Chiseling A Bigger Picture

 

Wilder and Wider than seas, fluid into rivers, a private lagoon—pictures in unison, or astray, with more dependent on horizon—indeed, pure darkness, never say those beautiful things—when such treachery has befallen those lips. Or connectivity,

 

International Spiritualism, to have come so close to a decision. I speculate. I dream. How long would it be love? So distorted, always watching, asking for time to fall enlove, to walk into it, to strut away, bold, indifferently, used, and using. Is this not love? Nay. She

 

dances for some. Cries for others. Most addicted to souls of grandeur—the silent ache, enlove with sophistication, or plainness, or something confusing—can’t find her, can’t find self, moving, feeling, watery eyes, cadence, explosive, Gone! It must be poetry, as it

 

ends tragically. Nonetheless, there’s a couple up the way, 55-years at it, laughing, playing, exercising, pure love. I wouldn’t dare ask if they can define love.

Two satiate each other. They are closer than peas. I can’t ask what we intuit. To feel gray

 

skies, pondering some illness, to love dearly, as life takes a detour. To feel angry, indebted, to have known a wonderful person, to have shared eternity, in parts, to hear whispers, to remember cadence, looking upon a sparrow, or a skylark. I speak in ideals.

 

What is poetry? To speak beauty, politics, truisms, the grime of existence, all the above? I would write it as roses, and feel pain. I would compose it as rawness, and receive some chatter. What is perception painting inside?   

Religion or Science or Both?

 

I can’t look left nor right, down only up—an ethicist in some respect. Each tenet might suffocate. Life becomes a bad ass moment. If to see one’s excellence, it’s in negation. To deny self in denying legacy so many children shot to the left. Not to mention alphabetical trials, into tribulations, wanting Love like racing, like acrobatics, to have entered her gymnasium. (But) the world I see isn’t but illusion; the world I see is strict, harsh, habitual, so cold, so warm, to awaken—looking into her; a madman, a cooking man, a wine and bread man, essentially, a Eucharist man.

The sun would settle, the moon would appear, close to tears, like it never happened again, so many lies, so secure, Love fed delusions, and I partook with a ravishing appetite.

I can’t look left nor right without guilt. I look down but it churns. So I look up—filled with hope.

Life is caricature, cartoons, meditation and religion. We call it tradition, aloof from titles, pulling at innocence. (But) Love was dynasty, feathers on wings, too much history to actuate adoration in chains.    

Inversion of The Celebrated

 

I haven’t an excuse, nor a pledge, just battles and mirrors, sludge and rivers—over waterfalls, a neat metaphor, a soul would celebrate connectivity. If to reach a spirit, what greater touching—than communion; to awaken a soul to life, through life, to remind of principle and order and accountability.

Boots to marsh, a trope in cities, dry as a bone, filled to capacity, emoting affectation. I haven’t an excuse, maybe a pledge, over soups and rice, bowels and duty. I was tugged. I was a vacuum. I was sunk low, through what I love, no greater death than that. Alike to a mansion, a depth room, offering solace, until—it consumes; falling and rising, consistency deceased, no greater churn than iron of spirit; a man with fever, a decent auto-soul, torn until submission; alike to a deeper recognition, an interior sanctum, to genuinely turn towards repentance — and answered.    

Slant The Constellations

 

Seeing nemesias bloom, to depersonalize losing, enjoying the mystery of the hills. It can’t be sickness. Not for such stature. (But) sickness starts up high—a differing perspective, a knowing of all the rules, a gentle giggle at tides. It was early in there, calculating in there, seeing self and others in there; an empath in there, a quick foot in there, another chuckle in there. Certain cadence, no one can out appreciate the lost one, on front arc, feeling each dialogue, pulling back as to return to earth.

Over those buildings, in an alley, near a crevice, sits a soul, a macaw, a desire, as it appeals—never what time yearns for, mostly on time, never full-on satiation, bleeding the fabric lining, tugging at religiosity, nevertheless, spirituality.

                                    I was a lad, a lovebird, it never mattered where we were.

