Geisha & Dream

 

love is thought in essence, the pith of substance, everything in existence.

 

the living of love is disrupted, in need of evaluation, our Italian roots.

 

the tale is told of souls and spirits—the urn is filled with bone and ashes.

 

the arts are in jeopardy, the huts are metaphors, the sand is a bridge—in days filled with imbalance, the cage of the soul, unlocked, moving rapidly.

 

the gentility of the monster, the chirping of the birds, the softer, lonely pillows.

 

the heart is most curious—running through time, enduring space; a pinch to determine reality, a vessel in mind-soul, the magic of the irregular spirit.  

 

the light is the fire, the fire is the miracle, and the feathers are used for wingspan.

 

—demanding the part of the songbird, the polite industry of it all, slower to the greater distressors—

 

existence hast proven itself a party of the visitors. thoughts appear. viable excellence appears. forces permeate the winds.

 

it’s beautiful the loudness of silence—the bass of the emptiness, the surrounding of the challenge.

 

valleys are filled with purple violets, indisputable nature, cougars racing into the meadows.

 

by the song of the song, the blackness of the servant, the maid of the King.

 

deeper reality, immortal/universal reality, as it was, it is, as it is, it will be.

 

the face is the romance. the art is the dream. the soul fights itself: it wishes its resolve.

 

aside a Ziploc bag of petals, or inside a freezer of flowers, a heart is pulsating gently.

 

the pictures say special things—the soul of the music, the essence of the spirit, the majesty of the endlessness.

 

stolid eyelashes, the texture of an entrance, the refusal of the sacrifice.

 

it will appear in flame the fierce mantis, the last fruitful prayer.

 

too much variation hurts, we yearn for something vetted, we chime to a southern chase.

What Used To Be In Bars

 

I heard it loudly, they know me, nonetheless, I have something to prose, and too much to lose. the beat bleeding, leaking into sanity, I gallop to get back to her. heart-rafts, reputed for deranged, I loved her so damn much, I hate her guts. so wretched, eating buds, low to the dirt. was it pain, the blood dripping, the home life was a prison.? some are meant to fly, to hit the streets, to do 100 mph, hit the curb, Friend! blazing blunts, couldn’t sustain sobriety, she too damn fantastic. I monster out, I love the flicker, I would have died in her corner! I was so damn sick, to make passion, it meant to love like forever, I was so disappointed, so hurt, as, too, to forfeit on Love. I pulse out, we all rich, the talent, the feeling, I knew he was in sorrow—his wife so enlove, so in his corner, but he frets loneness. herewith, so appreciative—the feeling is uncanny, the sensories are unclear, bouncing inside is a miracle. I stir the stew, I look at her, it was crazy to suddenly feel her. I speed out, I roll the torture, I pushed the boulder, and walked away. an existentialist, a mystic, my child a manic at it. much to adore her guts. most to give her mother space. much more at this ink. at editing like a lunatic. fretted by the fear of love. couldn’t deal with something on that level. I feel bad, but I can’t include the royals. I drag knuckles. I remember addicts. I was in the ghetto at ten, at eleven, at fifteen, at infinity, until its broken life.  

Silent Holy Existence

 

many canvas fantasies, legendary souls, deep, dark, rubescent anguish.

those episodes are engrained, each second, baptizing the chase for sanity.

we learn to paint life. we learn to give back to life. so many brushes, paint rinsed in cooling water. I sense, many have forgotten to dream.

I keep photo painting, inside a pluvial flood, dealing with opaque certainty.

mother played Solitaire, looking concerned, a novel sitting at her right side; some insoluble problem, an appeasable anxiety, a monthly reminder of trials and tribulations.

 

atop the building is a terrace. we might visit from time to soul. damming our thoughts, envious of jealousies, palming thought-sediments. and watching what was said.

 

the name was on my tongue—but it wouldn’t come forth, she said it plainly.

bronze mane. black bird eyes. a long torso. small ears. forceful. present. delicate hands. aesthetic features. in pumpkin-orange boots.

 

it kills the soul how it yearns for esoteria—we might disappoint ourselves.

 

higher up—the sky veins—the rosaries, the silent existence.

 

I might tailor a pinpoint—often, I feel a pinpoint, pleased with the pain generating the motion—some might agree.

