Aquatic Fire

 

Looking bewildered, energies were wild, thoughts would drift. It happened upon a cord, speaking freely, words stuck, a symphony of intrusions; each expression becomes penalty, happiness is not validated, it’s earned and won. Sore reality, as it chills the forest, multi vulnerable vibrations. Leasing a soul, churning invisibility, walking into spirit; made crucial, life keeps chasing, the mind becomes a spider. Insoluble and soaking. Membranes and interference. Wits and intimidation. Looking bewildered, energies were wild, thoughts would drift. Sour in taste, delicious in reception, some type of experience. Closer knowledge, ensoul wisdom, discomforting understanding. No tale untold. No world left unspent. Pure feeling … pure perception: a mind inside, a flame internal, born in water.

Off The Spaceship

 

The life in a whisper the arrogance in denying it the penalty for reporting it; thoughts on trial, confessions relived, pain maximized.

Demon-eyed, great feelings, the zombie of the chaos—at a pharmacy, a pocket of pills, just to function, salt is pivotal.

I was losing a dinosaur, the profit of highness, Love is a maniac, a monster, so sexy at the resistance; a man beat inside, exhausted inside, sleeping through the matinée.

            Into Chronicles, sensing secrets, the bassline thumping—watching skies, seeing sparrows, afraid to exhale—the crows on high, the matrix with a face, Love is bad as ribbons.

            So shocked, as determined, into ails and displacement—back into my existence—the flippancy of the spirits, alive, as a man dies—lit and moving longevity, negativity, she hates the dearness of my guts. I wrote it, the gut song, it was lethal, on contract, on God’s cascade, at something too damn human.

The lenses bleeding the art is tyrannical the doctor is up all night—feuding, so split, at some sickness, a bit of attraction, if the self was abandoned.

            Damn! We drift! More breadnut, more silent wine, and whining isn’t about to satisfy the bounty.   

Have Interior Insistence: Self Fences

 

Has a person a right to admire muses—to speak of admiration, else, serving in station—one infuriation? Just as nervous as Peter—reviewing years before—rereading until scales fall. Too wise to draft—like trained magicians—she seizes time, excellence. Days are moving recalcitrance, frustration is rejecting admiration, most can’t tolerate multiplicity of arts. Legs on moons—sunshine before rain—it was so dark inside.     I was watching closely, saw nothing, just enough to retreat; like wealth of roses, esthetics of museums, like mechanics and throws, wild, convinced, in error. Never to feel that wave, never to exist in skies, so supple the winds; as casual mystics, or strict mystics, or stern faces. Paint melting, walls cascading, pains in essence, in dreams, in deliverance of profanity. In summation, live freely, have days, have consciousness.

In A Gentle Tone

 

Some art remains secluded, underground, by force, or choice; some people were miscreants, became aware, searching for an exit: it was time to teach me, to underscore elements, to whistle as they say. One might have an issue with imperfection, chasing ribbons, indiscreet or chaste in a sense. By what means to assess one’s worth? Where has one been, to determine the value, the steed, the crest of others? I confess: more faux pas than many; more terrors than souls; trying to decipher if art is discovered by the perfect inability—to clear the wilderness—to strain at gnats and flies and flees. Let’s be honest, it’s wider than a bee sting, more intrusive than a ram, and quick to offend the senses—nothing terminal, or a violation of personhood, nothing a person might vomit at: just plain stupidity, signs of essence, more to relying on societal undertakings, merits, things one says are good. Should state those rubies; they’re self-evident; and it meant so little. No carpet laid out; no trophies given; not a grunion. Never fretted. Kept with the course. Admired a few, had no business realizing them. Loved a few. Had a life with them. Moved into differing opinions. Some are offended. It shouldn’t be. We exist and augment existence through given talents. One circle knows me; another doesn’t; I cater to the circle that knows me. I speak to poverty, wealth of the good, past agonies, and the change of many living like Malcom once did. To be refused in one circle, isn’t evidence of a person’s worth. It’s unfortunate, but one learns to ink. More to our understanding of what’s appropriate, what’s acceptable.      

