The Goddess

 

Love has mania. Love has depression. Love has fragments. —to mend a deserted desert. a dear damaged soul. with deception demonstrated: feral adage, canine bark, cagey souls: as misty wilderness, a daughter’s landmark, truth reveals hidden traits. to become smothered, fabulous volition, caged at honesty’s milieu: dripping passion, sanded fangs, those years at becoming grandmothers: to hide in ceilings, memoir attics, signet disgrace. Love as black art, sudden pangs, a woman as ambrosia. to give life, never enough, to reignite those first few months: fawning nature, passionate ice screams, whistling persona—sick for Love, dying for Love, to spend days mourning for Love: dismal positions, crying levity, reality jogs my mind-marrow … prying as necessary, as too offensive, caring, longing souls, stippling an inner opus.

Womb Could Make Me Wrong

 

I dip privacy, I get spent, the flame in the cauldron, a tear dropping seconds, the pain of the penalty, those Broadway girls—a smile at drunkenness, until it says rain, take me for a ride—the blood in the turnip

the passion is a maniac

a gut laughing, she so fucking beautiful, a lesser man would settle on a hundred-dollar gift, I need the whole enchilada.

 

take me a defacto the pain feeling so fucking remarkable—when I enter, the womb is psychotic, so moist so tight, if I was smarter, if I was a genius, if God would call.

 

the fever in dynamite the fret in assumption, such a

sycophant

so dear at the Alpines

so cedar, Love

at a million-dollar Parkway woman.

 

so aesthetic, such calligraphy, listening to Pink—a bold fool, an ecstatic maniac, at her scent, loving intoxication, gripping, pulling, a man can’t be more wrong.  

The Crush Is Pantomime

 

I wasn’t a jealous rose until we met:

you suffuse darkness, you abuse senses.

I want you for my own, unlocking for

me; so much ecstasy, when a mind

 

torches. You stir feelings, life is uneasy,

I never felt a woman like you. Days

lost in storms, asking about town, if

they see my lonely star, bring her ink.

 

She writes in spirit, gathering berries,

making juices. The oak tree is witness

to our passion, eager with pictures, I

can’t beg, I want to beg, it still accuses.

 

At evening, running in meadows, tears

moisten soil; at morning, looking on,

faceless pillows, emptiness burning,

calling gently, voices low, so unfelt.

 

Born to tragedy, upon a thought, most

mirages are see-through. I met in oils,

painted in acrylics, it must come to

life: violent music, metallic winds.

 

You seem vivid, like colors in rain; I

leap in private, concerned about prints;

a tender leaf, an ant for company,

so much a forest, so great a banshee.

 

You leave me walking, peeling an

orange; you come to me, rushing in

passing; you become lightning, fire,

drenched in aura, moving motion.

The Genius Is Different

 

She’s nameless, brilliant, I can’t compete. They say the genius is awkward, unsocial. I don’t know, but she acts self-conscious, speaking into herself, watching, she remembers each move she makes. I admire the hurting—there’s a secret to the genius.

 

I daze into skies, leaping in heart, not a peep those days—with penalties for self, a gift in pains, trying harder might be met with longing. I imagine she’s composing: satire, made teleological, at a space inside, made dark, semi-suicidal, reading Sylvia.

 

She’s a machine—destined to flourish, each floret mile is a triumph; her mind is egotistical, her gait is humble, her mind is too much to understand. We try in pleasures—looking at her, sensuous passes, some she entertains, some she devours.

 

I was in awe—I knew something was different, for I have certain a dungeon, in a mountain, near a campfire. Much firebrand, terror underbrush, a side eye—I’m not ready, I fathom more, those banks, those ships, they sail, they never come back.

 

The soul says, “It’s ripe,” the spirit says, “It’s too late.” I might find a life in motion, built upon concrete, withstanding tides, across seas, it happens, we get used to our normality—the excellent thief, the outstanding addict, the life we try to insist upon.

 

She has vanished—somewhere afar, never in a screen, on my island, ever into a dream. She shall love, adore, never settle, yearning for billows; she will sink low, read a poem, turning depression into radiant anger—she will outdo survival.  