It surprises how indebted we are—to solar spirits, to souls held in furies—to earth—to sunrise; by a phone inside, to have dreams inside, to take courage—every element against winds; pieces of identity, here in America, never quite perfect—over plums, grapes, lemons, and guava … a battle in a moment, a self in disappointments, a measure of excellence … the puppeteer lurking, the invisibility lurking, self becomes some creature—by hands, thoughts, and illumination.

                                    I was a lad, a lovebird, it never mattered where we were.

Oh Shapeless Consternation, movement of eternal faith, so sullen and normal, aloft a cistern; a vestige of triumph, a soul like Trace, an author before her time, making trails, waiting and waiting, soon to receive the Great Illustration. And raindrops include essence, garbs and science, so listless at points; a pit of penalties, an unshod feeling, a man filled with foibles. Trying as it lives, if close enough to ask: Do you have a feasible plan? If not, let’s discover one, let’s become altruistic, let’s live a little. Never another presence, never another infraction, never more than a spirit passing by.

                                    I was a lad, a lovebird, it never mattered where we were.

Gnawing at invisibility. Asking bigger pictures. So much time, in such a short time, to need friction, to say, “See, I told you.” And to receive a human, a soul, minding his business, on his journey, scooping up souls. (No greater redemption.)

An inmost scar has driven a soul, a spirit has come forth, so phlegmatic, so sightless, with sight, enough to know—it never stops, and being harsher, we participate, learn the channels, or croak.

                                    I was a lad, looking at a coffin, the winds were wet and wilting, my wings were underdeveloped, and patience was gaining power. I could see people—as in some emphatic, empathetic sense. I was still young, naïve, running some number in life—yanked asunder, bipolar, as they say; some force wrestling with existence, justified for emotion, seemed insync with logic—a nature most deceptive.

                                    I was a lad, a lovebird, it never mattered where we were.

Tiptoeing By

 

I was never as patient as a therapist. I was never as convincing as a father. And I was never alone while thinking I was. Over color, daffodils, and non-exoneration; over cups of tea, eating mangos, palming a principle; to have adored like it meant winning—none understood, some tug beyond rationalization; turquoise clouds, skies enveloped, deep evolution in souls; maize grass, so underfoot, without a church in the state.

 

Violet begonias, Vegas arcs, Rome tendencies—running into myself, looking at a ghost, asking for mercy; lavender sunflowers, stars made of dice, to siphon courage. I don’t have the correct feeling—whatever it may be—so how do I know?

 

Burning firebrand, listening to Jazz, counting syllables—a younger me, languid thoughts, sublime poisons—searching for symmetry and opera.

Over Raspberry Tea

 

Years pass in limbo—trying to catch sunshine. We’ve seen humility, pots filled with expectation, waterfalls by insistence; never as we say, emotional lines, better, the longest narratives in time. The motive is fear, just because, by countenance to have offended; keys to his lamp, seated in sourness, walking circles in a box—many prefer it that way. Manna mornings, major faith, filled with fury—amazed by how belief operates. Grapevines early evening, silken warms, rife with heart-shaping and misidentification. The line is thin, trying for truth, lacking some element—the dearth of humanity, supporting logic, wondering too soon—like the infant prophet. Stomach pains, mind growth, by dreams to keep kicking rocks. By a dusky sky, capturing a glint, holding to one as flawed as time—like religious reverberation.

I Don’t Know Correct Feelings

 

Watching metaphors, on trial for humanity, one shot, warm heart, seasoned hexes; aside helium skies, so germane to me—the feeling as it unfeel(s). Made to tiptoe, assigned an island, rushing into illusion; a mirror watching, seeing itself, appalled it has loved itself. I was waxing life, I was pillaging self, I was laughing by myself; so filled with God, so damn crazy for God, as left fiending for God, adrift a draft, so daft for the one God.

 

I ignore what hurts. I sense it hurts itself. I see invisibility at work.     In you resides me, in me harbors pieces of you, and spirits are wafting into smoke. I was with mystery, it enticed a soul, intrusion is just plane simplistic, in sense, it must be, it hast to live, the fire means only so much;

 

flaming in space, shouting in droves, couldn’t understand until those shoes were mine—the fret of disaster, the threat of seeing, those miles to get back to balance.

