven’t clues to each person; I chance a few names; this might be misnomer. I thought osmosis universal. at times, I’m frenzied. she looks. I ask. she’s feeling nothing.

as a class, we commune. we are quite serious. our hats are on.

but … I adore one, it can’t be; I love another, we practice plurality; I like one, I’m not prepared. a large luggage bag; a dirty little clothesline; some people know how to love.

against subjugation, while we might need enthrallment, if to subsist in harmony; desiring to feel tugged, acting against ourselves, for it feels radical. a penchant for one, a negative attraction for another, a militant stance with my cravings.

trust is an issue, (speaking to self), where some have gone beyond normal. it becomes pathological, to look at self, to place a disclaimer. it seems hard to be a fundamentalist, practicing plurality, in a postmodernist world. pretty large words, pretty vast meaning, essentially, the two are fighting against absolute laws, morality laws, and absolute Truth. it becomes anti-hegemony, full autonomy of self, self-government relying on individualism, insomuch as, ethics are not universal. this might pose a threat to some, it might be liberating for others, it might compound a fragile situation.     (I’ve been in deliberation for years.)     

The Pain Is Made Celebrity

 

to imagine dripping liquor, like bodies drip sweat, at sexual pleasure, laughing goodness, playing banter, a high so smooth. bad ladies, tripping pain, living like games are laws—so perfect, just a friend, it amazes—so precious, made into noontime displays. I disappear, skip topics, a plaintiff in Life’s Case. the building is ruined. the brains are pathological.

I keep disturbance managed, I guess!

many would say, “It’s too in order, it must be beavers, eating his guts.”

like a rubber band, it kills, feeling this way—yours, all good, mines, too filthy, like a hypocrite; baggage in souls, problems like angst, never so close to something imperfect.

I need the bad one, like an alcoholic, popping pills, with her brains on steady—a contradiction, speaking philosophy, living her existential, giggling when I hit a funny bone.

big paper. kites out midsummer. kids running, playing spirits, so original. I lost that, no one gave a care, I kept jogging—flipping, resistant, looking at myself—more ghosts in seas, less oceans in eyes, most can’t tolerate being observed.

Raphael art. Manet or Monet. a woman has a name, sweet fiery juices, like pudding wrapped in golden walls—a deeper perspective, a furious, fighting, feral woman; uncut. raw heroin. her soul is most dangerous.

many insidious pains, up with a gleam, made obo—looking at dusty webs, conversing with a leaping spider.

October 29th: Soul Fire

 

the road is extravagant, the hustle is lethal, mother was a machine. can we see her, gunning havens, hell bound, restricted from serenity? the nectar in her venom, the diamond in her rose, I lost a miracle; bleeding cocaine, laughing maniacally, threshed, abused, and raped. like several accounts, like raising a little genius, in mother, I found a dysfunction I enjoyed. rattled. in chains. like desperate to die: “Watch yourself! Don’t give up. It’s cold before it warms up.”     a soul on fire, firebrand/fireworks, cursed, like slums or mercy. mother running errands. mother providing sustenance. mother, never, do listen, not one racist slur. to find it, to hear it, it irks hell into a mulatto. she wore it well, bathed in it, prayed to pain. a bent soul, a compassion flaming, like split, spliced, trying harder. her day is soon, the birth of the tornado, it gets difficult. so splayed, so sullen, like a miracle in a damn jinni.     sweet dolor, looking affected, a face scaring naivety. an inrush. a tsunami. a gut for war: “Don’t you back away, unless, suicidal—come to terms, and live with decisions.”

            I sit, a little disheveled, she might say, “That’s good for you. Lighten that ass down. It will not go as planned.”

            chaste but dirty. loyal but lethal. prideful but humble. go figure!

            sore rhapsodic misery. pure radiant pains. tough, tortuous addiction. the soul on fire, laughing in satire, quick to suggest life is what is made. throttling existence, moving quicker, giggling with elders. playing B.B. King, blaring other blues, turning television off.

            let her enter, more mercy, I let go!

