Unrelaxed Casualty

 

Three days of dancing, exhausted, dehydrated, headed into ancestors; by catalyst to ghosts, by conflict inside, tears and tissues; angry art, rising action, 12 hours of bathing. The felt triumph, by core climax, to again into caves and portals, bleeding the treachery, and innocence was unreal. Partial closure, as it chases, looking, just to destroy, if better to learn, without notes to understand; like an epidural, to affect a whole body, too much imagery to conceal. An interior dialogue on repeat between doctor and patient. The denouement into swimming aches, so gorgeous outside, all one would passion; the wedding metals, flowers in flame, sweat from dancing and dying young. Souls bloodshot, upon clouds and weather, too many correct in this line of mess-ups. And the dog pants, the cat watches, with tender care and anxieties.   

Sullen Admiration

 

I didn’t when it was time—stronger sunrise, arranged to move swiftly: kisses in dark rooms, red eyes in photographs, softer sounds and sudden chills. Diamonds speak a language, death must rule, the cycle demands this—and long lives the ape, so uncouth, longer lives the ignorance … so exclusive the clubs, writhing rites, needing something sensitive; aglow and ruined, exposed to elements, transfixed, at a slower pace—to imagine what turns human buttons. Traipsing woodlands, the sylvan flaming, a neater sunrise, a darker ring, with souls rummaging spirits. Her poetry is sublime, instrumental utility, weaving in, and wheezing outward—the fragments lingering, appetites waxing, and Love is waiting for clarity … caves and arts, cloves and wishes, surreal fury. A valley of pearls, tumbleweeds, briers, sullen desert, and one coke machine.   

Solemn Core

 

Behavior is an asylum. One tries to amend behavior. It keeps coming forward, it will yawn time to time. Talcum over habits. Chains and ropes, bright beautiful hopes and dreams. Oh Behavior, why hath you danced? On Deception, why hath you lied? A season of cries, misleading justice, erotic behaviors. Oh Gagster, what hath you unveiled—life, dishonor, and rage? Minds are playing dodgeball, palms to whispers, valiant behaviors, and loving seems risky. (Either one adores and dies, or one lives detached, unto a flaw.) A harlequin’s life, a clown’s face, so many saving graces. Behavior as a mailbox, a slingshot, a boomerang—light or death, nor the bounce I saw on occasion. Madcap faith. Repurposed arrogance. And birdsong passion. The soul filled with inkjets, behavior on blocks. Emotion leaving watermarks.         

Correct Me If I Presume

 

Out the miracle the trenches and souls filled with electricity; many getting rich, others feeling wealth, so immaterial—the honor of the thief, the flight of the dungeon, at bottom and rising; it’s amazing, so good in an instance, so inverted in a second—the music might help. Letters supersede each other, behaviors change from person to earth, with boundaries crossed with purpose—just to breathe. I hear inside the interior: “You have no choice; You must tolerate it.”

 

Indeed, a fret in a mirror, to walk away and glance, such a glimpse of memory—like de ja vu. And Art was sick, to see itself, too far to relax, too much to decompress.     Came from the gates, those vines, eating and sipping grapes—the fool in the light, the proselyte angry, giving life to progeny; so deep the spell, so crazed in rumor, not many facts on the table. I step left, I step right, I tread a trail, and many facing themselves.     Winning was illegal, souls chancing rules,

 

like most realities, there wasn’t a choice.     If many knew actuality, to know it never mattered, one is destined to act in accordance—to style, sacrifice, greed, and stars—with most of us defying gravity.     Like field work, depth of tolerance, if to survive the blood pressure; and fire eyes, skin with flame, art like dying. Too much losing—if to keep reality, the position is blatant—a scar in the battle, a war in the brains, like Love was asking for deaths; if sudden to

 

ache, to start screaming, with an audience watching—she was manic, broken, speaking epithets—the worse of a person, the euphemisms we tolerate, much more in agonies.     Walking eastward, meditating, chanting, opened souls, too young to articulate it, it gets different with age—the address in spirit, those candles flickering, it came by a whisk.           

Thy Neighbor

 

I hope it fills a space; and dancing is forbidden. Mystery lingers. I was super low, hands to invisibility, molding plateaus. Tell me it has an end. Tell me it gives you life. Tell me my rights don’t matter. Justify reality, then say you stand for sameness—of heritage, of treatment, of graces and honor. Tell me it gives you life, and you refuse to walk away.     Days were mundane. The next will charm you. Life is meant to entertain you.     I run a risk. I remember soul, elegance, confusion, and paining art; never darker, dull light, radiance in skies—travel and legacy, Judah and Levy.     I need to say it matters less in passing, whereof, I’d be fibbing. I need to say I understand on some level, whereof, this is superficial.     Tell me it matters—those dreams, tell me they culminate—into sanity, miracle, and vice, with meaning mesmerized and dancing; so bad for essence, so wicked when angry, I imagine many duplexes.        

Hard To Admit Facts

 

In the forgetting, lost to the winnings, discounting the loses, and sinning was nonchalance; thrust through, living a dream, fretting conscienceness. Mother gone, demanding respect, tender admissions—a heart-to-heart, tears falling, praying like ten hours—trying to escape what destiny prevails. Never knew him, was never sought by him, I wonder about my daughter, and how she feels. Never did it, spoke against it, caught a terror for beliefs; and granny was passive, many excuses for behaviors, I wonder about black elders. Never wanted to know the feeling, never asked for the predicament, never desired to see death, addiction, and terrors. Love keeps asking the same question, how does a man respond, trying to outlive facts. It’s easy to talk shit, at some perfect ideal, unless realizing inadequacies. I trip the meraki, I flip the Bacardi, people ask for what can’t be given, nor received.    

