No Place For Bronze

 

lilting voice, ghost ventriloquist, I sit in whispers—afraid to move, paralyzed to think, infatuated with what I can’t become: How has it been? Are the woods lonely? Was pain worth the travel? many at the dervish, Sufis are wilderness, conveying beauty—the miles to its math, the metaphysic to the nun, at rain, sipping acid, laughing to run back. such a cinema, her eyes screaming, her mouth so delicate, I fight to be an un-self. inmost falling, inmost rushing, waterfalls bathing decisions; calling in spirit, unheard in earth, such penalty for science. a paradise in millennia, a future in miseries, so patient to have lost us. so typical to write in first person, so difficult to write comfort, thus, second person is intrusive. as a third person artists, as an academician, so many prayed against it; to imagine David, pleading for their curse, like phantoms in winds; to winnow intensity, to die so deeply, screaming at a mirror; if to locate an inner world, a nether region inside, to find a face. rereading some parody, the levity of the act, the written dismissal. coming into a picture, seen as deliverance, one best not fail. any path—any course—a trajectory to silence. those California ways, as delineated, never the first person met. torn lilting voice, the feel is fantastic, the curse in inveterate. many anchors, many woes, a fever in design, a mailing to myself; trying in gold, reduced to copper, one might settle for silver.     

Over Grape Juice

 

into the baseline, acoustics blazing, the gut rumbling—a hungry rage, a thirsty soul, at Love with patience.

I was sickness, in a sickroom, strapped inside—once in a straightjacket. I saw a vision, Love appeared, a whisper into a daze. I waved out, I came back, tears rolling invisibility.

be angry, the motor thrust, I hit it, laughing, thinking unsteadily.

I wanted her soul, to chance our graves, hoped to have something most wicked—against grains, against names, somewhere addressing concerns.

eating shadows, eating shades, everything is alright—some typical lie!

redrew a cliché, sat at the table, looking like wrath; birds flapping, caimans inside, genetic iniquity. am I getting there? it’s off the holiness. at faith, like disappearing.

I wrestle myself, outside myself, I leap into myself.

often shocked, dreaming in mud, a flap winking, a thread in my spirit, I was so sick for her.          

An Ostrich Spoke Essence

 

many hertz, aside ghosts, mostly a feeling, mostly energy. how have they mangled us? why are we restless? it can’t be crops, winnowing emotions, saddled atop a horse-less head. I’d be remiss, in breath, sweet nectar, made sour instability—to un-analyze so peculiar, as demonized, and aching. life will never be. it will never sing in totality. it is always hiding. I’ve located a missile. it mustn’t be so gray. what sourness would exist? it was unreasonable, thinking of our existential, conditioned into meanness. days were activity. pain was syrup—treasured plums, temperamental apricots. to speak vaguely, so opaquely, damaged by existence. I wonder about years, stuck in duality, redeemed, forgotten, filled with aftermath; slight PTSD, inadequate feelings, formed as a creature of excellence. the battle of our galaxy—trying to get right—without realizing, it was destined—yearning for some park, filled with rides, laced in glory. I spark a cigarette. morning is in winds. I ask for wilderness, or thirst, or hunger—in spirit, in numen, in Zen. some space in specifics—thwart by my angst, aside my temper, art is terrific! what has come in us, flying in us, where love means something in us? air and gusts, gauged to expire, more nights debating ambivalence. so much need to forgive, much more for vengeance, most excellent as seduction. those days in power, to redeem a station, filled with lawyer talk. to have become an alarm, if but to die a queen, esteemed as the greatest in gowns; arranged in myths, surefire a machine, art is musicology; signs and souls, souls and symbols, reaching for invisibility.

