Grazing Beethoven’s Fifth

 

when we speak of ghettoes and slums in screams—we speak to loquats, sour lemons, bold, audacious ambition, drive, to make sense of something senseless.

 

to die in arms made metallic, or of wood; symphonies in the ghetto—the ambition of the pride in the ghetto; pure silence of the slums, a billion-dollars passed through the poverty; life was meant to be lived.

 

I must fawn: you would destroy a man, set in affliction, priding womb, death, and gelada; to sink into you, that offensive word, as gathered by vines, walking rocks, the flint of the forests.

 

the beautiful awe-fearing ghetto, the plunge of the spigots, the waterfalls, so tender an odor he can’t escape.

 

rising in excellence, fire in stress, so hungover those memories; seeing majesty, as bending travesty, so sweet the flame inside.

 

made warm, such cushion, hitting bone and agenda.

 

the fire of the man, the ambivalence of the sinners, the courage of the furious lakes; aborted as a seed, placed in PTSD, rites performed by disorder—the screaming face, the wrinkles in souls, if a man dies—he yearns for you.

 

let the redeemed say so.

 

if to remember the mystery, to cage with violence, such satisfactory lusts;

 

the last to confess—the move was sour—let the redeemed rebuke the naysayer, let the lady that lived it, born into Jerusalem, let her win it!

Again, Human Sunshine

 

pomegranate tea and ginger root; dry, internal deserts; Romanian undercurrents, gods & glory.

 

let the Redeemed say so!

 

sunshine, underbrush, a woman’s measure, consciousness, sweet heaving, more courage; myriad chills, sitting stillness, to have seen a feeling: acrylic, glitter, mind tetherball.

 

in debating with self, it comes to pass, most are too absorbed by one element, one dream, one dreading.

 

the coastal soul, her airs, his motion; so again with sexuality, the way souls saturate life, by the gifts we share.

 

so tentative … so much déjàvu … to want in terror the ghost inside, to pledge vows to her alone: emotion in sulfur, intellect in ice patches, our faces adding up to our visions.

 

the forest has your scent—by grandiosity we go astray—and by deep effacement, we live the deaths.

 

without boundaries—is love shared, statuesque romance, fevered sexuality, any thing in essence, to have died unsatiated.

 

in desperate needs—to have addiction to soul, to spirit—to achieve what seldom lives.

 

absorbed like quicksand, seeping into us, engulfed—it sounds needy, insecure, or everything we desire in one decent outcome.

 

to hear cursing, wailing, the Aveeno ran out. to compose like musicians—to drown in poetry, annunciating each syllable;

 

if sophisticated, give grace; if a pianist, fly, soar—if woman, teach our young ladies.    

From Sappho to Yuja Wang

 

those faraway roses, meant for certain sharing, made for purpose—one must be absorbed. the piano unto frustration, the touch unto pleading, the makeshift unto made concrete

 

—loving is natural.  

 

she was a good child. she would listen, process information, and regulate feelings—made to adapt, product of the singsong, alive, fervent, fluid, a furnace—what would go sour?

 

in life, quite aligned with something bad, or good—to make use of one, to assert another is useless.

 

a lady shifts identity—the pain was just too much—trying harder to appease consensus—dying harder to avoid an ulcer.

 

the tomb of the rebel—the prison of the monster—the seduction of animals; bothered at moments, tugging around our predilections, our chainsaws, our suppositions concerning ulterior motives.

 

a soul married into writing. she wanted to outdo her, instead of partaking. we must fathom excellence.

 

the wheel is in a wheel—aloft cryptic powers, we shouldn’t be held to silence, but we mustn’t say too much, and to whom it may concern: how do we fit?

 

doubt has been a huge ‘thing’ with many—self included: the greater the doubt, the depth is excellence. desert sacrifices. too much pain to write; too much writing not to feel pain:

 

the inward observer trying to express an agenda.

 

eyes from a space. instincts made raw. if we use each other, we love each other—if we decide against each other, we loathe one another.  