 

over kiwi and pineapple, we conversed, feeling chemistry. one might be amazed at what a person will ignore—where a spouse appears, just for the sanctity of the holiness.

 

the mansard is bombastic, ballistic, touching its kernel, made ripe for the soul. the mind might need quickly, the heart might follow quickly, or it’s felt, then meditated, searching the countryside.

The Only Problem

 

like a barracuda, those eyes, thitherto, a product of two cultures. the war for the mestizo, the fledgling racing through cornfields. the violet passage, the head of cabbage, the sausage on a lonely journey. the scholars I admire.

sense the uncomfortable incipience, the way it came into existence, so deranged back when, it didn’t make quickening sense. I dislike the laughter—as filled with suspicion, many icons look so shady. wasting time, or a locomotive, up and out into the wilderness, hunting for game, plucking the capture, cutting into meat, fire high upon firebricks. most are living the plight of generations prior to the birthright!  

 

more inner commands, screaming at the reflection, fixing each inconsistency. looking ridiculous, filled with shame, another faux pas.

 

at throttle. at participation. sworn to engrave father’s name. sworn to remove mother’s disdain.

 

so aloof. watching my heart. all I was made to feel.

 

the engagement—many needing absolute perfection, I can hear the other regions. a mental millimeter, the closeness in souls, I still respect his literature.

 

an academic miracle. a child so slung, I keep spinning.

 

back into a centered space, the product of multiple prides, we might live to find existence.

 

pull the lamps out, check the kilowatts, buffer the discouraging mirror.

 

a damn catastrophe, a problem in self, it amazes how I was killing myself.

Focus Is The Pattern

 

the season isn’t gentle. a plate of red snapper with broccoli, the soul in its era.

 

the recent exchange—days of accusations, lilies and spawning and webs.

 

core knowledge, dependable knowledge, to come to zero influence.

 

contentions argued for, concerned about infatuation, realizing—there must be a need.

 

feelings underfoot, like theological conundrums, it amazes how dogma will ditch some hard to discuss questions.

 

an itchy scalp: a soul’s dilemma; killed a tender whit inside.

 

how to say I love you, without ever meeting you?

 

many will fight me on that point.

 

the koan is difficult: envision the soul’s soul.

 

dragonflies hover closely.

 

my senses have been enthralled.

 

I would never, I believe, eat octopus.

 

leaping in cultures, admiring exotic creatures, ruminating upon forest endeavors. the odds are difficult.

 

at love with silence or superstition—hoping for eternal romance, or substance in the silence.

 

hearts do inventory, a soul might communion, but only one knows with quasi-certainty.

 

I imagine slain majesty, a grown person, a spirit in the souls.

 

maybe a bull-ant, or bees inside, or honey in a lion.

 

(You became life, after two escapes, now we hear manic laughter.)

 

Love is a debutante, a scriptural lawyer, a reborn sacrifice.

 

she carves me, some distinct pain in me, something done, unbeknownst, or innocent.

 

much caving science, or kissing invisibility, or a few needing a guarantee. yes. but will the promise be cherished, never assaulted, treasured into the next life?

The Major Milestones

 

where have days left us? lethal days? electric to die days? churning in seas, desperate whales, one death, one harpoon. a cloud depicted in sound, so religious the way we adore. immortal prose, found in-between metaphors, so descriptive, so eloquent … reduced to caricature. aside jasmine tulips, sits a cheetah, afore an empire. at top speed, reaching 100 meters, climbing a sky ladder.

 

the ultimate plea, supernatural glowing, as if a soul was waiting.

 

a small request to know in time the whereabouts of my soul.

 

volcanoes and rafts. stagnant change. fields and dreams and diets.

 

deeper frets, the catastrophe absence, unaware of what one is partaking of: the earth was manicured.  

 

dry problems. responses aren’t important. mirrors surround the essence. arts and spigots and drains. emotions, thereto, those eyes, as whet with the hidden lusts.

 

the shadow appears, dark, lonely, afraid, eager to love, and then betrayed.

 

accumulating debts.  I reminisce, if only too naïve, sensing a soul made indestructible.

 

pursuing life, as going by dreams, to have read too closely. the fool in me the scream in us, so delicate—the need for ravishing.