Out The Trenches

 

The war is between eyes the cries of those soaring. I was blasted off of life, at high speed, orange juice and gin; feeling indestructible, invincible, a raw ass lie to self; a man on scales, so young and mother demanded a father figure; caught in dreams, negotiating miracles, can’t conjure up my life! I was destroyed, fretting instability, took years to regain partial self—a warrant for myself, an outlaw in self, gutted and unleashed—they all knew, no one cared, to bounce back, like abracadabra! Framed in disbelief, looking at her, and knowing—it will never happen aside for war; captured by lakes, suffering belief, like damn! all I experience to never be told. It made front page, a poem he wrote, and many saw it was barely reaching. A new concept, a new mathematical, a new science—and Love knew, the pain was lethal, and she kept pursuing. The final tour, inside the drinking, outside the deliverance—and no one cares!  

Pleasure of The Interior

 

Each mercy to give, losing vanity, more observant the beauty; soft spoken, or harsh, many myriads in one soul, laughing—someone noticed. Destroyed outside, trying to find peace, listening to blatant naivety (too late in life). I was art and ache. She’d vanished into vapor. Souls parading ignorance. I was splendid indifference, micro-aggression, somewhat bourgeois—staring into raw ether … a forgotten fantasy, air and arrogance, seduction and salaciousness; records broken, all she would wilderness, all he would become forests; florid passion, floret agitation, fiber and precious alienation. Born with issues, color and heritage, trying art and haven, hell and heaven; so designed to love, so designed to hate, paradox and privilege. Making forgettable essence, frozen in traumas, terrified to have memories. 

In Days Becoming History

 

Easygoing to forget, if possible, a running from his self—slipping into dynasty, a wave of earnest sky, seeming with wealth; to imagine her proud, indeed, ecstatic, so great a complicated Dove; more music in automated complexity, oil spills, water made bubbly, and adoring her was made difficult. Playing violin, worthy of contempt, raving over love; backwater woods, lilies upon clouds, nebulous vows—to have serenity one exchange, to watch and wrestle, with life, time, and habits. Easygoing to remember, if impossible, a running to herself—tripping into reality, a grave of earnest earth, treasured with poverty; so caged and cagey, so incautious, each Love is a miracle—to have eternity, to say so little, with a story most do not inhale … like art in its era, to have little value, so desperately beautiful, so terribly gorgeous, ahead of her time. In earnest, to believe in sophistication, to pride a saga, a story celebrating human ideals.  

Each Person Understands The Gifts

 

Tears seldom fall. When they do, a tsunami flushes. And father was reborn, Catholic eyes, bishop status. And Art was in her belly, bombastic fireballs, a man would see complications. At Love with feelings, or chills, anything stated becomes adversarial; wondering about belief, chief of a dungeon, doing differently in life. I would sip cognac, debate her intentions, to understand if they might shift … mother would clear the slate, get close, and cherish a new friend … I envied her, the pain she shared, the glory it extracted. I felt astute, intellectual sorrow, to keep it silent—I may chase a dream! I prick ego, remembering her charms, separating myself, from cadence and pride, fretting the Great Deceit. By a ghost song, summonsing spirits, like crazy in a basement; fully dead, fully alive, gothic elements—and Love with components, thrust into sin, offended and hating his sin; it came with a price, too much invested, to understand the poet is complicated.

If Negation, Does It Mean Intervention?

 

I hear it said, “I love for keeps.” Cherries and ashes, apricots and wines, burgundy and grapes; to hit hearts, to beckon supernatural fire, to be a ladybug on a leaf; sheer majesty, to becoming Church, to fret and feel as time exposes weakness—made strength, so aloof to his own dedications. One measures an apparatus, framing appetites, more pride in friendship than lover—selfsame person. Love is two measures, unforgiving, nay, forgiving, with souls opting on sensation. I hear it said, “What’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” Another might sense in others a weakness, prompted by lack, to realize many will not put life on pause. I admire sacrifice, to exhaust a relationship, to do all to stand. So easy, so hard, as to walk towards an exit, to again try an adventure, if self is problem, to again face a mirror. What means life? I trade in authenticity for ego. I manage to vitiate everything humanity delivers. I fly redundancy.   

Believing In Someone

 

When it comes, it moves too fast to grasp, made of air, an impact like oils and water. In knowing vatic tears, in relating to phantoms, I sense a slant in thinking. To nibble wire, to unplug from sockets, still charged, falling into ascension. Holding from outside, deeper grievance and light, assuming days are made of permanence (concretely impermanent), in speaking about words, sentences, as palatial shrines. Loving in time, an art made difficult, keeping to oath, tugging at promise. Made of beliefs, souls parading about, often faceless mannequins … if living for love, we die for completion, dispelling doubt – our greatest challenge. Tackling mundanity, arranging fruits, quiet, neat perfections … needing in others, deep silent catharses, if to sing a song with excellence. Greater a dream, numen an art, to believe in someone, by aches to arrive with someone.

Image & Symbol

 

 

I would think and rethink—about aura, countenance, and style; sure subtle the waves, nothing in one’s disfavor, nothing summonsing bodily contact—just undulations, cosmic cadence, so secretive, a slight nudge, in ever a direction. Energy making hunches, tender, sweet fantasy, racing back slowly: meraki in souls, confounded by reality, feeling like inexperience—not quite ready for sunshine. An instance made ideal—comes with dreams—as they manifest—making future moments. I would think and rethink—with flesh at its center, numen chants, a whisper pushing into some space. I would rethink a slant in perception, winter romance, filling time with images … faced by reflection, surefire unrealistic, much chaos voiced inside—the love of angels, melodious passion, aged infatuation—to think it temporary, as it tugs, a soul swimming between bull sharks … needing some figment of spirit, some fragment of angst, to love one last summer.     

All I Have Is Articulation

 

After excellence comes redemption. A fiat! After terrors come change. A dictum! 

Miles between personas. Years between growth spurts. 

All I know is I don’t know. 