Many Have Come, Many Have Vanished

 

in explaining demons the eyes we spent

time in wild lakes, fuming over mushrooms,

suffocated, lost, so eager to come to vibes,

many screens, viable deaths, and gloom.

 

we don’t speak it—the flatness, the caves, the mind-splits—be it bipolar disorder, schizophrenia, depression or tendencies needing closeness; the depression of Judah—the lion—the fields foaming with terrors and diamonds, so electric, needing that it disappears, but desiring its power—never us as people, the fury of the flying essence, turpentine waters, flaming oils, ducks drenched, flapping to no avail.

 

over orange chicken, feral insides, listening

to insensitivity; nay, not a person begging,

not a video on repeat, to engender polish—

the waves of inrush, unknown the kegging.    

 

back to flatness, spinning in inactivity, made aware, for essence is inert—trying, as it were, to infuse, to speed across an icy lake, to speak with a swan, in treasures to announce, in essence, loving you might be terrific.

 

it amazes to know the affectation of bonds,

the creativity, the sudden boom, of galvanizing

across plains, to live like one reason, if

only to make survival in one born analyzing.

 

one begins to sense cycles, or mandatory undergoing, in a world desperate for grand experience; the concrete bleeding, leaking intestines, finding in charms, a reason for apprehension.

The Tapestry Is Unsilent

 

the rain would fall making silence beautiful.

 

life unsaid—miracles unspoken—the sheer elegance of mobility—as stars turning, made immoveable, so what have we said? 

 

a face of ambition, screeching across invisibility, so much remains unheard. 

 

a mandala in midair, mid-motion, exchanging truths for immortality.  made eloquent. made suspicious. or without one motivating care—to have lived, to touch light, to swarm with fury and grace. 

 

such a remote person, isolated inside, gregarious, free, like freedoms to a prisoner. 

 

mystic chimes, as eyes implode, such sweet organic cries.  the man was dead. a lady was his mistress. one kiss, made wholesome, so much greed for resurrection. 

 

too much compassion, a soul might crumble, in a world absent of kindness; to locate her, to ask for abandonment, ignored, forced to embrace love—frontal lobes turning, ghosts waiting, overwhelming chills, one smile, it pours down shivers—to have adored inclusion, to have become a kid—in likeness, chided for insensitive remarks, made to believe she is thrown, knowing it will come haunting again;

 

things we can’t say, dreams we can’t have, with souls so beautifully unnatural.  

 

wherewith, is gravel, ventriloquists, more silent rain; as turquoise islands, rubescent charms, so tender the way we never make love. days disrupted, eyes filled with hopes, while we never get exactly what we need—the xylophone, the sax, the opera—as rolling on fevers, prone to exaggerate, but just once, I need everything—without sacrifice, without compromise, with nothing but exhilaration.

 

the rain would pounce, plummet, probe, plague—into atmosphere, the skies leaking essence, the gods wailing in thunder, the rainbow making an appearance—as promise, pride, excellence and pain.

The Sky’s Identity

 

where have we died, splayed before sunlight,

whelmed and harmed? such citizenship, split

possibilities, made ostracized by existence.

needless pontification, rather in juleps

and roses and the Tablets of Moses. suffering

sophistication. lying for no good reason.

needing elements to excite the mundane

—made winter in me, such warm summer

winds. to laugh in tender mercy; to debate

in tender hurting; trying to understand the

first woman he ever claimed. if to surrender

the internal ache, the bone in chimes, so

furious in its cry. like the last carpenter, in

high demand, each needs to refurbish his home.   

Never A Forgettable Bone

 

the anxiety comes with the love … the fire … the torment of becoming invisible.

 

the confusion is the abuse. I had to make that move. it came to clarity, the response, the sky is right on the ground … it engulfs all things … how does it separate?

 

I know you feel average … if just to witness the self in love, agony, and deaths.

 

the message is repeated by love, its apparatus, its courage … the remote fishers!

 

the tides are low. the tides are high. it doesn’t matter. you continue to become more of the compassion you harbor.

 

it hurt so much it felt good – as to separate from your feelings, to sacrifice for your soul, running into caves near lakes.