the ostrich would speak—trying to hold its energies, vibrating, shaking, in each syllable. intuition is counter to itself, oil and water cause a mess, heartstrings are thrummed in hours pleading. so much wreckage, so many pure thoughts, such longing as lemurs for fruits. if rawness, if ecstasy, some place in its determination; those fields filled with sugarcane, those cotton factories, such energies as escaping slavery—the aches in their reigns, those arts in those hertz, much ruin in such affection. so far to unveil, so close to vengeance, such craft in abashment—never those waves, some arc in behaviors, if growing, if grown, what becomes of new sentiments? many mandolins, many piccolos, dirty terrain, such shame, as two would collide, clash, come to horizon—bold in endeavor, ruthless in alliance, bathed in garlic. such a soulprint, to have offended Penelope, or to have affronted Athena; some sailor, drunk in capture, debating, carrying chains—to eat his vomit, to return to slop, as one feigning his elegance; untrue in darkness, untrue in escaping, genetic remnants, cultures engaged, similar histories, a richness in excellence. those tiny miracles, an aesthetic frame, such force in needing silence—the apple of its tree, so much a notion, so fair as unfair—so simultaneous, such heartsore, a violin upon a dreary night, to awaken filled with apologies. soaring sunlight, boiling fires, passion in its cuffs; to live in penchants, an inrush of essence, chiming with some intention—as a confused man, rowing upstream, swooshing through determination. some are qualified, as for par excellence, others stumble into something unfamiliar; to know with open eyes, a vestibule of arts, so close, in one second, to have died as relished opposites.         

Chance Encounter

 

dreams love me. sitting in the kitchen. replaying roles.

Baby gorgeous, in her suit, in her boots, I look, coming raw: “Your aura is stronger, have you felt pain?”

“Please stop!”

“I’ll walk away.”

“Please don’t!”

gambling, sources bleeding, eating a fetish, loving death.

I skate backwards. I touch a spot. Love ain’t dying in me.

“You do this often?”

“Why should it matter?”

“I play for keeps.”

“I play for fun. I keep drifting. I haven’t found one to capture pain.”

“What do you need?”

I gaze into a tunnel, it seems so pentagram, I look intently —

“I need you to play pretend until it hurts?”

such disrespect, to imagine how it moves, like rage inside a monkey: hands, wealth, more unsteadiness—flights, laughs, eyes burning, incense wafting.

“Now what?”

“More in your favor.”

such elegance.

It Never Gets Better, Once Exposed!

 

I asked for clarity. I was suicidal. we grabbed graves, plead villages, basement tightening. grip me, scratch me, bite my dreams—fleeing, looking back, can’t escape the stream. I’ve no guarantees, I adore eternal, love is at moments—so true, such pain, flicking a flea. I took a garden, I begged films, diamonds in my damn face—swinging, playing, too exposed—the force of violence, grabbing at myself, slipping into atmosphere. I lost so much. I gained crookedness. the lines inside, the paper crumbling, the shrill in her lungs. so dirty, I feel filthy, like old grimy rags—so biblic—a curse, a new name, where in sex—would it become kosher? be a witness, at the watch tower, Love in the countryside. money spent, days at inner murder, clouds at ants. a flood inside, never needed a person, so adapted to screaming; fuck life, if life is absent—of us, ties with England, so proper, I touched, got ghosted, she popped up—told all, a baggage of trash, bins full, giggling like a damn child. mimic me and die. redeem me and fires. resurrect me and become powerful. never touched that pain, never so eager, I fumble, an outburst, such filth was clean—the shirt bloody, the rain in my circle, an epithet, to evolve into murder grains. so fucking petty, bucking in lanes, like, I’m closer to her art—different humbleness, different humility, I shake to know our potentiality—a koan, a mistake, my life, never would it be better.     

Dripping in The Gravy

 

bounced on the highway, 70 or above, shot down the 710; looking, smiling, alone, a-thirst for miracles. the death of the life, the core of the monster, how in hell to do goodness!

hearing Isis, a chocolate prime fire, thinking like white, asked forgiveness;

so relentless, never give in, with miles to our valley.

ember burning, camps a-spark, bodies closer, deep dark dungeons!

another caveat, trying, if possible, to keep pain leveled; weighed the nickel, a fin at a loss, strutted, laughed, walked a decent distance.

all into it, feeling an ego, knowing diamond deception; another problem, mother’s first abortion, as came flying into a curse.

many freedoms, many unenthused, a flame as it sparkles;

much solidarity, many smiles, keeping gut responses; it must be kosher, polite, most of us a whit fragile;

not to hurt us, only to giggle, like pistols in paranoia … much is taboo, only so much to say, dripping in gravy.

