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.