Belief Is Necessary & Dependent

 

The country has verbs, no more than the valley, much more vocal than the skies. Making selection, often the miles, asking for consecration. If the bear is silent, it’s hibernating; if the mat is wet, along the ridges, we wonder about morning dew. To speak essence, is an invitation, many are territorial about chi, and close to lost over spirit. (A subtle assertion has been made.) Scholastics put time into assertion. Most will speak to haphazardness, others, to design, not to mention, universal intelligence—an entity, teleological, moving elements with a purpose; more will point at the chaos, gratuitous evil, the understanding of good vs. bad. Some argue souls yield the good, naturally disposed, many contend against that: humans are innately changed, nothing definite, subject to act according to caprice and whimsy. The soul is blank at birth, this is the argument, it mimics what it has been taught. There are parts to ideas. And parts missing.

Gossamer Inside

 

I was unread myself. I reread myself. I’m with error—the tale was told—a few are privy. It’s enough for agony, souls roaming Jerusalem. Just worded differently. Family dining with wilderness, eating popcorn, and drinking vanilla soda pop. So sensitive, so exponential, so extraterrestrial; an intimate excursion, a need to fix, punish, and restructure—so much driven, certain about procedure, a trillion in spirit. The final gavel the inner reality, wondering what comes of dregs and slums, ghettoes and urban life? (Brilliant minds have come forth.) Much said to decorum. Much more said to countenance and assessment, with assertion on the inner pages. Never thought to know you this way, the finale is the existence, with souls comforted by illusion.     I was paying attention, it seems, we’ve slid into a web, can’t let die, can’t let live—just constant wrinkles—to plant a thought, while whales are falling, and elephants fill rooms; so obscure, so abstruse, the philosophy is what you would assert. Different things for severed souls, while excellence is in perfection, never a thought to behavior. A spirit here to watch, the inherited lesson, the renaissance is mental, the séance is perfection—that lonely enterprise, those wild regions, we might not know to let live.

     I looked at another, the contour looked invisible, it yearned to move across the board; converse was simplistic, convoluted, with depth, prayer, ambition, and the fluent essence. One accused the spirit. It means much. It means what it is asserting. With mirrors absent of our appraisal. The topic is simplistic, the argument is profound, It can’t be reality!     When it comes to it, self-portrait isn’t enough, and universal assessment might be with error. Most are searching for legitimate rubric, measurement.    

Next To The Trinity: The Underprivileged

 

Three parts, the drive of souls, crossed, went too deep, can’t let go; verse-bound, maybe an indirect story, more about aphorisms—the beginning; looking into memories, debating the outcome, seeing how struggle jades a mind; bringing souls into existence, hoping more on those pages, to sense a repeat of the life—to love like motion, arranged like antiquity, swearing it’s mostly new.     The days are similar at points, filled with some activity, the release might become redundant; the beat is sickly, the dreams are familiar, the debate is over money. A small attitude. A desire to be ‘normal.’ With a fear of being normal. Too heartfelt—too much rain—too much thought of those over paths. Like hegemony the ache; trying to avoid the image, the mirror, to feel essence slipping one’s grasp. To hear the message—misrepresented—it seems anger is pivotal. Too many over paradox, to have them angered to see power, at full disdain, with life digging like spurs; the invisible adversity, looking swiftly, asking, “Why do I hate myself?” On a journey, with a mission, fated to disagree: Can’t tell me, “Yall ain’t worthy!” We might roar, act unsteady, bottom line, we must be human—we must demand a modicum of freedom.  

Initially, I Trespassed!

 

We wonder, if God Forgives, How long does it take? And why it takes humans longer?

 

Dress me up for the grave; let Jesus hear the rain; the belt seems like terror. I asked God His name, I heard, “I Am,” it seems sort of intentional to become untrue. I like partner’s Witness, the blaspheme of the Ghost, cursed and rolling faster; so gifted, my Pain, living at her, never did much! On my child—a wild person, suffering the lot of biblical errors; placed in guts, intestines bleeding, just spent 7o dollars on gas. Thanking God, a problem in a vase, the face of the one hitting. Can’t give more, overdrawn, valves filled with spirit blood. I never tripped. I always knew. It was crazy to be rejected. Love was at me, I knew the negligence, it was money, it was fever, but never his life. Big business, shaking palms, looking at a basket of porn. The days of the vest, the torture of the milk, went years back to pull his understanding—I get ghosted like magic.  