“Select Which Curtains”

 

it can’t be phoenix life, presumed in existence, clothed in condition.

each tile is different, losing, gaining, webs made of wildness.

soft comforters, human cares, weary, harmed, made careful.

you walked in, bones were on the couch, ants on the table. you paused, you felt concerned, craving identity. the room had a stench. you searched the house. you didn’t see her. you called the hospital, granny was safe, your heart un-sank.

little things, more substance, many actions, more attractions. supple features, bodily aches, the moon is comforting.

to disappear, as if, many aren’t afire inside; gravity, graves, dying keeps getting closer; much dread, many fevers, anguish is needed, many desire uneasiness.

more want happiness, until exhausted, until happiness leads to closed curtains. to prefer one, over another, where, we need balance. too much kills, too little makes for mercy, the hopes of the hopeless.

Aside an Inner Lamp

 

I loosen spirit, a tribal man, running with waves; —thirsting for clearance, like staring, never seen it, a bad ass machine.

Love is the sickest, I’m a featured cry, eating noodles, adding garlic, gazing over glasses.

the interior is murdered, acting differently, ‘Normal’ has an issue with me: a hurting boulder, a cold furnace, a full-grown lemur.

drinking coffee, listening closer, each man has a war, each woman has mastery; they need to feel, they play ball, they sit in glory.

the hustle lost luster, the heathen fell asleep, such angst, more healing, more patience.

could have aborted me, poppa was in her skull, she never got right.

Love screams at winds, forcing alignment, so cosmic, like an omen, a ghost, a phantom. I unwind in anguish, it goes low, sudden fire on a thundercloud.

too much uneasiness, depth shot, looking, wondering, How has one captured aeipathy?

I push insides. I watch as something opens. Love made glory, made dice, made a doll.

Love in a fortress, a fence with wires, I can’t see her.

Bigger Illusion

 

opened my eyes, saw a fairytale, saw anxiety, noticed, I was lying; living delusion, best in a curse, giggle at me.

I was spent-out, Love is deeper, a method, another style, I get to wondering—if design is goodness, if filthy is sacred, a messy soul!

I can’t stay in space, albeit, dying was glorious. I can’t keep patience. I must keep patience. I’ve been sort of sober, a sip for a second, I head home.

needed more from us. like a guaranteed illusion, as we croak to keep it busy.

engraved in my psyche, must watch my strands, a banner in skies, I feel it’s lying.

we leaped. Love flies, as living. so sensuous, so dangerous, if but to win favor!

so heartless, so filled, such a small ghost.

reality is screaming. I run a risk, as in glasses, accused of being callous.

Love looks with manners, born wilder than tribes, a time at -- to reveal that.

been there in mud, rinsing on her lawn—she watched, felt mean, leaned into her lover.    

First Time We Met

 

most gracious creature, magnificent reach, made casual, as not to frighten.

I watched as tides billowed, as feelings ebbed, so captured by a first glance.

fire inside of flame, ether outside of cages, sure positive emotions;

so stirred to have lived, so caught by winds, a wafting almond scent.

made adorable, a fluffy bear, sheets on lines, shirts broad daylight, absence in a second.

we might have thought it, those casual growths, too afraid to capture motion.

to walk on by … I stand accused … it would become fantastical.

do grab moments, instill those waves, trek seashores, collect shells, listen to air/oceans.

so much at stake, as by design, it makes me furious—in how we live, gander, upon a cause.

I have paused, taken in scenery, visited a shrine, made terrific in a phantasm.

   most gracious creature, magnificent reach, made casual, as not to frighten.