 

Whatever it is, Jesus! It laughs, mocks, it holds Jesus in derision. It has no respect for prophecy. It hates disciples. It hates Jesus!

 

Too much preaching. I have indicted emotion, can’t get it to breathe, what has become of me!

 

So gorgeous. Never within earshot. The flame as it yearns for the wrong soul.

 

Maybe phantoms in time. Maybe a sense of one good argument. Maybe desiring as it climbs walls. Whatever it might be, it’s gone mad.

 

Could one imagine—pure intrusion—is it justified? Yes!

 

If time is about healing.   

The Great Chase

 

Pornographic emotion—merciless pity, filled with sin—crossing eyes, and livid crowns, more mentioned immortality. The chase by gold, looking into privilege, assigned by race; cordial/polite, much riddle in fleeing hearts, fragile individuality; the last battle, the first war, losing to win, winning to lose—raiding brains, beetle determination, so close—so afar—clashing with society, addicted to guts, looking for courage—breakage!

 

Isn’t exact science, more experimental, a private excursion with Promise! By desolation, a bathing moon, underscored, radical, bleeding old glass. Framed anticipation—first invitation, couldn’t explain why—we kept dying.

 

Her eyes are wolverine, her clasp is coyote, her racing guts are bearlike; the last to survive, feeling lonely, churning by adversity. Never much in the given; never much uncertainty in adrenaline; surefire fever into the galaxy. Mentalism became itself—writhing inside, taken for exclusion, so inclusive, it can’t exist! Too much existence, enough to live, we die for metaphysics—an arcane knowledge, a mouth full of winnings, too much begins to hurt.

 

The ballad is read in her eyes. The feeling is memorized. Every time it came, she’d bat inside the fury of mountains. The first revelation, running into boxes, the last promise came with weariness.          One sits in derision, looking into Psalms, trying to muster up a smile. Another is living good, feeling alone, sitting next to a golden riddle; the ballad led her cries.          Much a mistake to exist. And one tries to fix the mistake, an entire life, fixing its riddle.          Closed into it. Growing into it. “Tell us what “It” is.”          Wealth of the misery—tick to the tock, one day it will never be over—the chase of the birds, the lizards eating at religion, the Jesus in the outcry!

 

The mirror is a problem. It wasn’t defined. Family was addicted to pain. Enough preaching. “Keep it vague.”

 

Gutter built. Tether and string.

 

We can’t outlive the majesty.

It Seems Elusive

 

Random snippets surprise—speaking to need, omniscience, top tile planetariums; if lucky, it will explain itself.

I need a trip—deeper into mind-matter, desperate functionality; in each art, the secret is redundancy.

A palm of emptiness becomes a prayer of value.

It doesn’t matter, in saying something obvious, most know how they appeared.

            Granola and milk; maybe a Barnhouse session; maybe a new chapbook—by some grand priestess, to hear her song in each verse.

            Might have stumbled on it—it goes deeper, a nameless name, an olden spirit. It goes deeper—one, two, they know each other, unbeknownst to the newer perceptions; nay, just certain characteristics making for announcements.

            Been a while.

            I prefer write, gander back, catch some nuance.

Many rites, adrift asunder, like recruits and proselytes. Alpha has no ending, and omega has no beginning; tireless efforts, too consuming, idle time aches, thoughts go astray, better to keep a focal point.

            Crescent rise. Luminous shadow. Broken weavings.

 

 

Speculation

 

 

be it a steam sure art in memory

sliding into conscious nightshade

made of lux, diamond, destiny;

be it a steam sure art in memory

folding hands, a live symphony

to travel alive, sullen born brave;

be it a steam sure art in memory

sliding into conscious nightshade.