A Tribute On Father’s Day

 

You have caring eyes—a sardonic wit—a passion for the weary. Soul, plus, spirit, energy, plus, miracle, wisdom and knowledge. The pride of the mind, deeper understanding, growing quickly, philosophic and teleological. To see the art of young sparrows, flying into heaven, such radical compassion. A father is proud, susceptible to stories, lenient on several points. A child is a mentor, a student, a sage; mutual respect, great independence, the process is ink, paper, and education. To need advice, to remain skeptical, to receive said advice; as creature and star, as phoenix and thunder, to have lived by a hug and a grunt. To meet hearts, to dance part a capella, to need from a distance: the beauty of the universe, the astrology of space, the archeology of cultures; by gift and arrow, by love and memory, to adore the individual in offspring.      

Aging Owl

 

Answers are often rehearsed. As, too, are responses. I have learned what to say: the pleasantries, the denial, the polite way of lying. The park is filled with pigeons. They’re hungry. The extravaganza.     Advice is made public. It says the other person knows something. With pleasantries come disguises. As, too, comes classical music. One might smile.     I sense a need for deconstruction, the clock tinkering with sanity, the séances are mutual. The novella awaits rewriting … something creative, unique, absent of stereotypes.  More on existence: living is predictable and non-predictable. Just a gem for thought.      A name will one day be uttered with clarity, lacking an attachment.     The ambition is keen. The topic is undisclosed. The moments are deviations from elements. Days closer to another stage. Maybe full pledged acceptance. Choice isn’t always given; the mind will feel what it absorbs.  

The Challenge Is Light

 

Restricted from perfection, proving excellence, to soar further, to cross seas; more rain in privacy, less certainty in crowds, life has movement, thus, motion. It can be earned, demanded, seduced—nonetheless, it comes by osmosis. A road where we meet, a longstanding path, many have become thought, love, interpretation. Such existence, not yet approved, not fully idealized; diaphanous daffodils, leaves falling, sequoias bearing witness; deciduous irritation, some charm in resistance, by excellence to have walked further; battle of wilderness, the forest trail, more a story told to heal an inner appetite. By far a rise in concentration, a need for convincing, a rule one lives by in parts: boating open seas, treading desert dunes, becoming more of the horizon. Dearest agitation, distressed with elements, most listen, feel empathy, as trying to understand life.  

Is The Feeling Evidential?

 

Rummaging interior—purposed to exist—most memorized inside. The haul is the wave; excellence would prevail; the skies are tender.

In memory to come to you. You exhaust impermanence. You are cadence.

Upon a spark—into a canyon—hiking the vatic trail; so much a hawk, an eagle, a falcon—fierce at the chase, vying for perfection, most dreams are empty.

Unbeknownst to senses, a remarkable structure, chiseled ice, frozen fire—made emphatic by senses—unable to locate the source.

It was all for honor—for you—for the deep scar preventing excellence; those nights upon a star, memory activated, soaring where we dwell;

patient to endure interior, a love for something made common, something unkempt at times:

by lotic waters, aside river banks, eyes filled with dahlias—to possess no more than the feeling.  

The World Is Living

 

The group would set out into existence. The life force would be self-satisfactory.

 

Motion is examined, it was elixir, many became exclusive winners.

 

Loses become mainstream problems. We have a time watching the cattle thrive.

 

It becomes wits, cleverness, inner debate, error, and creative arts.

 

I’ll confess it—it seems to have structure, deliberate wings, one is with desire to search internally. The daffodils never say much.

 

A man said to himself, “I am insignificant.” He noticed souls taking an interest in his art. He had to change his initial assessment. Time would determine the genuine and the artifice.

 

A tug is a tug. That said, is a tautology. It is necessarily true.

 

Parents have a time letting go, and letting live. The group might not want to let go, and let live. Perception is elusive. It depends upon the person. Rarely do we confess—self-deception; the grass is green, most rely on their skills, I try to tell myself—most things are not as I see them. Some may relate.

 

It never goes away. Every deed/action—will be called before the tribunal.

 

I have a feeling—many know they are an issue for some strange company. We borderline the dimension—those lacewings are watching, it’s not what it will become.

 

I remembered your age bracket. You might be familiar. You might have seen it—to notice it—to agree with utilizing it.

 

I haven’t a clue. I’m not clairvoyant.

 

I try to be with the universe, the alignments, the vibrations.

 

I do not lay claim to owning others. I know some might agree with that.

 

Many are finding life. Many more are adjusting to life. Life is filled with family, friends, arts, and colleagues, and watchers.

 

I have a feeling, just a hunch that, nothing is private.

 

Bats have left us looking for vampires.