Where Wheels Wrestle

 

in the cornfields, I saw a naked vine, it extended into my loins; aftermath acoustics, angry rights, still hurting in blood; dripping, gaining weight, hitting harder; a patch of cabbage, a new carpenter, walking unto a cemetery.

mittens to linen, clotheslines, business aired in public. a group at his guts, geared to kill, like laughter from an old friend. speaking big talk, living like cheetahs, I come sacrificing my lifeline. unto glory, a little gangly, searching for more glee.

a bouncing ball, in a sacred scream, the bat is upon the book. gas was lethal, a generation swarming, like sullen rites. so dusty out, so dirty today, doing deliberate damage. a war at our faces, a film on repeat, a mother just killed herself.

it was mother, written as accidental, how in gods, how on earth, when one knows complications? say a prayer in Maccabeus, open a book in Sartre, relive the traumas of the existential. a line for measure, a long time since, catching ink.

loving a daughter—she feels invisible, her wife is a miracle. another cut grass, gave alms, burned a potential friend. the color chases, the violence is verbal, aside a duck, ducking in a pond. the last posse, the third woman, it becomes uneasy.     

Calm Insistence

 

organic whiskers, longer/powerful limbs, a man dies trying harder; so coy, so filthy, so exclusive, as an inclusive secret. different ideas, one child, wild like passion; so crucified, so filled, made lonely, too much mastery.

mind economy, love politics, I just need to play buffoon.

maybe a commodity, maybe a life-long friend, maybe us through Desert Strom.

owner production, a new lease, leather deep black boots. trench everything, so damn gorgeous, mean enough to pass by—in pain, another fits the image, has the riches, makes violin yoga;

so, fire is edible, rain is acidic niceness, much sorrow builds a woman.

so rough a claim, as it looks harder, if but to be one we all desire.

abused property, needing to feel owned, if but a trillion-dollar mask; so much a riff, diligent to try harder, accursed in pajamas.

I saw her. I was nonchalant, like ninety days later, I confessed my obsession. never it happens, it’s a rushing game, it’s a forgotten grave.

so artistic, so aesthetic, a real ribbon, many wheels, in wrangling, wild, made a calm insistence.

Winnow The Spirits

          aside a wristwatch sits a dream, the core miles from its center; soft jazz wafts, pearls are aside a television set, racing to apologize; so often, looking at inner specters, some woman in a child’s voice—speaking to a toddler, or a man, the fuel running low. the other side is a mystery. the pain is a blanket. we might ask for particles, mechanics, alchemy, rain inside, psychology, a feud in screams—show me it hurts! next to a tear, upon a banjo, eating tribal drums, racing to Africa, rebuttals from Egypt, siding with American syntax. a scarf hangs, it has history, she wore it on our first date. another, so scientific, such a boxed radiance, such icy fire, such opened skies—to die on occasion, ensuring it never happens again, everything is in its place. rust is settling, startling, swimming into social ranks—a poet pushing, prodding, one simple gesture, so wise, as it becomes a book—on life, on women—on what the poet cannot obtain. 

as a broken viola, or a transmigrated pillow, or an inanimate object, created just to listen; to come to life, as some gorgeous soul, whether right or wrong—the secret is intoxicating. a puma watching, deeper into the esoteric, hatching, uncured, reasoning in several directions. siding with self-analyses, projecting wisdom, it must be for one we never give the benefit of the doubt: “But it’s beautiful. It’s growing. It’s reaching.” so many ways to regroup our cries, a clarinet isn’t loud enough, an empty room is too crowded—like a mazeway, social shrubberies, chiseling mannikins, repudiating new classifications, many never fathom it’s decided quite early on: those ranks, those cuffs, those dreams—as terrible repercussions, filled with frustration, dwelling in a cocoon … 

pure fire, balls in winds, so many trying to make a team. nonetheless, Love is watching. What have you come to see? a maniac, a psychopath, an angry mulatto … nay, a person, a seer, a screamer—those doors unjammed, those nights reknitted, the misery as privilege, the riots as training, the courage as osmosis—those aches, those ribbons, endless affection, axioms on life, while curious enough to never say, “Hello!” 

more to silence, tacit chimes, winnowing spirits, intrigued just to sail—like dying was good, like dying is bad, like sprinkling attitude to induce a current; many frequencies, some are gifted, they assign a name to winds. so close, trampling dahlias, cupped in a fetal position, racing in spaces, hallowed for repression, dearly running into suppression; a little friend, upon a whisper, to undress a heart, to float into azure, so turquoise, at every entrance, surety in vows made metallic.