 

many rivers, southern pains, along the salmon trail. nothing matters anymore.

 

some identity. some tendency. looking at an animal in self. trying to destroy the monster—she adores the monster—I have come to need her monster.

 

ropes and trees and nurturing back to health—the planet, as axed asunder, the revenge, it became the excuse.

 

insidious shame, blackened ink, our greenish hopes, orange-saffron sun.

 

the illogical assertion—is to claim love—afore meeting the person, or is it?

 

where love would tillage itself, running into itself, rushing waters, wilder shores, a palm of sand.

 

neuronic threshing. intimate disliking. nothing exists outside of activities, or does it?

 

the long exit, the waiting ingress, so amazed to have made it in: the major milestones.

Heart Academia

 

(I would light a clove. I would spin an idea.)

 

I often feel attraction—mounting resistance, multiplied by restrictions.

 

I planned to write something good—this came out—I preempt it to be less than what I am reaching for; like professional, established, is better than tinkering, freelancing, without a contract, nor a base. The first question is, Is this company registered? I do digress. It applies to life.  

 

at times, on purpose.

 

but I notice she often creeps in. the dreamscape, the images, seated as we swim, mingled as we break silence, nothing much ever said. promising cordiality, receiving minimalism, me wondering, her wondering, Are we prejudiced?

 

electricity at times. many people in her court. I wonder—Does electricity get lonely—Does it impair the silence?

 

the fragile warrior, the too brick-born soldier, the auxiliary swearing harshly, and vowing to die for the success.

 

nevertheless, stern suffering, music alighting heaven, heaven coming to earth. as is, it was, as was, is now is.

 

wasted years, the want of something unvetted, just to know, just to plead, as if, just being self—is more than enough.

 

humans are suspicious of the internal operation. the scientific is applied to the heart. alpha and beta and omega and ethos and logos and pathos and apophatic and cataphatic and so tired of the ether disconnection.

 

I fear those trying aren’t getting to the zenith of the matter.

 

so terrific. many pedestals. the difference is, I want what will sustain the freedom.

 

too salacious, a personal grievance, but I demand salacious. so spectacular the essence, too extraordinary, I must be the only sight in existence. too absurd!  (centuries perfecting womanhood.) notwithstanding, much pruning, many roses, to walk softly and pluck a fig. waxing-on and waxing-off.

 

brown compasses.

 

(the argument seems crazy. we are depending on the mind to override the heart): I’ll leave that alone. the loyalty to the promise, is the promise to the universe, the universe as a witness of my behavior. the days are symbolic. the beauty is over-capturing, seeing is believing—in time, wings, and fairness.

Elephant Eyes

 

love is fruitful, languishing at times,

ruling

with fierceness.

 

the exterior rib, the interior connection,

many untherapeutic cigars. to venture 

an unsung song, scribbled as

nondescriptive, accursed for a ruined

man: the steep consensus, America in

Europe, ghettoes stifled.

 

ecumenical spikes, remarkable chasms,

souls are taught to listen: brazen

faces, benighted charms, liquid roots.

 

terrible makeup, enamored frustration,

intangible-reachable skies: the inner

roadrunner, hyena genetics, the

intellectual barracuda: sworn by

intuition, shimmering eels, the

synaptic gap-shark—running into

vestibules, shaved by dooms, at closure,

a different type of human.

 

more at touch, or ascetic monsters, too

gentle for sanity.

 

the sutra verses, huts in Tibet, trying to

find courage.

 

the luminous society, the miraculous

model, the mystic illusion; intrusive

chaos, more as written, coming to

realize an elusive war: contrite hearts,

monsters shifting, souls born to

alcoholism.

 

the ignored reality, shaped by riches,

interiors dying with delusions.

 

the perfect countenance, the rabid truffle,

the mental carnival: cut with silence,

thrust through by spears, the game of

jousting souls.

 

I fiddle a quarter, feeling marooned,

the

raft

punctured by shames.

 

the musical vice, the musical charm,

the

musical travesty.

 

quivering morale. over Palestinian

women,

to hear Persian cries.

 

art is floating, keystones are

employed,

if to decipher the meaning of

existence.

 

decreased zeal. increased cynicism.

without warning, becoming

skeptical.