Ms. Celebrity

 

I saw you in pink and beige and blue. You seem to dazzle with nature—rhythmic beauty, slim figure, round/magnetic face. I will never meet you, nor know you, at best, you’re a muse and balance, skill to rummage through. You picture well. You’re midway through your career. You seem to love the strategy behind the camera. I see arrogance at times—or openness as surety, a few revealing pictures. You have taken over Twitter—many portraitures, many poses, many captions. I wish I could say something exposing depth—aside for the obvious, you’re favored by the masses; you must be well; at moments something spiritual comes through. I shall linger for a second—rubbing my ears, scratching my knee, or pausing to get coffee; wondering about what we see—the boundaries on perception, the sweetness hiding something raw, lethal.  

Naked Before The Church

 

Call on the Lord. Let the hells be nervous. So intense the water is dripping from baptisms.

The pain of the mystic—the heat of the magician—so much terror in those eyes. The bassoon is blasting, the timpani is speaking Africa, the tuba has placed us in Italy.

Heirlooms and passports, roses dipped in glitter, the meraki of the excellence, the yugen of the soul, the kalon of the art;

so calm it aches, the step before pure insanity, the block burning in Texas.

The Warhol of the poets, the Machiavelli of antiquity, or the X finding his name;

the recuse of the war, the table with strategies, the last one to fix the story;

the pentacle of naked praise, the only mistake

proven a miracle.

Listening to interior, just about exhausted, when a soul appeared, the phonograph on the brains;

to admit a problem, to annoy a problem, to arrest the entire problem—like Jesus is walking Bethsaida, or Joh is eating locusts, the inmost compassion for a lost peoples.

Like wanting what was hated, pledged to die, the fortune of the zealot—more balanced, at the gates, arguing with Lazarus.

Land To Seas: Seas To Land

 

The essence of the misnomer the mistake the problem; brains realigned, the window into the chaos, the gravel into the soul, sealed and delivered—feeding a lacewing; playing with chalk, ghetto symbolism, most building a fortress. Souls facing witchcraft, to possess what denied you, how to possess love and compassion and realism; if it thrills, if it was earned, is it genuine? The opera in choir, the fiction in reality, the pretend becoming a part of daily contemplation; the mind ballad, the pistol feeling, the nightmare so beautiful. Those scribing souls, the heart made see-through, the glass buffed until it scorched; a nest for spirits, a lamp for memories, like a match, sudden into a flame. The phone might ring, the machine might answer, a person sits there debating what can’t become fact: inner jackals, mental wolves, to carry his whale.

Open Skies

 

I must be human or sick or alive. In the sadness, I must be reality, a space to calm the storm. The unpaved connection, the defacto, with another enjoying the benefits. Spaces blurry, I walk to self, I ask for assistance. I fell into a dungeon. I woke up a spirit. I ached for the skies. Some lock was picked. I strum the violin. I cling to the tuba. To shake and vibrate—a lover’s invisibility. Thoughts adrift. Aches so close. Palming seaweed—looking into the ocean—partially losing sanity. Aside waterweeds, needing a seahorse, into the music you bring. So often the excellence, to fall so radically, with nothing to hold but prose. The uselessness in me the purposefulness in time, the complete contradiction. By a gateway, like a drug, to want what never persists—until it’s forbidden, like the tragedy of existence; by the epitome of dumbness, to have closeness, to die with pride.

The Old Person Dies

 

 

Ultimate revenge—souls bleeding, gothic silence; eating eggplants, fiending for spirits, a palm of symbolic sugar. Pondering Mulberry. Too simplistic. A soul so dangerous, so deadly, a man just ponders over loyalty—the sharpened iron, the knife through skies, the wire, treaded, walked, laughed and buried. Eerie chills. Invisible intelligence. Beatific sunrise—so magnetic, the sleep of the giants, every man has a weakness; trying to plug each hole, trying to become impervious, at some exit, most unsteady, looking with eyes open, like a navy seal. Mesmeric walkways, paths into the regions, the forest is filled with animosities; in some perfect, risk-free world, nothing most enticing. The mind is a gristmill, a sawmill, genetic disclosure; sudden into a maze, fleeing his mind, at her essence: so skilled, it wouldn’t be reality, so laced, walking out of self.   