Bodily Personality

 

I love more the fortune of love; the work is harder, argued by blades of grass. inside a canyon, rafting aside a ravine, reaching where they dance; dream fever, welkin deaths, bled interior. I love more the fortune of love; big bashful eyes, Florida sunshine, Mississippi hips—spinning freedoms, feeling unfelt, laughing at my follies. the height of Japan, the wisdom of Greece, hieroglyphic lips; so geographic, finding every island, roaming inner cities—found with grace, poise, a little indifferent—loving to chance life, sipping Red Rose, worked inside. I love more the fortune of love; geometry eyes, fingers locked, getting a mud bath. so tight with frets, Chinese brains, Lebanon legs. much fervent heat, like waterfalls, drenched, gripped, wrecked inside; to vow eternity, or agriculture, wandering through realms—too much astrology. a mere ego, so supernal, so preternatural—flipping in mind, devastated by looks, personality split; southern hospitality, Sufi laws, Danish royalty. the makings of a person, the screams of a dynasty, upon northern shores.    

Soul’s Face

 

the house churns to its defenses, made immortal:

pure indecency,

rabid hearts,

a raving

soul—parted in twain, those made fire,

to have mercy,

so cagey, too alert, pain

becomes ashes …

flapping,

hypnotic, pulled into whirling, one

last crux, one last kiss, much

more into

passion.

 

the fury is in flames, an aglet on angst,

or so we believed.

 

falling out of skies, plummeting into earth,

it’s called love.

so analyzed, so accursed, such paradox— fervor, deaths,

raised in crops, palming corn,

it would be more love.

 

into an open face, the world watching,

soft flickers,

mystic whispers, formed in

nowhere—slithering to oceans, or

treading caimans,

wrestling with sloths;

  

the fever of existence, the actor’s gift, torn apart, laughing

ironically.

The Gatekeeper Fell In Love

 

every time you look away, I melt—

most dangerous vixen, chic, lotic fox;

wilderness is chilly, bleeding cotton,

whelmed, loving if more to perish.

 

too early to love you, too much pain

to hate you, our time is savage, working

on silence, thrown away, every time

you turn, I grow hives.

 

how could I repent?

each scent like rainbows after a flood.

each pearl so sweet attached to its womb.

just let me!

 

every time you look away, I melt—

so tragic in space, so deceived, it feels

sacred; dying of its soul, resurrection

at dawn, lying asleep, smelling fresh.

 

it’s cold out, rain is hailing, eyes are

moist during morning sun-hiding. I speak

inside, to die inside, all goodness is

taken; fields of rubbish, eyes screaming.

 

“You’re sick on her, be careful.” if to be

is to live, count diamonds, into caves, vexed

like hungry hyenas. some wingspan, some

foreign beaut, occasioned to tell a fib.

 

I can’t love you as I love you—so divorced

from caring in you—some froward feeling,

a little of dying, needing tomorrow today;

if to let me, if to become everything in me.

Absence of a Sentence

 

no boundaries, bars smelted, gripped in fantasy—somewhere real, conversing pain, a neat agony, porcupine pressure—eating sharkskin, touching syrup, cupping wrists, palms locked, agonizing its deaths.

 

upon a dreadlock, up in atmosphere, so sweet, a man is prediabetic—certain sugar teeth, absorbed in odors, precious perfumes, a soul losing his balance.

 

earlobe nausea, rushing into spirit, to feel alone, upon sudden voltage—those passionate cries, lying in depth, so much courage to hate us.

 

mandarin compulsions, tender rage, softer neurons; to envelope miseries, at a peak in climaxes, such pure inrushing; some climate, seated at the bed, looking for one last lie.

 

the touch is a vacuum. so threshed by tigersnake. thawing rapidly. melting in bed. we know what we feel. too delicate to share. so deep it aches. so torn those wings.

 

pure unhappy bliss, an oxymoron, can’t let go, can’t hang around, a man is a fool for the beloved. spawn from demons—thralled by angels, a soul is its contradiction.

 

so bereft of the core, so distant, so close, such need to break silence; as love would backfire, to die in throws, the absence of a sentence.  

Wilderness Water

 

just absorbed, petering out, climbing tides—the wave as it cries, the scream in its whale, those walls alongside the island—so much jumping, many scorpions, one sits inside of guts, scratching, weaving, a tragic ghost at my intestines.  