            If redeemed, it’s not done; fierceness in soul, treading steps and cobblestones, living akin to apostles. Framed in expectations, dreaming as sand falls, digging into quicksand, fretting musicality and art—as pure expressions. The reason it never works, becomes the ingredient we created; feelings floating furiously, song made sullen, anxiety making anchors, and church made chaotic. Paris eyes, African hips, Australian-Italian lips, and Spirit was draped in Ghosts. So close to callous, fraught by emotion, hampered and sunk low; so close to ecstatic, dwelling in suffering, the only joy captured in souls; to focus on essence, abounding in uneasiness, flushed by notions of Passion; soul and sold, affected and afflux, favored and conquered; to have gifts, to praise in body, surety of resurrection, vulnerability as Light. Bright brilliant spirits. Deeper dangerous humility. And warring becomes God’s ways.         

We Were Seedlings

 

Centipede slithering, through caves and dungeons, in the far back is a cauldron; through eyes with dreams, sure fierce visions, to have given pride to children; so much a dear passion, so great an Asiatic sky, sure tender a stirring earth: by fire we give, by cedarchests and letters from wars, made imperceptible—value in perfection, lines broken, cabbage and lettuce and ranch. Her soul is excellence, making spirits praise, such a naked personality—fraught by integrity, berries made into perfumes, pomegranates sliced in halves; fur coat fever, iguana indifference, chameleon blending(s) … to have lived in one night, to have played bottles, at love and some ideal; before science, before New Age passions, serpents slithering: a cold summer, a warm winter, autumn filled with red, orange, and browns. Such teal treasures, so indirect, framed in billiards, if to seduce sanity, after years of philosophy; silver shadows, cave cadence, art made ariel.        

Santa & Parents

 

 

Under the Great Dome, neatly tucked in Stars, Fleetwood & trees; chestnuts under flame, presents & smiles, glee, impatience, with joys; mother cooking—turkey, ham, yams, stuffing, & more; pumpkin pies, nibbling almonds, appeasing her appetite. Santa came, we know Santa, we keep the secret. Little Epiphany, Baby Earl, they dance with excellence, & sing with precision. I remember one gift, it took excellence, & one tree those years ago. I never sung. I knew Santa was parents. I wasn’t granted much fantasy. Kids parading a dozen gifts, a little entitled, trading, exchanging praise & courage. Furnace & Frost. Sung soft into a sullen glee; under a mistletoe, one kiss, aglow from eggnog. Santa’s eating, a little tipsy, one gift in Santa’s bag. Stepfather is also cooking, mingling seasonings, creating magic.

Poetry Instead of Candy Canes

 

 

When it came deeper inventory and art; when it opened more tears at first, grayer understanding, pomegranate wounds; to have meant more, undetectable as it feels, and sticky spirits; too crowded in solitude, fathom contradiction, with sound making its debut. Afore a sanctuary, kneeling before sanity, swooshing into countryside; and Honor ached, with Love smiling, draped in water—our seventh baptism. Subtle motion, signifying Love, more passion for imagination—too actual to speak it; and Art was beautiful, khakis and blouse, nicer kicks—the way we adore, so much rain in innocence, a greater woman would try. I ate emotion, never in diamonds, too much cave-blood; with Crochet being gorgeous, rooms made of apricots, musical chairs, and damages. The last comes quickly. The first palms for clarity. In between absorbs both ending and beginning.

Thread Count

 

Most often it’s aphorism—the rain, soothing weather, or too cold to speak; biblic sacrifice, tender welkin anguish, adjectives astray, pain like a blessing; without you I wouldn’t fly, with you I have presence, so religious the woes we chance; find me entertaining, gathered with berries, sipping and playing grownups; the way we dance, the song we waltz, so many becoming ballerinas … softer carpets, fields of woods, cypress beginnings, and cottonwood shacks; before our time, the sun made glorious, and sound was amazing: putting words to items, discovering intonation, compared to a soul in romance. Character and charisma, the sky would fall, if ever a delicate slip—by survival of the castle, by claim of those clouds, so cirrus, so amethyst, so tender violet; floating away, nothing quite matters, aside for that feeling. And each outfit is purity, music made mellifluous, each thread count testifying to patience.       

Snow & Wilderness

 

Surefire attraction, emotion energy, captive, made art into dance … by fire and bodies, ranked by indifference, taking pain for granted, filled with passion … to call it love, failing occupation, succeeding sexuality—those with story, with myth, with culture. Surefire elixir, falling and standing, coming and going, trapped and adoring the cages—as lost creatures, cured and crazy, a slight change in essence, and life is too heavy to wheeze; eye-heart, ocean breeze, seas and seahorses—by torture to succeed, by rage soothed, and flying was excellence upon a dart. Surefire and tender. Angry and ecstatic. Fretting filled with surety.     A lost soul, found by love, so ancient the artifact, so casual the lifeline, as if the sun was held by affection; a treasured treachery, so lost on one premise, fraught by emotion energy.     By daylight, a cherished winter, subtle into snow covered leaves, and Love was chased into frenzy.     

Resurrecting In Pash & Balance

 

Got word from spirit, and Love has been watching, reading and jotting and note taking; furious here, enlove there, begging for glitter; silken pains, zinnia chills, early morning survival, and Love has remained gorgeous. I was southern charms, impetuous speech, aged in some unique sense; fire as it churns, words from my crib, memories from my father, and Love knew, bled science, loved smarts, adored her culture. I ached for feelings, raved over emotion, daring her to separate the definition. Losing senses, so pendulous, and mother is a ventriloquist, and Love is akin to that line: womanhood; such were flaming dice, gambling to get free, never met what owned integrity. I could sing her song, by writing poetry, if she deigned to surrender to something primitive: a dear lemur, so astray, and Love remained gorgeous. So cold on spontaneity, so keen on intellect, I imagine the sentences she writes.    