The Solution Isn’t Prepackaged

 

I listed my soul—participating in pain, the block was boiling. Can’t escape the chase, the river, baptized at the church. Many died at the church. She wouldn’t agree with blacks. The smoke wafting, tussling and struggling and muscling adrenaline—the discipline is the amazement the parched spirit, so much hunger to live; in-for-out, so enlove those days, the bell is the knell, warring to find freedom. Most lived like running, trying to capitalize, looking for trying, they wondered why so many were fencing. The face isn’t what it looks like. Love is sick of everything. I come with a problem, the political map size. It irritates. Ever at war, ever crying for fairness, ever coming with baggage. So religious, searching for facts, the answer doesn’t come prepackaged. The temple the melody so low, the good life, the soul wanted a necessity.              

Postmodernity Indicts Rules

 

Guitars and whistling, mirrors and sights, one soul in many souls.

 

More are floating, rebutting winds, sensing a slight chasm.

 

I would fret over a scar, abused by perception, in everything there can be nothingness.

 

The song is sacrificed, symbols are dancing, eagles are on high.

 

More tulips. One kiss. We have mercurial aches and passions.

 

More dreams. Time to see, and there is time to ponder.

 

Reality speaks about sullenness. It is often conversational about love.

 

The woman on the violin is amazing, and well together.

 

Life is now postmodern—a reason to mourn and celebrate.

 

The soul, her spirit, are flames.

 

Some things are created by brains, and some things are beyond brainpower.

 

I used to think as a child. I now think like an adolescent.

 

The moon is watching. The sun is gray. The stars are speaking plainly.

 

—at purposed hearts, leaping for stagnated, wishing to gallop afar; the steep imagery, the imaginary serenity, it couldn’t be real.

 

The strictest wars are inside of perception. It amazes me the cup is both half full and half empty.

 

Choir is mental. Chants are likewise. Each awaken inside.

 

By piano to strike immortality. By cello to enter the heart.

 

Ashes and aches. Frustration with purpose. Forces and gems.

 

Walls are high. Conversational walls. Facing closure.     

Multiple Gardens, Multiple Truths

 

Like a child, taking it at face value, needing more clarity. I was accused of suspicion, when it shouldn’t be, while it keeps muddy—like mire, like stealth, sly and uncaring.     People are uncertain.     Strength is possession, while needing a certain outlook, some pristine image. If we look at humans as unclear/unclean, embarrassment will show its nature; if humans are clear/clean, our dealings are pure, desire isn’t filthy—with red tape, dotted lines, and loopholes to examine. I wash my hands, ask certain questions, remembering what it feels like to be clear and clean.     Gallicas are growing—in a patch near zinnias—an older woman plucks one a day; golden eyes, small frame, delicate hands, in sandals, exquisite feet. A long dress. A fitted blouse. A brilliant smile. She must come to herself—everyone knows her aura; everyone greets her energy. The simplicity of the beauty of the graces.     I can’t see the rain, while it pours in, the lady is a widow; someone once graced her arc, pledged to live eternal, so much passion in one glance.     I imagine aging with a friend, much history between us, too much to calculate; the mathematics, the science, mixed with miracles and eyes probing cake and creams.          

Designed Against Intimacy

 

To address a person, needing satisfaction, left with a chasm; most deliberate, meant to create tension, some form of seductive torture.     I hope life is pure, free of dilution, free of dyes; most radiant, rectitude, forthcoming joys and raspberries.     If tales were told, what animal would you be? Each one holds implication.     I was with desire. I realized it was foreign in me.     To take self from itself.     You were pointing out the million-dollar worth in you.     That’s decent.     It is now an observation. It can’t be shared in totality. It was gifts acquired to compensate for gifts underdeveloped.     Up close, you are seen; further away, you are felt. What was the reason? It wasn’t for me. It was always for you. Something held a sacred space, and it was misused, for an infraction. The chaos was in you. It just needed an excuse. It should be at rest.     It isn’t.     Flattery sets off alarms. Exaggeration is dismissed. Underappreciation is insulting, and misinformed.     I will rest in not knowing you. I will exist in the caress of an aggressive petal.     The race is swift to the mark; you must increase.     What prevents the rescue, when one is in distress, pure displeasure, a refusal to reach, while it builds so high, we find things are as they were meant to exist, to persist.     Quite appeasing to the well-informed; such with eye-wings, to get into motion, where souls become vulnerable.     Kept at length, a mile long, rubies and terrors, another must intervene. We would be indebted.