 

just the smile, the banshees, the rain—at zenith in mercy, at hells in witnessing, alert to shadows, eating miseries.

 

too long for closure, raving with ravens, arcs aloof to friendship—surefire tragedy, a child in a room, the ache has bars, the film is on repeat—ancient techniques, schematic traumas, made into some creature.

 

so theater at motion, so pure at times, watching some gesture, in some portal, pomegranates with red rice. the soul roaming, negligent in its interrogation, at love so random a tendency: those courting replies, made diligent in art, so desperate those eyes.

 

a ship near horizon, so delicate the appeal, too rough to make it easy; the cedar cross, tigerwood beads, metallic bracelets.

 

for a spirit, made internal rabid, composed by merely a thread—the rosarium tears, rubescent rebirths, at third place for eternity.

 

it hast to surpass me—my intellect, my understanding, it must be a rocket through a maze into a diary—it must exist.

 

many crocodiles, several eggs, turtles a century in age: upon a lamp, pulled from under a rock, reborn in a gentle smile.

Genetic Universe

 

around the block, next to the church, aside the donut shop, ten feet from the laundry mat, there’s a liquor store, false hopes, casual dreams, a feud with mirrors.

 

inside my head, sits an ideal, uptown, light thunder, like jaguars, like white panthers.

 

the ideal is a creature, I gaze off at times, so much a blessing, to create a smile; behavior says it never occurs, pains say prayers on wings, likelihood discourages too many skylights.

 

would like to play the grownup piano, the tussle, the wrestling, snatching, throwing a tussock of grass.

 

palming draperies, sanding feelings, placing emotion on the table—missing in self, gone across seas, found in disappointment.

 

the vanishing mind, the building blocks, we know a few trained at Harvard. we know a couple from Yale, laughing at moments, skilled at lecture, debate, fire.

 

many are alive, they fought for freedom, the eons are running rapidly.

 

we have storytelling, those authors, they give fable, allegory, allusion, deaths, passion, more freedoms—if to outsoar others, dealing with gatekeepers, most of us—resent the smiles.

 

we know firemen, policemen, agents, doctors, therapists, lectures, souls married, spirits divorced, some never walked the gangway—never skipped rope, never had a child.    

DNA Fatality

 

the filth the family the inheritance; abusing power, enhanced lies, the creek is filled, the respect is gone; I was a corner soul, a poolhall passerby, a train track leaper. another sacrifice, another mother, an orphan to father. needing greatness, hoping on a prayer, eating the Eucharist. so much faith, invisibility, the mistake of the freedom chasers. shackled for infinity, bolder than a lioness, morning drugs, morning pain, drained of belief. so crazed in the land, guillotines for religious, a nun in her years—wanting, desiring, needing a child. I ran into fields. I laughed over tragedy. some defense method. it seems amazing, a damn carnival, sipping indifference—palming unlikeliness. modern day slavery, found in poverty, so much given to sustain imbalance. the love of suffering, the agony of virginity, the matrix of mother. hands to pavement, belly insanity, vomit at the curb; stray animals, unlikely heathens, beasts, monsters, repentance; all consumed with abuse, such a fusion, so much pain glowing. the fear of the doctors, the rage of the bishops, the fig ate in private. drugs having communities, shot seven times, or given grace, returning for pride. under 200 years, lampstands, lanterns, streetlights; the skies as witnesses.  

Penalties of Passion

 

You seem attached indifferently. I learned this somewhere. You seem informed—about life’s rays, serotonin, social opiates, the offbeats. You seem aggressive, made passive, filled with personality: a gifted person, a gracious companion, a giving in its losing. So chic. So rare. So many years of training. The flying swami—filtered, made raw, a person or two are addicted to whimsy, chords, expertise. I do this ever and anon, I fall for some ideal, some idyllic image, whelmed by visions. You seem sensitive, impassively. You seem like a hurting person, with a wonderful element, a cured indifference. You picture well. I imagine an aesthetic in you. I won’t speak of sexuality, not overtly, it appears a given. I try to ignore you. I believe you would have me fall harder—just to say, “I hate you.” So I ignore voltage. I dismiss romance. I flit away from my mind. I even think of something I know is unfounded—if to escape an emotion. It’s radical—a person can know, as if certain, against a dynamic, while inside the person is daydreaming, filming events, upon a fictional platform. I have come further: the mind will seize an image, refute unsaid image, then sulk, become sullen, affecting the total personality—upon grounds that can’t exist, period! It seems so amazing. I can get mad, gently mad, because something is impossible. The value of the mystery—the beauty of the person—or the casualty I would become. You’re a portrait made of energy, maybe a delicate spirit, maybe quite angry; maybe, a miracle in others, maybe, a few know your agony, your name, your inside penalties.   