 

such a diehard leopard, never abandoning spots, so in love, so unredeemed, never a forgetful bone.

 

I speak as if … like I know you … these are impressions. or sitting close, looking at some behavioral tests, asking silly, deep questions, taking interest in those lines you’ve typed.

 

or walking at random, to see the skies begging, to witness how you ignore the skies – everything but the Love by the tides.

 

I imagine nakedness—a giggle or two, so sacred at a moment, so bashful—like the first time.

 

it’s amazing how we respond to each other – we fall forever – due to the corky, rehearsed or unrehearsed responses.

 

to still locate innocence, so trained it is, so low—it flows organically. clarinet souls, triumphant cries, biting or scratching, unrehearsed.

 

the opalescent sunrise—into bones and aches and shivers; those chills, those emotions, those terrorizing feelings.

 

the iridescent moon calling—to fall upon your sword, like Saul’s soldier, one last act of devotion.

 

one last dance. our eyes closing. the rapture upon our essence. to never again let go, to die without one regret, to awaken in a stroller, hand to fate.

At Silence & Uncertainty

 

as time depicts the portrait—the manner of the mischief—the slow pace of the day.  mothers and daughters make kindness, into a soul steeped in graces, to have furniture for essence, for rhythm, a country, like war.  to survive it, made glorious, each participating, and needing triumph.  many damaged.  many deceased.  many in bandages.  there will be pestilence, and wars, and earthquakes—be not concerned—these are not the last days—they are signs.  the tales were told.  the fury was rising.  many were compelled to act in the moment.  we see uncertainty.  to question priority—to debate the affectation—how many will end up in combat?  the world feels heavy.  many seek answers, something certain and concrete.  many more are close to the rage, hesitating to move, trying to function.  in needing to say something positive, the risk of the cliché appears, but something encouraging should be said … the memory of the strong, the days of peace, to come as to pass, and again, to gain composure.  we of prayer, urgency, faith?  what will the United States do?  has the war been decided?  will this remain isolated, or go global?  what are the terms and conditions?  the fate of the innocent, the falling persons, what makes it worthy of the loses?  

Caves & Tombs & Rusty Rain Gutters

 

can’t give full disclosure. can’t redeem silence.

the earth is surrounded—by seabirds, snakes,

and oceanic beaut(s)—the fire of trials, by

ink-ashes, those mountains, seduced by

opposites—the rough anxieties, an inner mannequin,

by life, death, or science. some supercell,

seeded inside, sewn in anguish, rummaging joys,

possessing some piece of the self I shan’t become.

by the glasses of opera, gusts of sanity, the fight I

must abate, in some gathering, so impolite

to self. by the aftermath of the spell, sluggish

with effort, webbed, sleeping but awakened,

tugging the lower self. reading a distinguished

specimen, traipsing a wire, gathering parts of

wisdom. an unwrapped creature, a perpetual

doorjamb, listening to the life of ad hoc.

it was with body, made of virtue, bothered to

possess unease: toils, flaming tumbleweed, a

need to return to centeredness.

 

II

 

I’ve much more to learn, much more to fight for;

to watch time, it beats its sequences, and

life will come, go, move, play, discuss itself. if

to find you, in saffron jeans, making joy,

giving mercy, over affidavits and appeals.

 

I’ve days to hope more, ripe for essence, and

dispute. to plead the case—of souls or spirits

or fever by wire, aside wilder boars made filthy.

to follow grayness, in touch with feelings, made

a creature of winds, the sudden gusts, by sparks.    

 

I’ve nothing to rejoin, where palms would sign:

blues and jazz, the jukebox, the river in pain;

so intense, rough ocean rain, aside ink and wine;

close to have reduced shame, never again.

Started In The Woods

 

let it be a million—if diamonds bled, if Africa walling.

 

a younger man, a madman, the sink filled with paints, dirt, and mud.

 

couldn’t walk it off, it frets the brains, to see how racist we still float.

 

the categories are in four pockets, on four corners, on four plains.

 

all we know is struggle. all we respect is earned-through-deaths. one of these corners must be mine.

 

eating perishables. living perishables. at my life with successions.