Amen

 

 

Let filth cleanse me. Let dynasty rule with patience.     The moon has motives, the cricket is silent, and justice wavers with time.     I was consciousness absent of consciousness, and Song appeared.     I was out of sync, aligned in a dimension, raising a brow at a mirror.     I can’t figure anything out. Some things seem apparent, and then unapparent: music for faith, souls exhibiting spirits, — most pretend we never understood, its breathing.     I keep with consciousness, trying to be unconscious while conscious, mud and water, clarity and soaring, more art and intestines. A lily on a leaf on a frog. A tile with a voice. A dream it shouldn’t to get in. And mosaic as intuition.     It feels like living is dying slowly, absorbing wisdom, if fortunate, passing knowledge on to family members. And a gallica on a roof, upon a wind, into a palm.     To have existed in breath, to have developed faith, to have witnessed fruition – let it be so!     

Sameness: Differences

 

They were friends. They are enemies. It works.     Love was art, deception, pleasure and sorrow; misused, crowded inside, a heart filled with groceries: barnacles, barracudas, bitter-sweet bread, and loving was dear to spirit.     They were friends. Anything to irk balance … to pursue with diligence the ache which makes a soul’s breath: the way one lies, those sick to find balance—in something unsteady, and adoring seems so vulnerable.     They were envious, opposite beliefs, she needed both—the hours bending that way, social comedians, isolated nuns and priests—to find what hurts, to become Monopoly, if sung softer into the bishop’s ear.     Cold exhalation. Warm facial prints. Better where dawn arises. One for husband. One for play. She became unbelievable. They were friends. They are enemies. It doesn’t work.     Love is art. Tides have turned, billows in winds, self-same ghosts, another horizon.   

Over a Glass of Argyle

 

So tender the dice, asking for matrimony, depending on excellence; if sustaining the night, the gravel bleeding, success in a bottle; trying not to sail the ship, asunder with the winds, passion off of beauty. When it comes around, the grave grieving, and time gave up ghosts—to swoosh and swirl into justice, by arts and crafts, so cursed, life was good; indeed, fathom contradiction, or unlikeness, a ghoul in me, a monster in clouds, and God came for mercies. In due game, hunted through wilderness, and Love was polite that morning; like dying was goodness, or living badness, such an affect for a teacher. Usually, one is early, or late, Love married the one loving her more; and fire dripped, love soft and tender, so gathered to have lived. Flame made into pudding, so captured, so sick, if to tell the future: a taller creature, a vulnerable heart, upon a toothache—by three days a fever, so much deception, and Love adores the photos.  

Art Is Pain

 

Looking was adventure. Seizing was electrocution. And losing has been devastation.

In debt of survival, as long the horizon, acute terrors and isolation; to adore again, after hell and wind, surety of math and staff.

So dazed and reversed, sudden into mesmerization, eating sin at 3 AM.

Addicted to adrenaline, unknowingly, feeling effects of depression—by absence of excitement.

            Adoring a soul, like blind to life, so much the end of naivety.

In her galaxy, sure pledge of diamonds, to measure and exalt soul; measured as irregular, another a thought, soaring through freeways, if born to die with disappointment.

            It’s never what was expected, if so, it exhausts itself, with hell to pay for one-to-one correlations.

            When we met, it was professional, soon to become agitation; flying nonchalance, broken wings, art becomes pain.   

Miracles Come By Surprise

 

Let the clock read resurrection, the diamond screaming about demons, and God came to claim her essence; impossible leverage, racing into mountains, many caves unlocking. Black horses, caveat panic, with trolling seeming casual. I was with frenzy, many wiles for the fever, some element deceiving its inhabitant.

One becomes tickled by a sight, unsaid sight is horrendous, what has this said about the observer?

Another questions a woman’s perspective, as speaking to survivors, what has he revealed?

I was without hope, scraped of establishment, against a number of surprises.

Olden souls are flippant, new souls are over-evident, unless, for travel in a yogic mind. So baptized, as it cures insides, a way of haven hearts.

So secure with God, never participating, a bit passive, and this is sin.

Let the clock read resurrection, the diamond screaming about demons, and God came to claim her essence.    

The Ransom Is Eternal

 

On a simple, arduous sense, a day filled by adjectives, a photo, a glance, sudden into mystery—the way it falls, water for baptism, fire for authentication, so smooth the way she watches, a permanent bypassing, to call and listen to a dial tone. I was monopoly, in dreams, subject to castling and checkmate; the bass so heavy, in midday dicing, to mince and move—those claiming us. “What do you write about?” I gave a vague answer. Close to you, avoiding you, and someone chases for you: if to sense asceticism, it drives a person madness, with eczema flaming, for nerves are unsteady, and intellect is uneasy. Too much to seduce unknowingly, too much to become self, and too great to swoosh through the 405n. Right into a living room, right into loving unknown to soul, pondering another human, and drifting into spaces, and lost for intuition strikes before conscious mind.

Inside The Castle

 

The miracle swoops the lancing hearts the fierce must live; pure violet stung by terrors the soul as an ornament. I was nervous at first glance, I should’ve spoke diamonds, and danced like cirrus, so paced and delicate; dying is mystical, a small tornado, sudden a tsunami—those spread wings, connecting countries, many miles city to state. (To become celebrated indifference, prone to analyze, never cared so much.) Detached from its center, aloof from its stem, so enlove with magic and miracle and madness. (I declined in tensity. I remeasured what reaches for us. And stillness became isolation.) The gift is essence, love is treasury, asunder and motion—years at it, letting go, revealed to self in trying—as anxious souls, knowing it’s part myth, born majestic, and closeness is fairer distance. What it seems as it floats higher—the portrait is invisible—pain is necessary anguish.    

I Haven’t Known Apricots

 

I haven’t learned sweetberry innocence; I haven’t heard a voice in skies; I haven’t touched the bluing moon; and justice seems to rest lethargically. I never knew those that make the eyes—those strawberries with juices, a craving cry looking for innocence. We never met for pictures, never sought by photographers, never rushed for fever those lakes those very arms. By an underbelly pang, an agony, made like a soul in Africa. I haven’t heard such excitement, eager to adventure, proud of other cultures. I never gave breath when life was hectic, nor subtracted gusts when times were disagreeable—by fevers, by clouds, by ether and dance and life; hyssop and knapweed, as some metaphor, to have neve uttered the greatness of those dynasties: alike to madness, formed in magic, made closer in majesties: oil paintings, captured grandness, secluded upon intrusion.