I Worry Too Much

 

tulips out of concrete,

dear pain feeling excellent,

same worded vocabulary

destroying me gently

raiding my conscious,

the story in its telling.

 

it works differently, it’s

crazy

the lazy snake, the roaring

root, so

accursed, no

more laughing.

 

 

I know about it, they call it by a name, they call it

depression.

I’m not eager to see heaven, nor do I care dearly for hell,

with emotions seeming like scars—the bars of the mighty

ambition, those curses from a stranger, rebuked by each

seeing strength. Many become martyrs. Many seek

healing in physicality; sexual genotypes, addicted to

phenotypes, made existential, the pleasure of abuse, a

soul screaming at some person. The undisclosed person,

so desperately beautiful, a soul in her terrors, a precious

intoxication, more fingerprints; a deliberate greeting, a

forced observation, trying to escape a feeling.   

Thought of You, The Solution

 

the all-seeing cosmos, the blood I bled, just to have an idea—to vocalize independence.

 

more a silent, observant type—backstage, near an attic, aside individualism—an unfair war, left behind, it might be mutual. a dying man, a flying man, an idyllic movie.

 

beside a set of beads, igniting the insides, flame on occasion, effusion from others, grandiose at times, more rain to vanish; an unsung dynasty, I must achieve more, it was ecstasy, devoid of penalties, such fever made fervent in feral glens.

 

many might measure, some corpse nearby, while a sage spoke to spirits—the fields filled with fantasies, her softer aches, so attached, missing in music.

 

headed to Venice, tamed in vibrations, so great a woman—most dislike her. I was shocked. the swamp has covered the meadows. so gentle the aggression, so sweet, the vinegar, two will never approve of union.

 

the vernal valley, under siege, to sudden into independence; somewhat intrigued, it was methodical, tender esoteria, so scientific—no one claims, what they know.

 

I never unsay much, but two things were unsaid, while war was undressing, giggling, filled with wretchedness, wrenching sewers, dear agonies!

 

to watch deliberate images, facades laughing, where revenge is precious—the fighting islands, the dead existence, the life as obtuse—it felt like insistence.

 

cooking nothing tonight, just pining, it feels better—stuffing my face, it can’t be pleasure, seated at an ottoman, sipping redness, craving some miracle—to imagine, I felt in you, the solution to all my pain.     

Becoming Those Complaints

 

to carve drumbeats, to feel voltage, to have one surprise—the soul dies, I flip like flipper, I grind in the storm, it hurts like losing.

 

upon an evening song, some voluptuous woman, society praises shapes, images, if it looks like lusts.

 

trying to become candid, if it lives inside, it will come to its surface. so pleased to have a mirage, so sick for a vision, traveling into sunsets.

 

I stir a cauldron, chant a sentence, hymns inside to exist.

 

it was a nightsong, roaring inside, I was snatching liquor, rejoicing without reason, no one to lie to. laying on carpet, flicking a flea, so much to hurt her heart; a fantast material, so immeasurable, gazing at blue shivers—the chill of an empire, those foreign eyes, too dear to exist.

 

if to unveil a woman, to pierce the veneer, hold like winning—despite the tragedies.

 

most excellent soul, helping to see, where true wisdom comes with discernment—to vigil, sense pain, most excellent dynamite—the pressure of unknowingness, is the pressure of knowingness, the sun shines with equality.

 

like social straitjackets, inclined to ignore you, like one babbling too much; so sour, a pleasure to ignore you, a deeper agitation, while many are unequally yoked. I imagine another keeps his hands out, never praises you, nothing is enough; some gigolo, some excellent human, dear God—I can’t challenge a need for rolling in desperation.