 

It would be a lack of attraction—to look closer—and see the miracle; the gait made daily, the pages read and reread, the demanding world, the initiative you make. I never got on your good side, neither did I do greatly—as to get on that other side. At times, souls respect demarcation, instead of becoming a fleeting frenzy—I wasn’t designed to blurry you—while dreaming of blurring you, an ethical conundrum. The sickness of the person, to do right, lusting to do wrong, what’s worse—when one carries the desire? I am surprised at myself. Neither wanting the need of the immortal creature, nor wiping myself clean of the prosperity of spiritual legacy. The misused becomes the curious, the hurt soul becomes the one by dismissal. In hurting, two would get closer, never able to trust the alliance. In essence, it has overstayed its luxury—osmosis hath served its purpose, the remainder is mockery, derision, never with full appreciation.       

When Is Art Crooked?

 

Becoming some different person, organic from life, much the rain in purification; the math will make sense, after years at studies, it will click like bells in towers. Some feeling—to churn butter—to become elixir—the decent appeal, the descent into waters, the purgatorial monsters; if to live, while brain-reading is far-fetched, one is looking for cues; spiders and bugs, macaques and monkeys, the difference in the essence, the scent in the greeting; such foreign clues, so non-compartmentalized, so great the ambition; to love and adore, on penalty for worship, so soft into a dilemma. Much greater the confession—so discombobulated, the machine gun in Kelly. Dropping into lyrics, platypuses morphing into Purities, the smile meant so much when I was a child. It has lost cache, its fur is covered in morality, its decency is appropriate, neither for nor against love.          

Wildrose Scented

 

I take the good with the bad—excuse the cliché; upon a miracle, living into a shadow, the spider is upon the wall; quickness like numbness, unto smiling—deep dark forgiveness. Unborn and reborn, here born, much a celebration—much more confusion. Can’t call it. Many factors to define it. The trumpet is the shout. Spinning through life, the luxury of the mandala, the soul in its spirit. At a distance from self, harnessed by itself, leaping back into itself. So neat the challenge. A descent into insanity. With reason to ignore each reality. Looking into the young, sensing a deepness, some delight, as partly devastated. Swimming all one could, preparing on a chalkboard, the curriculum is on survival. Staring into a rocket. Flipping upon a mattress. Loquats are in season. So much a treasure. So much the torture—as to grow upon a rose.            

Still Growing

 

In the neat nooks of anguish or sadness or the like, most behave according to structure; order is applied to sorrow, or it isn’t terribly bad, we doubt that it’s non-existent. The

 

flowers are fragrant, the starlings are wonderful, with more neat emotion bubbling over. Some elements are apparent, much more than I realize; in the multitude of

 

composition, buttons are pressed, pushed—in the goodness of survival, affectation is taking place—on an ungiven level; the weakness of the poet, the strength in the

 

reader, the provocation of hearts. It can’t just be; it can’t just breathe; and it can’t just move forward—this is not how things operate: there’s resistance … yet, souls are

 

with appreciation, to notice a need, to move with stealth: more is taking place inside—than is taking place in the world: this is true, and this is false, it depends on the chaos of

 

the mind in pictures.     I have understood certain reality—the fact when everything is changing, some remain similar; the understanding when nothing is new, a sense

 

of anger comes through. There’s nothing to be said, most things have been done, one great newness is—the arrangement of sentences and words—while I see something

 

in the meadows: a jaguar sipping water, a lemur watching, a chameleon outwitting the forest. Pure rich environment—no need for provocation—with prose and poetry comes

 

aches and deliberation: to believe in self, this is a grand adventure; to faith inside, to believe in one’s proclivities, mental acumen, this is heart touching; even to imagine the

 

other person’s motives, the milk in honey, the bulwark on high, the many snares casted, the many admirations ignored, the sheer indignation with one born to enhance what

 

is present.     The fable is the story. It, life, people, are not unnoticed.     Paradise looks different to people: for one, its scientific findings; for another, it’s beautiful men or

 

women; for another, its riches, and the list goes on until the end of time.     it will continue until it desists. It never plays out differently. It continues until it has run its

 

course, until it is appeased, or some other element.     The pain of the matter is—the becoming, thoughts shifting perception, self-examination, the wondering of souls; to see

 

something unbecoming, with most of life, to decipher what the big ado is about, while many more are on the trail.     One doesn’t win this way. One is seen first—this way.