Tides & Resistance

 

the fantastic element, the featured memory, longing, when freedom comes. scraping a pot clean, washing silverware, scrubbing internal science. in days, at gates, raked over coals—

the violence inside, against its mirror, it yearns in some direction. a man as a pantomime. a soul as a phantom: high rise pools, unwet wetness, as eager souls, creators of silence—

to breed in essence, life fire in skies, if to adore, losing semblance of insanity. a bridge in mountains, facial distance, a mask when dreary. some person did those mimics, a mic broken—

such pure silence. if art was lengthened, if patience were widened, delicate pieces might form their puzzle … while deliberate it became, accidental it lived, sweetness in onions.

if erased, it must be rewritten, maybe a different shade, analogy, mental flames at flurry. most awakened, if not now than when, some cliché along those grounds—

sudden to see clearer, a harbinger afar, another watching. it seems simpler than most picture it. it screams at us, beguiles us, we imagine tides should meet with resistance.    

Souls On Lease

 

dreams are government, into dilemmas, executing inner daisies; gripping soil, abandoned, left for dead, like life is illegal.

working longer hours, chancing deeper scales, measured in backwoods; learned to rethink, thought I could think, until I met true thinking.

hours resurrect daily, minutes barely breathe, seconds can’t be captured.

losing sleep, trying to control life, I disappear, revamp, came, too, calm to argue.

her mouth filled with diamonds, her body filled with tattoos, her attitude is quite rude, room for a mansion appetite.

waves into dungeons, chimney lungs, a liver aching, I lean into traffic; cursed, skin deaths, rolling Bugler, like roll-your-own!

thought I could think, like a damn joke, walking a high wire; too many hungry, too few on beats, a reef, subtle rest, at best, a locomotive.

thrashing through thoughts, osmosis, longer hours—most keep listening; a bug in the temple, a priest eating kosher, laughing with his sacrifice—giving more, clever, outwitted an early death.

I often wonder, on something simple, like what those might gain; are they intimate, how do they dance, is she select in her activities?

like a foolish person, asking if it changes, a routine is just as it floats.

Television Noise

 

the day will dawn. beauty will ensue. possums will hide.

most elegant survivors—most aggravated souls, tender weather. if given peace, would it keep, most serene yogi?

an intolerant spirit, most rigid spirit, we ponder his calmness.

the mind is bark, metallic, crystals.

many dimensions, a labyrinth, shrubberies untrimmed; to grow wildly, untamed branches, like clichéd examples.

most beloved essence, opalescent heartbeats, the mind is a drumkit.

into isolation, deeper into interior, pausing for seconds at a mirror; most terrified, most steeped in mire, buffing frantically.

by a supported ego, dealing in reality, how mature can it become?

by a superego, dealing in management, such desire for liberty!

the day will dawn. beauty will ensue. raccoons will wrestle.

the narrative is untold, unwritten, alive as fragments; a story is brewing, about growth, pains, perseverance—about radiance, numen, awesomeness—about wins, loses, sacrifices.

many allegories become scripture.

many fables appear unfounded.

should a poem have a premise? make a claim? impart wisdom?

it depends on grace, timing, humor; temperament, bias, onus.

in personal responsibility—a soul gravitates—it learns to love.   

Hunger Pangs

 

off the hinges, the demon screams, tossed-out, catching blues, such mathematics—like musicology, or ontology, so metaphysic, those big royal words—too much to hunger, thirsty, road lost as an impala.

the sunbird symphony, across a phoenix pond, sunlight just fell nudely.

too many splits, a child hiding, an osmosis personality, go eagle eyes, like crazed grime, slime across the regions.

manifested fortune, into mechanic futures, a nickel into a dime, just wild enough to lose it; the trees with chorus, cosmic inflation, enflamed over a thought—must meditate it out.

manumit the rajah, too much to keep peace, something must be mastered; count the fires, listen to the unspoken, most aren’t altruistic; webs aside wildflowers, love fuses hatred, just renewed triple feelings.

over an antique emotion, at a mongoose, the last koan—getting older, fretting millions, saw it in my ancestors; sold into graces, never asked for what I couldn’t give—many symbols, one talisman, one perfect future.

asked for mercy, asked for patience, like rolling, maneuvering, hitting mud; so much timing, no one wins, some will win, it’s a den, inside math, scraping skies.

first aborted, came back, tried again.

those fantastic eyes, I need to call it innocence, like I've never seen purity.