 

steaks and mushrooms. potatoes and onions. broccoli and a lighter.

 

her tongue is apprehensive, oiled, like too much magician; given mercy, taking successes, like a winner in the shell.

 

we might share cookies. we might duck each other. like I can’t read reflection.

 

looking for the perfect partner. (to do as I do—or never act like me), esp. in private.

 

Saturday morning those days, a field of orphans, a few with parents—maybe slung-out, pronged for destruction, pockets filled with corners.

 

feelings take precedent, graduating to caring, so much, it hurts. near the sidewalk, playing his guitar, Love stuck close.

 

so intrinsic—pure internal pegs, to do more for one than self. it gets different, serpents repenting, finding religiosity, pour the last bag out.

 

like Egyptian cores, Ethiopian bones, floating higher, destroyed and living harder. eyes with a daze, gazing closer, amazed by what we can’t see.

 

like Hebrew passion, in a Hebrew Bible, touched, and never confused; read it, explained it, lived it, like Judah the livid.

 

the dying of the excuses, the winning of the few, the detriment of the outlandish.

 

so many at the caves, running into Adullam, the ghost of David is reading.

The Greatest Majesty

 

I have loved and clung to the life in you.

I have a gift worth more than I can give.

over tender terrain, struck in essence—

more images, careful tragedy, more sin.

 

I have disgraced myself, with two treasures

plus, ink, films, more property, laughing

or dying, with personal passion in kef

those ashes, interior burning and clashing.

 

crossing paths has brought tensity, action;

in sensing dear joy, as it appears, I love

as created, unredeemed, more serious ink—

close to coming closer, at falling into mud.

 

most reckless cares, claims, comfort in lies;

to have done so great a mission to try.  

Irony of The Nature/Nurture Conflict

 

perfected damages, the rotten soul, made good in glory. the reprobate might be chosen, the uneasy might have a point, more to erasing the unnecessary, if it’s truly unnecessary.

 

absent by presence, looking for ruined, spatial and uncertain. the waterfall is backwards.  

 

needing myself, needing my love, seated in essence; what have we explained? to have needs of others?

 

the country of wolves, pleading in logic, given one last miracle.

 

minds before an audience, radicle exploration, seeing a mile into the shivers; it will be mimicked, the trembling, the ghosts humming, moved into me, and laughing.

 

so religious—why religious—why some and not others? it’s the calling of certain souls.

 

(it was distinct. I answered my mind. I felt an intensity.) those eyes trouble me. they can’t be examined. all forthcoming is conjecture, and commonsense—the anguish of the logic, the winning of the struggle—the anxiety of the lion. a need to feel, a want to rage, so much contained—coming in one flare, maybe thrice; much absence, in such presence, just to adapt to life.

 

the curse is the page as it glares and moves, knowing her disposition, much in the horizon. she fights, has fought, nothing less than the good fight. blessed in the here, the now, passing blessings as necessary.

 

into the forest, riddled with feelings, fretting the guarantee; given life, in one instance, desiring the first essence.

 

into the mind, loving her art, like confused to listen, touching in core-spaces, erased from logic.

 

the behavior is enigmatic, the resilience is born and rough, the destination is mixed, one might suggest, Love is different, unexplained, fevered, falling to the rough heaven.

 

a clean house, expensive furniture, alone, made perfect, smelling skies. with so much to believe, it gets hard to function.

 

saw too many inside, overwhelmed inside, pushed against pure chemistry inside.

 

so much ignorance, a skunk in the woods, the coppice is fraught by ambition.

 

so clear to me—the tests, the miles, sensing more than reality. we put measures on it, it has a certain texture, it must appeal to physics.

 

if not, diamonds melt, vision blurs, at the jeweler trying to trade in on elevation.

 

the fact remains, some admire each other, but cannot approve of each other.

Never Satisfactory Enough

 

heart noise. I can’t ignore it. albeit, I grow by scrutiny.    

 

the sun isn’t up. the moon is out. both are in cadence, rhythm, the abuse of observation.