 

Motives become important. Most need to know the why behind motivations. In participating, one becomes suspicious. In being considered smart, a soul, (I hate to say

 

it), becomes a toy, a project, some element to entertain with.     In history, many have become legendary, iconic writers, with so much to give; one reads them, becomes parts

 

of them, determines through them—where one fits in society.     In the scope of the chase, some notice, some applaud, some become creative. In the chase of the

 

immortals, one learns about his mortality. In paving over deeds, if realistic, one sees where he is most vulnerable. In this lies one great truth, each person is in the same

 

wavelength.     Greenness is one area, left to the mercy of the world in other areas, responsible in certain spaces—and asked by society to participate in the zeitgeist—the

 

all-ness of existence, the inner compass, the map that listens—as it remains with sameness.     To ponder infrastructure, to understand souls, to continue to grow.         

Vintage Has Her Eyes

 

Senses shift. Feelings necessitate emotion. The cadence becomes immortal.

 

Shadows in the meadows, dreams re-reaching, hearts and motion.

 

Flung into memories. To watch and bury. Minds tugged until rebellious.

 

Seashores. Seashells. Seas made of deserts. Souls slaughtered. Seahorses gasping.

 

Minds mutilated. Aches and tides. The love is a tsunami. Something is filled with substance.

 

Cells and bars. Living faster those days. The perfect romance has died.

 

I was so young, filled with optimism—the soul was a vignette.

 

Can we blame the cautionary mind? Waves and wounds and personality.

 

Adoring was imaginary. Loving was senseless. Love has been thrilled with variety.

 

The chasm is deep. The terror became a hotspot. So much to crave after her music.

 

So necessary. Seated poolside. Looking like the younger models. So secondary the mission.

 

Blues and jazz—frantic ways to have joy—life might seem askew.

 

We wonder why some are chosen, or the quest of maggots, in a lifesaving situation, and cash out.

 

The strangeness of the captive soul. The war inside to care for the mind—running with essence and problems, the grace of the sinner.

 

Senses shifting. The topic is women. What shall we permit, while she honors her autonomy?

 

Brains pondering winning, living vicariously, memories seeming immortal.

 

From the intestines, with everything to give, so much a sinner.

 

Intelligence spelling his survival; like the land of the lost—the flaming lagoons.

 

Love fed her nightmare. She lived her monster. And fed off of her angel.

 

Calling for departure, much transgression, preaching on tarmac.

 

And a soul was smiling, holding her father’s hand, before she woke in rage.

 

Guts seemed ready, raw, prepared for the orientation; most radical lives!

 

The cup is immortal, as mentioned in Psalms, so independent, the law becomes winning.

 

The terror of the prophet, the profits of the situation, demons on rebound.

 

First the scent of perfume, then the full-figured woman, then love was made.

 

A headache with a scent, the miracle in waves, told to have faith.

When God Resurrected

 

Thrumming wings. Brain fog. The pain in the deliverance; the suffering in the Cross; the loss of the chains. Woodsmoke patience, penial gland angst,

the organizing features; surefire zealous, at

numen flame—to have arrived early enough to resurrect; the grand incarnation, the trivial everything, such organic women.

It seems so easy, picking devastation, love is like dying, it’s creative—the bone in the marrow, the mind-saxophone, a bag of breadnut.

Take me broken, help me to break the barrier, at present, there’s blockage.

I was so free. I loved to fly. The mask on the dragon drinking berries.

Love is phenomenal, I had to say it, never a woman given so sweet a lecture. Keys on pianos, the firewood, I damn near weep out!

The doorsill contains the birdsong; a man died this morning. So much an opus, walking around, I damn near died to have her!

Some flippant fable, one would imagine, I must die for every woman!    

When God Died

 

The death of providence, the clause to love again, thus, the warrant to survive; a made-man, a sealed woman, the feeling of the cannibals. Too much to sustain—too dreary the reality, to imagine how far we’ve come; the fire in water, the boiling skies, the first baptism. As walking in path, the cage of obedience, the pain in restrictions; to love like losing, the sheer desperation, so pleased to grovel, to beg, to ask for eternal humiliation—for I love like winning, it must change, the gravel in the bottle, the release in the masturbation. If seeing correctly, Love is a tornado, afraid of something too vital to control. Made to be loud, eating pomegranates, mixed with clear toxics; the war of the roses, poached from angels, drenched in demons, so crossed, a living paradox; to cast a spell, for the good of life, consumed by the mistake taking its root. Calming the souls in us, thus, the volume in the climax, so much to only operate for one woman.