Found It In The Bass

 

the dark, sensuous touch, much running into tunnels, bled dry, cursing beats, meanwhile, into a nightmare.

I wanted like hurting, thirsty for anniversary, rolling through Long Beach.

never would dance, I see how they walk, hearing something, it keeps screaming, I made a pie!

unfasten like once, try to come back, it’s a miracle, it never happens.

re-steer me, much glory, at passion ‘til she bleeds; laughing, sheets replaced, seated, with a leak.

I ride diesel. I feel an ego. it’s not my own. who the hell inside me?

I knew she was gold, I trespassed, I needed to feel her—in any capacity; voices screaming, an exaggeration, a soul must be careful—at psych work, Love coming back, it was me in a mirror—surfing, dancing, trying to bold justice.

it’s funny, to shiver over sounds, scrubbing at a doorway, diamonds on tether, laughing when they saw me.

a tender castle, too much, I keep asking for tighter, more deliberate, much a fortune tale.   

Consciousness Is Obvious

 

it didn’t matter. it wasn’t solid. knowing spacial diamonds.

faith easier inside invisibility. humans disappoint. flying by direction or delusion.

called an apple, hear the fable, understand the story. most carry a flea, it gnaws, we might disagree.

the clothesline has linen, they look filthy, enough spots for grayness.

plucked a dandelion, another revealed a myth, it’s amazing what we undress.

it’s not too late, praying on dice, hoping luck is with me, at a gem, just untreated.

sea green blues, turquoise skies, jade purple at her resurrection.

it doesn’t matter. it isn’t solid. knowing spacial concerns.

like felt good, she laughed, like corners change—just different people—we used to lace that building.

metalwork, woodwork, shaved inside, just raw raspberries; like targets, must move faster, looking like, “We stand out!”   

Cultures Are Silent More

 

let it be life, every lesson, each blessing, dirty, like filthy.

it was nine at night, a truck opened, three on a word, touched his arm, got ties with Satan—I lucked up, different humility, like a backwards theologian, to die early, how to know, eating skylights?

too angry, made dizzy, can’t wait to hit mountains—a camp bag, a campfire, Love is sicker than me.

changing thoughts, arranging life, got it bad, others, good, knowing many remain angry—to hate self, animosity with God, never too much mirror time.

I looked like flint—it was delusion—something kept moving—a shift in thoughts, a miracle to see it, can’t believe in much.

days gnaw like redundancy. nights feel familiar. at evening, we heard heaven’s bells—the knell for many, the pit bull barking, next to a papaya tree.

needing it made humble, feeling wild, nothing to satisfying invisibility—angels nearby, deliverance seeming second to minute, made accountable for every word spoken/written.  

Resisting The Permanent

 

color tones, a whit yellow, a whit broken—should live ambivalence, I feel different, should be proud to be me, as opposed to anti-me.

grabbed the wheel, skirted passed Figueroa, slid into chaos—the motive bleeding, I need more, Love is action; birds humming, chumming falsely, at a woman bigger than Jaws.

asking, it sounds redundant, it sounds soft, never been into more than God’s children.

rest in peace, too many, skipped Christmas like ten years. petit nickels, petit crimes, feeling larger than my existence.

was told about a thrust, assigned to survival, more realness, they have issues with us.

at a bee-eater, at an anthill, I no longer feel like a sluggard. heard when he died, a good person, misidentified—swooping, swooshing, it was in his attitude, it was in his body—it became his sacrifice!

keep it clear.

opened a page, gazing at starlings, listening to mother’s wisdom. misunderstood. I keep mixed analogies. at a crypt, at captives, back to my carpet.

masked weavers, dirty beavers, a penitentiary of grievers; at Love with distance, she returned the usage, only pain understood.   