Fruits & Beef

 

A pictureless rose becomes pictureless existence with time remaining faceless; the projection missing actuality—born unequal—souls thus seeking equality. By flow of its drill, its availability, one bequeathed to resistance.

 

Slow animalism, captured by the sun, if willingness is to live; soothsaying love, remanded as a storyteller, next to self, and losing exactitude; so wild the cherries, a cup of realism, a plate of metaphysics—to adore with fury.

 

Close enough to confide uneasiness—far enough to gather milkweeds, standing middle grounds—craving knowledge, listening to pathology, understanding we each carry skies.

 

Automatic feelings, to love more, what a soul is chasing—no interruptions, no promises, with all looking like a promise.  

Metaphysic Asphalt

 

I’ve humility to grace—with reality’s fever, roving through mist and water; certain motion, swaying in the breeze, alarmed it’s been so neutral—those with fire, hearts dissimilar, souls knitting flickers—the maze as it churns, most likely a gift, made life in its horizon. Those lenses those arms, sure reach into essence, to have lived a million eons. And days were blue, marooned in faith, abandoned to a man’s understanding; decisions as they chance, wilderness as it develops, spirit and body as they dance. By wit of the moon, certain grace in humility, sweaty rain in the middle. Parts sacrificed—language enhancing quintessence, most gentle kindness; severed inside, permeating darkness, engaged to Hope. By vision of a prophet, racing in stillness, so full it feels empty … more successions, radical adjustments, soothing old wounds.

The Last Gift On Christmas

 

You’re not alone, or what was said, nor the punishment from mother. You’re more than voice, narration, and career. I lie to myself, in rows, trying to capture something authentic—upon laundry, iniquity, arises a beautiful dream, lightning and thunder, pain inverted, so proud—it aches. You felt/feel alone, roaming social ice, many might adore you; more might need you, a gift on a selected day, the way we love. Or greater pure problems, traipsing pleats, cleansing curtains—the vase made of coins, sore psychedelics, so psycho-overrated; by root of the living, sung by father, praised by mother, to announce loving something running westward: things we don’t know, nor see, nor care to. You’re not undervalued, unsaturated, with time to sing your anthem. And it seems irregular the battle to cherish, with many flailing and flogging freedom.  

Too Many Years At It

 

The love she gives, the grave I live, so much a contradiction; bled dry, frying the earth, begging to live in pains—the party of words, it never mattered, the green in a smile. I pledged eternity, I wedded my sanity, so divorced from rationality.     But a rose to sleep with, a phantom to answer enchantment, a mean nature, a core bent, so enthused to love you; never a notion, ever a mandate, so arranged to fret you; a man dies so often, many ignore his dying, so amused to explain it away; the father of the execution, the mother of the angelic, so sold and crucified. By love an abstract verb, mental waves, love seems like a breeze of misidentification; if wildness, those bane clouds, with fever falling like feral winds. So uncured, measuring adoration, surroundings begging we fail. No one fathoms, the light as it dances—feuding inside, bargaining outside, trying a trade off with God; the last to see you, the first to lose you, so threshed forever!

She Exonerated God

 

Can’t do anything, secluded, lost in traffic, and father was a wolf; so great the demon, anxious at the door, fists balled the race up; the first to live, the last to die, at luxury to eat skies; another at crumbling, another at mushrooms, I never could fly. Such is war, much a core broken, Love was confused, and misread souls. The guillotine boils, referred by God, to sacrifice his only son. Spaced out, to point it out, it seems ironic to cave out; caught that morning, out that evening, the life of 2pac. A woman wanted his soul, his guts, manufacturing hostilities; feuding inside, pushing up daisies, a space in memories—the chase in the passion, the warrant in the magic, plus, Love is a down low creature. I stopped hoping for exclusivity, I settle more on facts, not many can handle love—the smoosh, the mooch, the fame of adoring the mysticism, and Love would exonerate God.      

Let Spirit Woe II

 

I feel it was meant, the curse of the elephant, to wonder where mother was born. I feel it was destiny, an ear to pavement, a room haunted by molestation. I fret it was in vain, another wake, another warrior to the afterworld. I was sick those nights, sweating out vomit, edging into memories; and spirit came, and spirit went, the majesty of the loss. If to win, like a president, so many miles to the right church. I feel it was deliberate, I feel like a specimen, it gets to its fences; and the gatekeeper, on memory, to swoop two minutes too late. I fret its madness, the swoosh, not necessarily a good feature. I have a rash, I keep scratching, it only grows worse. I feel like knowing you would have been glory; to speak biblically, to die once again. I heard father was a roller, a dream, to play piano, to pluck violin. And loving you was wrong, a sad song, a waning in its waxing.    

Let Spirit Woe

 

You should be music, sicker sacrifice, mending wounds—hanging on to a dial tone, pleading on an answering machine, writing a lasting epitaph; stressed over gumbo, sounding southern winds, with weasels crawling under truths. My last memory, caught as going to rest, asunder in parts pleading each cavity. Those were tears, acidic lies, the cost of becoming the hero; and grandpa was a riffle, a handgun, talking big smack—those at my core, advertising war, to assert we desire more—so lost, so located, the music is wheezing. Grandma was bisexual, and grandpa knew, to imagine that life; a ghost at the memory, a half body, while it floated out an old mirror. And Love is superior, a maniac, missing a few points; alive his indictment, at torn excellence, with a million on one beat. The warrant is the silence, capturing God, pleading Jesus’ Wisdom.   