 

by a mere glance, I can feel veins, body, taste, and deaths; the psychopath without the psychopath.

 

years proving some point, gravity getting heavy, the gravel of the illusiveness; allegory or fable, at a cliché, toppling into a universal, the pain of making passion.

 

I imagine a feeling, so neat and grand, I regret thinking about mirrors.

 

from what place during hours at war—those frames, knowing we know, without mirrored explanation?

 

I ran to a podium. I began to speak to an audience. there was only one group in attendance. the more I retreated—the greater the advance; the argument wasn’t about truth, as much as insecurity, and old wounds.

 

they were wise, naïve, anxious for battle, inclined to go without rest.

 

the group suffers from omission. they seem utopic, scientific, cultic, and universal. they seem human, pushing machinery, eager to get something to pour out.

 

on another balcony, a person is wide awake, and understanding the dilemma, the plight, the war; as bellicose souls, suffering from pains, quite unforgiving in our notions.

 

I can’t qualm over science, nor cultic rites, nor the fact in essence of what grieves.

 

it was imagery. afraid of imagery. self-perception determined—he sees me; not in texture, as seeing self, but in remnants, fighting for clearance.

 

such devastation. such unison. been in and out of clarity for some days now; as seeing my part, and seeing the group’s part, and trying to sit in stillness, and then, the interruption.

 

another. he reads. he has his hunch. he’s hands off.

 

another, she has her notion. she’s hands in, to a certain degree—just a nudge, no more, no less.

 

there were oldies and jazz. there were glasses, filled, wallowing in miseries, with beauty resurrecting.

 

the sphinx was eager, waiting, needing someone to cross her path. it gives life. it heals to have someone to abhor. such awkward language. the psychology of the matter gives life. to feel some element, as opposed to being neutral, with one worthy, and deserving of contempt.

 

hell is gentle, compared to a spirit hurting.

 

the blues were trickling. the body was unaware of itself. souls were answering for the pain they’ve caused.

 

on another note. I wonder if she feels like essence, as giving me life, so long ago the follies. I was driven into excellence, after many a faux pas, but she sees, I imagine she sees, with nothing much to give, nothing interested in receiving. she just sees—neither left, nor right, up nor down—she just sees. in this manner, or that concern, to usher in good energy, and disappear from it entirely. to come again, full throttle, the wheelieing motorcycle—planted for some reason, making some message, too aloof to speak it in his ears.  

 

I shall be indebted, like some miracle, to one affronted by my presence. I shall be attracted, if falling gracefully, to such women, otherworldly; to turn, where one watches, asking, if I can do those things, why haven’t he loved me? surefire pain, it becomes the answer, one needs addiction to her, in honor of, aha!

 

thus, bodily confusion, to need by slime, the approval of irrelevance, to sustain a perceptual balance, to return from the slumbering caves, to awaken bears prematurely.

 

and there it appears: granny’s spectacle … her claims … as most chided. yes. the phenomenon is fragile. ghosts, as we say, for no better reason, are in motion, connected to consciousness, one concentrating, feeling electrified, so much given to people, by people, one loathes by disgusts. 

 

I haven’t made my point: in hating a person, one needs that person, to become, as it were, animals disgracing each other. the arsenal is heavy, the weaponry in auction, it shall never come to fruition, it shall never pass, with fires burning beneath the explanation, pure interruption, looking at one’s spouse—afraid, it might be better than what I possess. yes. in the one I hate—it might be my eternity.

 

it comes to a place, in excellence, where, elsewhere, I could be eternal, myself, decorating both haven and grave.

 

in wanting leniency, I desire flesh, like a fool in his harvesting. in wanting flesh, I despise more, for it’s inevitable to suffer. in another, it would be blissful, the heart noise, while addiction would be for the former passion; to have in part, to share at disgrace, most wonder—how it’s managed?

 

another is resurrection. we share to possess. we have anguish, pain, rage, and satisfaction. by the rivers in clouds, the falling or expansion, to drift in cosmos. in adoring the person, the need becomes the torture, the fraction becomes the elation. dragged to us, performing for us, with the reality—it's never satisfactory enough.