The Future Must Glisten?

 

it comes to dreams, a bad product, so fly, rolling dice—at my face, at my guts, life worth more than a Rolex.  

loving like gnats, swarming our bodies, awakened to our culture.

exotic diamonds, flowers in ghettoes, Love swooped, scooped, laughed, like feeling good.

her hot lips, filled with sarcasm, at times, too sardonic—giggling over herbs, not weed, just feeling science.

gambling again, secure in God’s methods, asking forgiveness—The Great Demon!

over a cactus, eating an apricot, liked for honesty—never gave tension, just listened, I’ve a problem with anti-me; oozes out, leaking out, woke up, sparked a nightmare.

I’ve butterflies, over petit nickels, knuckles to bars, been so lost those seasons; converse in spirit, it looks different, it feels like another planet; Love so big, so underestimated, so academic.

it’s been time at fuchsia graves, eating truffles, palms in soil, just planted a miracle.

most feel their fruits, some are absent, I know my problems!

so third in person, so sudden in firstness, acting wilder, eating ages, wholeness questioned.

another dream, another apology, another soul catching fumes: too lost, it’s over, I can’t become some person.

Too Far-Fetched: Call It Holidays

 

many at anguish, remembering granny, those skies screaming, the filthy mood, blighted inside.

early morning, might snatch a glass, others, a joint, listening too closely—angels in Los Angeles, cultural purple, so royal in our society.

saw my mind, pushed boundaries, keeping focus, doing a wild walk; chirping at birds, laughing with crows, swore to believe she was there.

many at our brains, excellence is challenged, born first, finishing last; many at parades, on stage, refaced, giggling, hurting harder.

moving wings, knitting forgiveness, best do it inside, for pain is too rich to forgive; rolling a five, crossed with a nine, crapped out with a seven. opened with snake eyes, a quick hundred, came back on a four, hit a ten, a light feather, got ghosted.        

no one quite figures—the emptiness, those pride songs, the singsong voice, the wilderness, the last forest; caught his wires, changed his life, I’d never give it that, wanting that, to have like that, until its coffin.

last conversation, first words, palming a bag of screws—building sacred laws, most internalized, dealing with resistance, can’t see it chumming.

an empty glass, an empty feeling, amazing what we figure out; can’t rid it, too sensualized, too far-fetched.  

Resurrection

 

I’m gaining focus, my dreams as actuality, my heart all into blithe—tripping a lock, at God for release, I wonder how we ache!

suspect or victim? on trial or in a coffin? at mother or father?

too tall to sleep, disrespected for a living, a petty penny—a deeper grave, like climbing to upsurge soil.

I’ll be real, Baby is fly as skies, so wild, so behaved, if ten to thirty years ago!

simple language, a damn creator, an escaped banshee.

I read Jewish literature. I met a Jewish woman. It hurts, Dear Yahweh!

my bags are screaming. I hopped a plane at three. we disappeared into Missouri. we turned a coven, I ate a cauldron, they summoned Mariam—so scarred, so refocused, like veins filled with filthy.

released to chains, unchained, like go get them, the tides greedy, a blunt dipped, like crazed how we parted—to suffer adolescence, Love was brilliant, fucked our friendship!

I was aching softly. I saw a lady, dismissing color, such sophistication—trying to figure pain, trying unleveled game, at me, at you, nobody came but three.

carried by six, a coffin filled with ashes, roll them, puff them, feel my resurrection.      

We Often Offend

 

can’t convince walls, can’t baptize invisibility, most wonder—into silence, something watching, how have we become banshees?