 

rife with passion, running like Bonnie & Clyde, bullets skipping beats, the pain is so addictive; our days, filled with so much, believing in life, made like animals; aside acacia, or palming a myrtle tree, or listening to a vandal complaining. let the guts scream, just lost a friend, he was without a compass: pants sagging, his flag hanging, his dismissal of facts. so long into harmonicas, feeling so listless, while each person’s solitude is in jeopardy.

 

a tear sour about what feels good. I whittle in private—knowing privacy is myth. too much to unsay. a person condemned by his philosophy—trying hard not to succumb to his major complaints. to pontificate, so high on a ladder, praising Divinity, caught at the other fence—a product of the opposition.

Opposite Is More Likely Than Preference

 

with finding comes pain. many years palming my life. I sense what you see, with miles between brains, asking for precision.

 

I was keen on it, reduced to insensitivities, with strangers claiming my blueprints.

 

such brazen discomfort—a man ruins his life—with another at her ear; I’m in awe of what was said.

 

“What?”

 

yes, lights are cheerful, souls are airs, forbidden to connect; big bottomless marina, masks on, we have succeeded in our absence.

 

like a California minute, left spinning, an office is not safe, privacy is not safe, nothing seems to be privacy.

 

I was at self yesterday. I divorced my cravings. I asked myself, if possible, would you? the answer is, it would hurt too much.

 

as the chapter ends, anticipation grows, a good answer, is mostly up to the reader.

 

I was keen on it, I left it alone, treated with uneasiness; in many instances, albeit, arbitrary, one will decide what you deserve.

 

I knew trust was complex. I knew something wasn’t correct, time has proven those doubts; one will decide what you deserve.

 

one will cherish boundaries, another will abolish boundaries, another will bend, belittle, or beg for boundaries.

 

I was asking quick questions, information leaked out, therapy ensued; cards dealt, dice released, it changes with efforts.

 

I was keen on it. I missed it. it seems quite alarming; I was reborn, newness of presence, pure metanoia, wiping away concern.

Tragic Sleeping

 The Form is off.

I don’t write like I should nor would I lie. 

much a tragic wasteland, more direct rain. phantoms inside, upon a dream, pain 

gnaws like rabbits. the heat races in tides.

 

days become dragons, lunging at brains. 

most dangerous, sly, flaming schisms—

undo, unmet, unrequited time, made isms, 

into regions, sunk inside, washing flames.

 

I touch asphalt the sidewalk is melting—

a canto is a bird, fever is passion, more 

burning into metal, more a sour core—

trying in sharpness, unspent ink pelting.

 

so sweet to visit aesthetic shrapnel;

those eyes play piano, those feelings are 

coarse, many sudden bars, a silent scar—fretting cities, interior made gravel.

 

torn by jasper roses the sun into a fit—

talking outside of spheres, so unknit—

reformed in essence, no one relates—

moving faster, mulling over gates—

sure faith in diamonds, gems speaking,

certain to adore, more tragic sleeping.  

50 Years Into The Future

 

damn the coyotes, they rule the deserts, they don’t share. so cold out. rain filled cactuses. deep dark blue eyes. so uncouth of me, on contact, to ask for marriage. so methodical—surefire protective, dying to break bars.

 

an ideal creature. searching like wildness. watching the sun at dawn.

 

like the last person alive—made receptive—to a bowel of cries; maniac greenness, abashed sycophants, wondering while dizzy—how I made it so far.

 

accused. accursed. a crooked straight line.

 

to sip cognac, to cup tomorrow, to mourn yesterday—the face of the poet, the menu is prose, aside a hybrid lullaby.

 

dear fantasies, lost in time, such a softer odor.

 

off in traffic, a longer ride, acting out, subtle gestures — “If you had one wish right now?” Ha. Ha.

 

like a drug, sensory reaction, such a body, such a face, such spunk, such an account—of days, eschatology, cosmology; watching, eating, sniffing—those nights forbidden cries, faithful aloneness, falling, sleeping, awake at 3 a.m.

 

confidence is a magnet. so deranged. the film is recording.

 

many conundrums, an inner hydrant, made full on insecurities. such seriousness, lovemaking is serious, so detached, a man best act right; evening visits, homelife pains, so much to let go.

 

around a block, up a street, sits wishes, hopes, and poverty. around a dream, inside an inward scream, dwells a candle; another entrance, no exists, each move, every calculation, following fifty-years into the future.