Let’s Remember, It Was Never Actual

 

With war made inevitable the news announcing souls, many problems for the blemish; most things look uneven, a mind near mushrooms, forbidden from peace. I never utter a word, the pain for silence, to know with certainty. The essence is maintaining the innocence, quietude, with never an increase in dementia. Her lot her knot, her vendetta her curse, like framed to meet at the tribunal; candy marbles, a warrant from God, the head and not the tail—lost and confused, like found in total reason. What we avoid, we become, the hat he gave, we give to another; ha! I was standing the exhaust, I was mingling with lesbians, I felt appreciated—the mountain bleeding those hills screaming, her face racing across California. To sit at my side, to wonder and get paid, it hast to increase in intensity—and Love caught a homicide. So drastic over a mere rumor—so tragic over what was imagined, a menace in his grave, a blank expression, finally to pass over. A bag made Gucci, a skirt made Prada, a life surpassing the ghetto. A need in turmoil, a beige ruler, to wonder why existence remains vague.  

Cadence & Sacrifice

 

In the drum of history, a soul goes ballistic, listening to desire; a cage for a feeling, a gut for silence, excellence the best of what she believes. I was tribal, caught in celebrity, willing unwittingly—quick to silver, unmanaged, streaming as we soar—the pain on exhaustion, surging into waves, the sky singing as it dreams. Like muskrat grime, silence wailing chants, severed and torn asunder—the goodness of memories, sweet and sour candy, to have adored where love wasn’t tolerated. Many drums, sexual pearls, I have said little—and worshiped in vain, the color of her horizon, made in underestimation. (To see suffering, to touch humanity, a drum deeper into humility); another, as dying, another pleat, trying to remove the curtain. Sore and tribal—those with magic, to have ached for her century. A tear to fall the grave to speak, essence reframed, treasures at war, something controlling man. Onyx and topaz—beauty in its anger, cutting skies. The vex of excitement, a thin edging, lost in degrees, and longing for song.          

Legacy In The Wound

 

We carry hope, siphon promises, sewn into crevices; concrete abstracts, love as it appears, most wish for more; a dumbing ache, a fugitive heart, given to graces. I was flirting those waves, some underground activity, a soul never understands itself. Be good to self, be good to you, such cozy deception; carrying legislation, earnest in the woods, racing to catch the hidden self. Untucked. Fraught by pash. To look intently and walk away from life. Clamor and tears. Palleted prose. Palatial storm-cries. Stooped at the temple war—favored for disgusts—loved and released.     We buried memories, if to survive memories, as souls cursed in the cornfields. Sought for euphoria. Chased a zillion insights. Torn to making fire with non-trust. It seems ordinary, made complex, nothing is sacred—all has become tools: madness leaning into healing, iconic flame and dis-memories, rancid and rotten and realness.         

Resurrecting Mirrors

 

It was silence to attract us. It was pain to sew us. The galloping horse, the beige falcon, those turquoise eagles. (To be like Christ, made painful, fraught by terrors.) By a price, seated front row, a great grandson was baptized—on his journey, to know his rain, to palm his joys. So existential—never to lose it, it has become inherent; steep debates, human suffering, a strange and contagious condition. Hands open, cupping invisibility, bread and wine transubstantiated; the human eucharist, at memories manifested, too many becoming unsettled; sheer majesty of the warmth, to become something in fury, to pretend it’s different in other souls. By grace of the hawks, by an ocelot with fangs, by a dragon becoming human. Ashes on Wednesday. Prayer on Sunday. Ascension by diligence. Time enveloping itself. A compass around reality, semi-bent, unspent and exhausted—the world spinning, an anxious glance, coming to meet himself.             

Violin The Elements

 

The war is on the inside. Life is twofold, realness and games. Many say for realness, unable to comfort the opinion, not ready for realness. Left with games, taking an issue, seeing how they weaken themselves. So affected by religion, unable to live religion, filled and bypassed. Holiness has activities. A man is a tyrant, he behaves according to rules, regulations, a great memory. It means little to us. We’re focused on contradiction, livid at it, no thoughts of error. To feel it in breath. Reason to say, “Only God can judge me!” More would say, “That’s a copout.” We bring it back to humanism. We need authority on it. We’ve religion scientific. To think of Moses … blow for blow …. newness of brains.     The contradiction is activity and inactivity. As an active sinner, I participate in sin, as an inactive participant, I neglect on some note. Some think about it. Many more try not to think about it. Religion is inherent—a need to worship Goodness, it sits at the core of life—a need to believe is something better than what we see. A man walks with a curse. It leaks out. Many turn directions.  

Gentility: Making Request

 

Be ever gentle—language made excellent, if perchance to indenture a feeling … waving, more ebbing, juggling possibility.

A knotted soul, if trying meant accomplishment, further into arts … certain apologetic, much rain falling on life, to have banished love—to have cherished love.

Aside a mistyrose, palming an ant, hushing silence; steering mystery, looking at an infant, in mind so early at pangs—pure interference, sprouts of emotion, so be gentle with images.

Insoluble passion.

Kiwi eyes.

Woodfire hearts.

Remaining with masks, unfastened at corners, sulking aside poison grapes; wildrose berries, tulip gifts, azalea surprises … over salmonberries, over deeper feelings, life is a chase to experience love … so great the refute of love.

Evolution becomes intense compassion … becoming seems excellent, if to ignore the miseries – clashing with mirrors, aching to locate a medium, distracted by memories … seated in office, a pillar of wisdom, valued, the non-approval.

To iron a petal, to wrap flowers, many roses in the icebox;

romantic ripples …

science of misappropriation …

religious mistakes.

An ancient grandson, to have ritual over knapweed, assigned an interior crossing – casual causation, dots connecting, to imagine how souls find justice – to imagine flights, sipping, like puppeteers.

Iridescent irrigation—siphoned desires, nasty in those regions; to have died prematurely, to know life by age seven, to look to the primary caregiver;

asking for gentility, negotiating between tribulations, failing his office.

A surly soul cupping silt.

A mystic curiosity, morose caring, metric cures – if to last a short time.

Precious lies, penalty adversity, pensive angels with error.

Loving her was easy; to see existential anguish, more would argue for depression. Each road—leading to understanding, and each epiphany, clouding his dreams – those in fury, the flame so familiar, an abstract anxiety.