Curiosity Makes for Curiosity: Remain Distant

 

those chameleon gestures—always someone new—variance depends on mind waves. needn’t much incentive. arts are fervent, feverish, warm wombed. breeding seduction. a palate for radiance. a child of nectar, plums, and guava. the bone and gristle. thought-particles and glitter. to watch, desire with caution, to walk away ignoring reality.

 

it means so little. it hasn’t a concrete wing. something to gnaw into. brains are abstract, unless for actuality—those projections have no substantive properties—unless the object is concrete, and then, one can never know it, as in itself. kicking at splinters, or angry about a response, or flying on high, or saying something quite intrusive, yet, subtle.

 

the interior archeologist, tugging at intentionality, arrested by investigations, a person might wonder about motivation—why the clock ticks without a battery? a scientific dove, a creature beyond susceptibility, unless, deliberate to fall like a rapture. a spiritualists – one made a comment, she seemed either concerned, or provoked –

 

the reality of the attention, as if in smarts alone, wanting, nay, desiring, selfsame attention, for selfsame reason – they know it’s the wit, if not assisted by the beauty – I have become easy to peg, in some sense.  

 

an interior spiritualist, dreams are confusing, insofar, those bridges collapse, they fall, they rise, a soul is ripe in suggesting, a gap between the mountains. aggression, softness, music in silence, as needing at times, the call of the feature, the grime of the eloquence. so much buoyance in a stream of chi.   

 

it seemed at random, the mind account, the profile.

 

was it easy? I meant it to be easy. our scalps itching by silence. some terrible conclusion/assumption, some horrible soul, but it was a mixture, if honest, if gray.

 

some purgatorial prison, a little tugging at reality, a little empathy.

 

cashew skinned skies. mahogany eyebrows. I try to say something cute. mothlike rejection, anthill irritation, a picknick becoming alarming, in a sense, too many emotions are raiding the blanket.

 

inner resonance. future contemplation. past conclusions. the mirage is enormous. the attraction would become bestial, violent, in some sense, one brings the feature to its plateau. so great the permanent phobia, the curiosity, the waves back to shore. panting harder. breathing harder. it was a closer call.

Mildew & Flowers

 

ink hits the wall the words seem dead

the hydrant sits and watches

asphalt carries what it supports

and lately, she has become matters—

in importance, in races, faster the star

is silent.

 

the carpet has memories, the skies are

insane, the mug has shattered; coffee

trickles into a crevice, behind the

refrigerator—a mouse makes a noise,

steam wafts knee high.

 

take beauty for its depth. does it mean

essence? two cents for thoughts, poets

pay quickly—we reread the château,

the shelter near the pond, the widow

in the attic, the grandfather, alone,

eating a bowel of Campbell’s.

 

at times, a jester appears to me; he

mocks, he pecks at wood, he knits a

perfect inconsistency.

 

the edifice is solid. it has stood for

centuries. the wires hang low. mom

and pop ignore the glitch, in time, two

become comfortable.

 

signals are sailing. healing is hailing.

the walls wail into wilderness; aches

attract aches; the fire is smoldering

on ice—the shadow is filled with

florescence.

 

classroom violence, filled with tones,

what was ignored, became ruthless.     

Black Skin

 

admire the reigns, the diligence, the bedlam.

 

the notion is tragic, the beauty is terrific, the swan is controversial.

 

I die inside, eyes heavy as the albatross, laughter is not with me, but I chuckle.

 

you are in development. I am in development. it’s raw. imagine if we make it into next year. it will be fire, rotten candy, resurrected Christ.

 

I found a camera. I developed the film. a woman was naked, sipping some liquid, laughing and playing and pure.

 

rebuilt engines—I knew you disliked me, for no other reason, than I didn’t show deference. have you earned it?

 

tragic games. with illness in mind. you ought to feel shame.

 

I lost too much. it still hasn’t blossomed. the soil is too heavy, heaving, and needing an inhaler.

 

some crazed antic. I must bring it low. it isn’t difficult to become emotional. that’s my race!

 

those mantis eyes, that quick wit, it made me like her.

 

no need for redemption. I haven’t done much. it’s been a long time, unless breathing is like sinning.

 

the sacrifice is the cactus. the rebirth is the desert. I’m not aiming for imperfection.

 

voodoo was the family origin.