I must live, in a green kingdom, speaking tongues aside an interpreter.

time skates, silicon is popular, so much room for improving.

bullet proof personalities, a problem riddled personality, like rich as St. Paul.

trying on a wrong glint, into miracles, should be exhilarated, should be most intolerant.

should be a demon, conversing with darkness, should be dead.

mother raised me, father baptized me, granny braved me—more musicology, more fretting, a crush in mud.

it goes too far, manufacturing emotions, as if predicated on truth. friendship means—we canteen our insecurities—we can never go fatal—we’ll never be wrong.

a soul is underestimated, it comes swiftly, it’s premeditated disturbance.

to look, knowing for integrity, knowing for honesty, to utter, “You must be confused.”

as if a loud reaper, as if by a design, gunning back to the first visits.   

7: 30 Morning Holiday!

 

like carving porcelain, miles to freedom, spinning into twilight. manufactured pain, driven satire, tugging a big ass horse.

the block was hot-days, late evenings, the night never disappears.

I’m having a yacht party, I’m having an illusion, I love like it must be real.

holidays are crucial, Covid is taking lives, more are killing their winds—might be about us, or me, or dungeons.

I was graphed in sorrows, it feels quite normal, I met her, she jiggled me, jogged me, I jam differently.

a jukebox of jazz, about more delusions, like each word weighed against us. an angle, a prophecy, damn near apostasy.

I was with a tear. I was sleeping, proud to still feel excellence. she might read it, never feel it, or too much to keep reading it.

Happy Holidays! what for what it means? turkey has become important. I can’t aside a Native American!

more firewater, headed to the castle, been spinning connect the dots lately; quite decently, nevertheless, actual facts are hard to come by.

I laced my intuition. we must watch for mistakes, innuendoes, another person’s eternity.

we mustn’t offend deeper anguish.    

Shoebox of Unmailed Notes

 

pure schism—amazed by sure love, sentenced to paradox.

inventory is livid, vivid, skating; some feeling drags me, bites me, has a hard time laughing.

today is today. tomorrow is tomorrow. yesterday is for inventory. a few tautologies, nothing clairvoyant, one looks into an undertone.  

decorated shrapnel, intuited chimera, chemical designment.

touched in mind, normal intensity, normal reciprocation; to feel like a human, to move pieces, to execute puzzles.

 

linen is spotty, medium blue tears, orchids around a coffin.

something might undress its esoteria, something might go underground.

deep purple paradox. holiday sadness. different meanings to different ears.

upon something too distinct to ignore, a soul may love with all it has, steeped in seagrass, turquoise fire, puffy peach charms.

most thistles come early, or late, or not at all. so much is paid—in saying nothing—where everything is said.

upon a mistyrose, next to a primrose, aside a lady tilling soil: sickle in waist, seeds upon dirt, trimming her dynasty.

out of my wildest obsession, too curt for love, too oversaturated to understand destiny.   

Doves Flood The Skies

 

like a gnat in a cave, grappling, bumping walls, it’s so dark. like a meerkat in its desert, sweltering, thirsty, nibbling a cactus. so many scenarios, a wild hummingbird, a rabid mockingbird, chasing daylight, eating evening, winnowing the winds.

she owned an iguana, prayed to a mongoose, befriended a cobra. many sky styles, feeling exiled, enlove with love’s ideals; pride screaming, a woman at her side, a gent at her palm, glad to have located irony; enveloped in velvet, wearing leather, sleeping wide awakened.

gossamer raids those caves, eyes opening slowly, sure livid, lies have rented faiths—a jacket is bleeding, cotton pours out, the zipper is broken; so unzipped, leaking into streets, dusty particles whisper—those gates, the fence, so many waiting for surety.

with spider legs, or octopus tentacles, an attack on happiness—fire in droves, anger building dams, a need for peace of person.

wait to find her, wait to believe in fey, wait to be deliberate.

she seems sentimental. one would feel in seriousness—some kindness, where is it from?

there’s a sky rash, requiring relief, needing ointment.

next to a perch, near an apple tree, hovers an orange robin—so beautiful, so golden, so deliberate.

sporadic movement, chaos with reason, one might not see the red stars.

a palm of lava, a dream in souls, a sea filled with sea beasts; while nothing is left, hope rebuilds, it goes into its cycle.

her voice is opera, making excellence, the tide has ruined her hut.

too much truth is fatal. too little truth is vicious. enough truth — there isn’t such a thing.   