And adoring was harder, an adverse palate, a teasing tongue, made determined to deceit – a cornfield of spirits, willow trees hanging, leaves speaking loss and life.

Be ever gentle. Become what flies. Many flit feeling wingless.

A soul dismantled, longing for one sensation, as it comes into love, as it dissipates into something mundane.

Colliding with souls, a naïve essence, eating the work of his deeds; at a deadlock, rather, a system-lock … if to request, by some mercy, the excellence in gentility.            

Unknown To The Mirror

 

On an empty stomach, aching the miracles, lost and found at the crossroads—such a crucifix, arms tugging at me, the baby in the crib, sound as a curse, bodies as aging, youth swift to pass away; my hands have done freezing, haven, heaven, hell—some grave haunting at inception; a guffaw in the background, a sin dangling in suspension, strange animals.

So tender the math—spatial geometry, when it comes together, we’ll be early for the feast.

I would if and only if—those winds so impartial—searching for ultimate experience—always gawking, mouth agape, the longing I live.

On an empty stomach, eating at hope, seesawing above sulfur—those battling self, hating breath, accursed—and blessed. Life is filled with chores, women are filled with life, men are fraught by existence; those deeper corners, family essence, energy propelling itself—

            seabirds hovering low—above themselves, atop suffering, if to have such sentience; some oceanic desert, some earth mannequin, so mangled by sky events.

            Parched, thus, thirsty, seeking a gift; slathered by reality, whirling in circles, if finding life meant locating closure—the mountain chase, the idol at its sin, so amazed it keeps forward.

The Complication

 

A soul will seesaw those inner laws, too proud to announce Love’s arrival. And time seems irrelevant, made important, the body aging; running out of ingredients, utilizing nutmeg, with arguments for why we shouldn’t, with dreams we could, mouthing off at ghostly feelings—the chills whispering, framed in portraits, releasing Love. Floating on lava by miracle of the cherry tree, aching like cold bones—arranged to love again, sheer resistant to those apples, with minds haunting through vines; mere humans, fretting immortality, not realizing the question, its depth, the debt of the body. The skies are jamb. California is quicker. If made slower, we’d crumble.

            I read the bulletin—rebels settling at the farm—wraiths, as if, to swoosh and swish through interior—a calling in some direction, a campus full of beginnings, a soul born anti-social – as if, with dedication to separation, eating licorice.

            Filled with Love, familiar with the bourgeois, knowing it can get better; the grand showdown, at sundown, and no one showed up.

            The podium, her singsong voice, years of trepidation and triumph: mind opulence, classical worth, spirit lungs and liturgy, so charmed to have existed.      

At First, It Doesn’t Seem Possible

 

So stubborn, eating his sorcery, pausing, to imagine what was done. Sheer redundancy—looking at her countenance, to piecemeal satisfaction—with life so captivating—it dies. A fever in her eyes, so alone, too crowded, the fullness of

 

emptiness: stranger words, made of cessation, so appointed to the cycle. I was at ether, mentally isolated, cured in deceit; and she came to life, and she laughed at skies, to the chagrin of a sinning holiness. Made incomplete, chasing

 

the Ideal, found in identity. A soul sprawled before God, with terrors at his heels, while nothing is in those winds.

Tell that it never dies, so uncured, breathing in separation; if to dine on clouds, lobster and steak, fate and fiction—a

 

plan sketched in haste, so deep the cut, with pain skiing. I

would if it was possible, once disappointed, once at vice.

The Entrance Is The Verification

 

Through cotton and crops—side perspective, right there, a soul must ignore what he sees; running and no one is chasing, the methodology imprint, the mind churning itself, suspect for far too long.

 

A spirit inside, a body made flesh, so disgraced, to prove a mute-point—racing to please abstracts, at tender embrace with metallics, at harsh impact with weather. The church portico, if to rest inside, feeling it must be liquor.

 

Disfavored allegations, the worst of ourselves, and justified, in trench, in depth, and one major debt.

Carrying shame, forced to believe, as in hating self; by fierce inculcation, deranged at some point,

 

made sicker than heart-shine.

 

Tied to souls, scissored at memories, ignoring first implication; a wall gunning, pushing at his lungs, smoke filled chimneys; most pantomime, listening to soundness, with pressure so subtle the sun is unclear.

 

By fever those times, an interior ventriloquist, and God came to watch the show.

 

Never as it would be, only acceptable, barely warm enough to hear: lost motives, chasing so long, it becomes a vendetta. Rain pouring in. Regardless. It doesn’t matter if hunches are true. The gate is the dungeon.

When It Was Human Nature

 

Say it hurts, die a smidgen, never tell me its over. The fire of the planet, swishing through freeways, a man cursed, livid in a surprise, on slow roast. In earnest to have flight, into terrors, to sit, enduring the critical. Some fool in her eyes, if to imagine truths, so silent the debt—the depth, so uncured, so distant, trying harder to exist; all I need, was all that was given, some dream in a ribbon, so alienated, estranged from others, looking anti-normality, the odd creature, the fury of the battle, a war to prove him wrong.

 

As it hit, metallic fireworks, to ignore his brains; so silent excellence, befalling his crown, threshed, sacrificed, given to language. A soul and his dreams—a woman and her ideals, an iconoclast and his reasoning.  

 

It never mattered, right or wrong, she would pursue—a fount in a cave, palatial sunrise, an epiphany, or damnation.    

The Forest Has Trees

 

To have died in essence, lost for a century, heat churning metal—psychedelic nightmares, one brain in sequences,

 

and Love found me; the beauty of catastrophe, two in mixed pains, held tightly; a grave for a sinner, a casket for a

 

holy man, resurrection for the living. I was begging like never I lived; I was heaving like never a breath; and living

 

seemed indistinct, undistinguished, to fret its intangibility. Facing myself. Eating raw skies. Into a dungeon and

 

moving quickly. Love smelled of life, corners kept bending, a man might not need the answers.     Walling tar,

 

palming soot, sitting afore a soothsayer; and Love was pleading, some curse in me, to feel blessed, like Jesus

 

favored us. Some eyes pick through thickets, baking briers, crawling through words; they fall heavily, the minds

 

wheezing, nothing left but survival, the wilderness in bane, those flaming at cemeteries, an anxious soul, a feeble

 

understanding, a righteousness for essence.     Radical miseries. Sheer raw excitement. Another pleat, as faced a

 

dream, encased in senseless laughter.     An empty crib, a child moving, souls laughing.       