 

Brussel sprouts

 

I can’t uproot adverbs, nor seduce adjectives, nor un-analyze the myriad reasons it would feel educational falling. academic is a middle term, it would be like a mother’s assurance, a father’s firm assertion, or a granny’s unconditional apologetics. like tailored sentences, most internal, I just need to relax a whit. I know it hurts, it’s alluring, while I have poesy to give; solace grief, deep miracle pain, release, deep resurrection, I see this in essence: barking chitzsu(s), an adorable Labrador, a feeling satiated, high, aloof, or irregular—never fully pledged, “I would never in a million years adore poetry.” an interior weft, so close its brushwork, so indebted, we feel guilty, nor would I clasp cuffs on experience.

fans are blowing, winnowing winds, water is sprinkling in an empty room; the table/human is seen, so the table/human is received, otherwise, the table/human has no existence.

much to see in her, it terrorizes the paths we’ve crossed, I would never hear her—I would only see her actions.

the palm of habits, the psalm of graphics, a man calm made tragic.

if to adore like dying soon, would lights permeate our quarters?

I will live as under circumstances. I will persist like racing in the Olympics. I will tinkle with perfection until she opts to die in me.

Rethinking The Hourglass

 

upon a water lily, beauty amid trauma, sirens sounding, charisma blaring, like a social song, watching lilacs, appearing in lavender, most skilled to go silent. I can’t outwit her suspicion, she can’t outwit my rebellion, we both can’t outwit loneliness. surety is keen, abstracts are suspect, longing for a believable poem. juleps are uncomfortable, rarely mentioned, like nemesias. most are broken seasons, laughing over rain, wilting with time. certain beauty is her, certain pain blossoming daffodils, certain hostility, cleaving to an appropriate touch. weaving incessantly, defying logic, determined to be pure; so cold a whisk, so indecent an attraction, falling, nimbus churning, needing more to exist. so high in the skies, can’t help but fall, so, a man, puts reality into perspective. sweet devastation, torn cellos, strings ravished, hats tilted, it gets worse before calming down. aqua-tan eyes, or elongated fingers, a frame meant to jog, joust, run, riot. the hour is upon its destination, another will enjoy maxims, axioms, rises, fallings, laughter, miracles—as so written in Lamentations. if by some glitch, some understated occurrence, if to meet by happenstance, mourning the same pudding, plucking a raisin tree, ironing patchwork—if days were insidious, turning us forward, to come into pretzels, to die feeling terrific, as to disappear, traveling nations—in desperation, unforgiving, desperate for a guarantee—just if, to unwind our inclinations, to roast walnuts, why would it not uprise internally?      

Sickles Under Soil

 

the rain is fire, the dreads are war, the angst is a vase—pouring in, breaking concrete, an abstract addiction. by a noun strikes flame, “happiness isn’t free,” battle is with a mirrored glass. backbitten. lakes filled with tetras. coming closer only aches. if but to swim, if but to efface blindness, so dear to me for a guarantee. mother’s near, I feel spirit-breath, granny is watching. how have I loved phantoms—how have I become a ghost—how will I not resurrect? “Too much his gospel, too many aberrant thoughts, science or nothing!” indeed, we exaggerate, even in memoirs, like writing a novella. so difficult to speak, so challenging to compose, so eager to meet a potent verb: asking when it hurts, laughing through crucibles, coming to eyes with compassion—the giggle of the immature, as never knowing, kindness is an ingredient. many unphysical nibs, many shaded skies, falling was once so horrible; looking closer, saw an amulet, souls blessing their jewelry; a lie to gaze away, a lawn next to a hose, a mailbox, a letter, I had to die! so romantic at times, such an asshole at times, such a buffoon at clocks; those dear pegs, those gems, like winning until days shift. I feel spirit-breath. I confide in a petal. many dragons have flooded the esoteric. sweet rapture, rhapsodic dice, at tears on islands—feeling good, or ravished asunder, like lunch in a fiery pool.