Sub-Communal

 

The reason is evident. The neglect comes by promise—of emptiness, blackness, wilderness. All of my soul. All of my heart. To obey an insecurity. I moved a device, dear to decimated, at a problem in perception. So much in the forests, so much in the fields, so forever to walk away. By a birdsong, to have her so conceited, so arrogant, like terrific terrors. All I have to offer. All I could muster up and give. So much a disruption: most when I enter the region, swooshing and swishing, like a distress signal. If for lowness, a terrible treasure, to have sensed it gone astray—those tiles and tortures, those realms and realities, contradictions, to sense it might become legendary; too much towering, too much terrific, too much cultic calamity.

Some type of absent presence, aberrant awesomeness, reborn like rationality; to see it in a person, the roundabout excellence, as it grows, the remorse of the headless horseman; feeling removed from essence, the church self, roaming a lost, long, road of rebellion. Too far away made close, spirit swooping, a person’s intentions become an energy—carried into regions, afield and galloping.    

The Best Souls

 

Life is cagey, filled with caution, the survival of the apes. The secrets we keep, the face we save, most are surprised when it leaks out. I know I’m with error, full pledge terror, looking at it. Much is true, the secret kept, no one needs inside what plagues the observant. Not my faith, dangling from the edge, the cliff laughing; not my pride, the soul dying, didn’t shave those days. Amazed to hear the pain, to sense the confusion, to have wilderness—the curse of the winner, to break silence, to sense abuse. Some ache that way, privileged to die that way, loving to the best of their ability. Easing into the storm, walking the asphalt, the heavens watching; a million in a kiss, the way we love, the false admiration. Lord, a soul crawled, another smiled, now the tables turn; in one space, the guffaw, in another space, the terror, the soldier at war—as keeping home, as deeper damages, with growth seeming intolerable. A person will stare, glaring through eyes, trying to resuscitate. More a prayer, a salient wake, the pillow on the essence; to take a nap, the stars at mercy, the moon coming to earth, the spirit touching the universe; hanging inside, looking at his ghosts, making friends like estranged from heart—and needing himself.     

If We Knew The Deeper Secrets

 

The opus of deceit—the thrill in agony—the bite in whales. To have died a smidgen, turned into an elephant, whispering to a snake. At a chameleon, morphing into a product, manipulated into dementia; keeping silent, going through it, no one needs to know in full detail: the pleasure in the pain, the pain in the adventure, the mercy in the elixir. A fair punishment. A hated soul. It becomes the miracle of survival. The wrong crowd—to devastate one’s sanity—so obvious when it appears. Maybe trying something new, not fully vile, just hurt, walking through it—maintain the course; a secret in God, a feeling in Spirit, a Ghost in Jesus. To have croaked at it, to feel the functionality, to dream bigger; like living accordingly, at a problem inside, as if an apology isn’t where it resides. The fret in the ship, to jettison Jonah, to calm a storm. The sudden mastery, the feeling in faith, those few moments too deep to walk away.

Family Diamonds

 

Years become symbols—the pitch of the peek—in absence of the climber.

 

Daylight dreams, intimate agendas, the coloring book is cultural.

 

Fitting into the universe is difficult. Life is woodworks and oxygen.

 

Placed upon an island. Torn, sweet, attentive indifference. The melodic harp.

 

Feelings flowing into rivers, electric memories, literature matrimony.

 

Emotions. Making hives. Straggly lines. Patient teal autumn.

 

Wherever they go, the love follows, the essence grows crops.

 

The wishful mentality. The fertile swamps. The kissing meadows.

 

The rooms are smoky. Incense is wafting. We face another fiasco.

 

Pine seeps into spaces. Darkness is sprouting lights.

 

A need for closure, ecstasy and oak pledges.

 

Arranging internal furniture; painting antique clocks; the vase is made of rhinestone.

 

Interior mirrors; to grow quickly; pierced by invisibility.

 

Such earthenware, warm soil, intimate blues.

 

Escaping the self, upon the morning thought, made into a priestly mantis.

 

The burden is the non-existence.

 

Each second morphs into a notion—the ceiling is dusty—the vacuum can’t reach.

 

Sentiments grow and rust, and the kettle is raw steel.

 

The balloon deflates slowly; moments lend but never come to closure; hearts are complicated.

 

Some souls are fiery. We dare not slake them. We learn to dance around the fire.

 

Jogging as we fly, walking upon clouds, the skies are symbols.

 

By an eastern desert, around a campfire, planting scientific emotions.

 

Another impermanent fiasco, searching as we do, maybe the dew smiles.