The Mistake

 

contingency depends on necessity. I daydream, scream at dreams, fused to die in a room. do serenade, oh Japanese goddess, oh tender anguish, asking for hands to hold.

over a requiem, we dine. over inflation, we chat.

sour candy, made delicate, pardoned by sincerity.

symphony, strings, silence, corruption.

to have never loved, prior to seduction, made so intricate, made so shallow. adrift over vulnerability, chained to senses, to have every element in surprises.

by a tempo in monsters, irregular souls, diplomacy sits at its guillotine.

raw fiery flames.

I would love until—it was pain—until—it was misery.

never such sensuousness. never such overt dying. so kindled, upon grace, doing more than erotic; some theme we engender, some carpet we christen, rug churns, anxiety hugs, departing in memories.

by the timbre of passion, love made inauthentic, so cursed, I need its agony.

many seabirds out of place.

by a sky, filled with strobes, we come to accept our ruins.

if to live in essence, bodies dying lessons, or condemned for unacceptability; as non-susceptible, as a holy mistake, cultured, aflame, trenchant in one womb.

somewhat a beast, a charm, a mirage; or so real, challenged, irregular; as a recovered addict, facing more rehabilitation, knowing, it will never become life.

a last creature, disputing his legacy, charged by one mistake.   

Unity Makes Us Human

 

going in circles, tugged like elastic, furious over awesomeness. a drumbeating penchant, aside a nightsong, playing roulette with love. so curious, or nameless, trying for a gourmet socialite.

purity is a cappella, Baroque, it stands out as accused.

into a chorus, next to a piccolo, in front of a portico—church advice, parish rules, a soul lives as a hidden preacher; former eyes, can’t locate them, or unmoved observance, can’t define it.

life is a concert, people are dancing, souls are unchained—to center a duet, to feel tugged, it meant much more to sober feelings.

a soul is a poem, never complete, observed, mused upon, engaged; most search for flavor, nuance, maybe an encore—moving between days, nights, evenings.

one motif, in each life, love as an anchor.

many flowers, around a building, centered in a desert, crows sit on scarecrows.

touching is allowed, made terrific, more compelling at moments; or touching is repelled, fraught, too much to sustain. touching breeds comfort, miracles, eternity.

going in circles, those mirrors, those dances.

prose is nocturne, seeping into clarity, effused into souls; we might mention love, as an entity, compelling forward motion; as prelude, opus, drama in daisies—a feeling, so moving, eternity comes to mind.

we might fret detachment, trying to align our lives, feeling like a quintet, composed of five parts; mourning condition, at times, pardoning our souls, at moments, so attached, its unusual.     

Adult Crush

 

those casual waves, so cultured, oblivious to reception, presumed as beautiful.

bins of letters, cedarchests filled with books, responding isn’t an issue.

most existential creature—memorized for exquisite—such tragic receptivity.

inside of souls, a warming texture, by enchant, wilderness kiss.

made playful, coquettish, most things aren’t so serious;

one courageous dance, hereto, an aesthetic vase, so dangerous, so natural, so chilling.

pure dalliance, deceiving self, dearest desire;

if to savor in clarity, what beguiles in innocence, understood too late in reasoning.

most dream about suspense, zeal, zest—arriving in fields, plucking flowers, fretting inevitability.

most deathless attraction, an aged science, rich in seduction;

dahlias breathless, honor paraded, hearts warming.

an upsurge of dynasties, exhausted fresco works, many attempts to court eternity.

so idealistic, a tear made idyllic, if one feeling to bribe greed; by a tender anxiety, nothing critical,

just hoping, knitting sociality, prided on a scale.