Ebbing Into Silence

 

It seems ingenious by art of sound, tone hesitant, leasing a smile; if loving is made vulnerable, or strategic, how have we become stable? Holding to her calmness, her excellence, envying where she pledges allegiance; sore petals, softer grass, turquoise experience. In begging for obsession, to sense reluctance, by grace to have surrendered. Souls magnified, parish wishes, condemned to allergies—her swiftness, so many degrees, falling into a form of freedom—to adore, if worthy, some strange creature. It appears disingenuous, to claim against passion, to feign a dream upon an ax. Holiday sadness—those woes coming harsher, to remember a special soul and precious silence. If loving is made unpredictable, some unique monopoly, how have we become stable? I was noticing interior, the way she paws a heart, so intricate the way she plays nonchalance. In spirit to announce her, to receive self, cleaving to invisibility. So great the affection, so distant the reality, two hiking up hills. To exhaust compassion, to invert good luck, listening to joy’s radar. I was found daydreaming. I was located returning. I was lost in sable eyes. Some deep lantern, some sailing ship. Upon waves meant for adults.      

Ideal Weather

 

Promise might strike, fraught by emotion, raw catharses; violent birth, visceral anxieties, followed by schism, circumcision, and light; plaid particles, character confusion, lacking components.

There’s a place souls travel, a vulnerable space, much deeper than what I can conjure up … to feel love as entity, to desire reciprocation, to pledge existence to another creature … over sober intensity, so steep it’s somber, so explicit it hurts … to function through another person, so fiercely steady, made a creature of passions … I notice this space     on holy grounds     two made incomplete without each other.

Gray pictures, colored adventure, spectacular undulations. If two would become absorbed, to live, eat and pray in each other … so ideal, made in some land, seeming religious, enigmatic, a saga in a story, fraught by fever, fervent in its release, maybe too gray for measure.   

Orchard Soil

 

Dry water, wet deserts, and life is contradiction. The volume of excitement, captured love, it mustn’t last. A soul under construction, wreckage feeling complete, to again

 

another’s tornado; power relinquished, needing to believe, if but a fraction of responsibility. Reaching into prophecy, unraveling future events, threshed and repenting;

 

a dying man may be a cruel man, else, a desperate soul, facing desperation, trying to rebuild those last viral seconds; television indiscretion, multiple ideals, vanished into blue

 

ivory. And Love was good, formed in simplicity, framed in madness; yawning often, but not in return, trying harder. Many future at presence, illusions bent atmosphere, while

 

winds are wheezing. Like quicksand, a soul seeps in, groveling and grieving, griping and groping—fire extinguished, bothersome reality, tropes and similes; the last smile,

 

crossing her face, a child filled with promise; ironic passion, fusion cries, effused, poured into society. Trials for those spirits, confusion for us spirits, asking—the why to my

 

actions: featured in premise, abstruse and ashamed, doing against the will. The fair and seeing berries, made into shivers, heat pressing into affirmation.   

Against All Odds

 

 

The goodness of sincerity, by rain of its curse, bleeding something supernatural—underneath the underbrush, praying slowly, trying to electrify—too heavy for clouds, still floating, the mantis preaching, and long those emotions, dripping into blackdamp, liquified by essence.

Captured by her beauty—so naturalistic, an interior epiphany, and Love lied, the lie was gorgeous, and we’ve died, laughing in tears, choking up, face melding into lovemaking.

Many generations, speaking street church, so afraid to die out;

a miracle to have succeeded, so great the filth, trying to cleanse the memories. And Love is transgression, the Kingdom in jeopardy, every soul desires her. And I was lost in feelings, exhausted by emotions, flirting with perception: needing

her style, at a thought and leap, wondering why part of life is an audience. Tell it on science, baptize religion, build an edifice, cleaving to impossibility.  

Prose Is Incarnate

 

The grave spat me out, dirty darkness, keels and kilns—the furnace churning, the spirit roaming, a flame for the souls burning. Baby Girl, the life I lived, the drain I crawled through: a filthy man, a disrespected specimen, so filled it seems discouraged—the prompt for dying, the way it calls, the walls I walked through; so bionic, such a drilling, the curse of being nameless; some misnomer, made weak, like flying against all odds; the space as it developed, the core as it opened, those dreams forfeited for hunger. And when mother found me, I was cruel a man craving, those tears were helium. A bag of mothballs, a feather made of parsley, a bucket of soiled garlic—the fire we give, those legs to chancing, never more deliberate than sinning—an occasion for authorship, a trope for uneasy, the phone was bleeding. The soul aching screams, holding panic, fleeing, filled with nervousness, the vase as it spoke, a dynasty as it died, a grievance as it resurrected.    

When You Ask For Marriage

 

Knowing you has been ambivalence, science, mystery and silence. By spirit of excellence, to seize divinity, craving as one yearns, fretting affection; brighter skies, treasured tomorrows, feigning deeper comforts. Math of cosmos, delicate essence, brought into sullen warmth. To speak the language, with dreams of purity, to know with surety. If one soul, as words profess, with never-would consecrated, and days are authentic.     Certain to show patience, feeling inconsistent, with tolerance begging itself. Moments facing ambiguity—lunging into emotions, framed by an uneasy static. As in spaces, asked to divulge pressures, with articulation escaping us. Value of unknown presence, special understanding, so natural to others, so deliberate to excellence; much sincerity, beautiful aura, precious sight, longing for surrender, asked to make assurance.