it was cabernet those nights,
clarity seemed aloof, so close, more intimate than usual. feelings would
wrangle ambitions, ravish appetites, and court church life. some emotions are
unlikely, unsavory, filled with intimidation.
there’s a person dying, joys
inverted, at the apex of frustration, the acme of regrets. what to tell him?
and the anniversary was yesterday. so velvet the kiss—in its promise—so
disappointed the reality.
months make for celebration. the
mind is turquoise—the arc is aqua—the energies are human. certain sciences,
make clear the path, the ink is so ancient. to paint frantically. to see
metallic in the legacy. trying to decipher our earth type.
many vines. many paths. to choose
one apropos to successes.
mystery is by unclarity. the foggy
estates. to flutterer at the vague center—each thing written becomes a
reality—to haunt because it’s ethnic, or unique, or compelling.
touching will not be. much is
ruined by clarity. too analytical to become pure lust and fabric and breakage
and life. many valleys and rivers. many becoming calculated. it shows the utter
disdain one has. the mind has ripples of distrust, made viable those days,
treated with irreverence.
so much whiplash. all are bathing
and rinsing and trying to be clean.
some forget their deeds. many do
not, they live by their deeds. the good weighs against the temperamental.
it seems kidlike to hate or hold too
much of a grudge—made more debilitating than exciting. the beauty of the
enterprise is—no one knows and no one is speaking.
we don’t mind cooking stew. some
ingredients we substitute with others. and there will be stew.
on to contradiction—the fevered
theologian—those grappling with skies and earth and values.
it only increased
concentration—made judgment against itself, created a reason to love itself. it
was against buffering its screen, reprogramming its art, tinkering with the
hard drive. in due time, religious fervor, regrouping by necessity.