Trinkets & Human Spirit

 

Over a bowel of pears, like guava sweetness, tired and laughing. Suddenly, serious—like refugees. I’ve a start button, mesmerized by technique, it’s three hours in—galloping, a mare and stallion, toppling in for a hug. Winds swarm justice. I was infatuated—if you wondered—I maintain as instructed; Love is a strategist, raised in battles, it comes naturally—it might still hurt—by flame to insist, to know, as it is—this is destiny. To polish a feeling, to agree with pressures, with something urgent boring the madness. Over a bowel of grapefruit—reminiscing, it was particular the smile, a smirk, looking yonder, and grabbing the upper arm. I mix tables, a true DJ, at some unphysical element, sheer mystery. I notice distinct jewelry—seduction—on a level—with your souls; the sickness in cadence, auras fretting a talkative nature, and I knew it would be different.  

Planetarium Embodiment

 

I was a foolish man. I desired your love and admiration—coming from warring regions—the fierceness of its capture, the spirit made of cuffs, those treasured palms, hands made glory, to die in us; so glasslike, so breakable, to sit, listening to elegance—fertilized for affection, and rhythm, art and innocence. Looking becomes different for adults—the wow wanes, with pangs to become enamored; it was easy—thriving as we danced—hating how we treated romance—pews watching, feuds raging, opinions heightened. I was a foolish man. I should have thrown it to luck, chance, life in roses, petals in liquor, to love and adore, choir and jungle. I never heard you, as it lives, made defensive on third glance; sultry minx, filthy cleanness, paradox and dreams—so tattered by philosophies, never mere an armchair, listless brushwork, languishing voice, tapestry dialogue.  

“This Woman’s Work”: Maxwell

 

I can’t carry it, wings bent, love boiling. I must carry it, lost sentences, fewer words, needing more to live on. Maybe we’ve met, some string, connecting a smile, a regret, tension in a bottle—by fever in jest, by life as best, to rest aside each other—to never touch hands. Made invisible, palming underbrush, eating filthy grapes; many laughs, many more burdens, pray Spirit one glory. Chameleon souls. Jaguar instincts. To feel akin to a miracle—all we ever said, all we passed over, so charmed to have met temper. Pupils shaking. Phantoms hushing. At moments uneasy to meet eyes. So great in strength. So much life left. So endearing to surrealism. Held by a string. Souls knew first familiars. Graphed in by genetic spirits. To have wealth of heart, mind of remedies. The work of your art, soul, so much life left, a scholar, mother, friend and daughter.    

Don’t Permit Curiosity To Be Quenched

 

Over trivial spaces, gnawing at a gnat, forgetting souls are human. I’m still at a memory, so silent in time, came a moment in direction; What? Outwitted. Climbing over circumstances. Needing wings to fly away. So tamed. I’m found boring. And then a glimpse of a structure, a riddle in a sentence. I don’t ask for much—just … I’m not certain … something too stubborn might frighten us.     Looked at suspiciously: I didn’t invite this – not on these terms.     Hard times made a person iron: removed and sadness cleaved to its host … a powerful foothold.     Many assailed the content, when it was morose, asserting it wasn’t meant to share; I regrouped, a little here, a little there, and more aphorisms. It’s difficult. It will become a hurtle. It might be with us for some time … the mystic element, true grit, flame in spirit, a vaultkeeper, so to assert.

I wonder about Psalms. It keeps coming back: “What am I that Thou would visit me?” What was David undergoing? An entire life! I feel indignant: Jamb a feeling!

            In thought I ask: What permits travel—from quarters to quarters, chambers, and such: What opened the first vessel? What allows for discovery of procedure?       

Dear Angel,

 

Knotting up—over cascading eyes, science figured out behaviors, not deliberate ones, this is a different breed. Made for self-possession, self-sufficient, still needing, still yearning; a box for humankind, ashes for spirits, cadence for apparencies. Carving redwood, analyzing where it all went, despite, redundance, it’s viewed with sameness of deduction—moving marshweed, motion in mind, mingling with soul-states; as peccable spirits, limited feelings, one of a given few—dressed for mundanity, perceived on first glance, an entire life summed up in a few words; pure genius, powerful intuition, with believing the questions have been answered. Over ceramics, guessing about functionality, structuring given rules and regulations those blues so similar across different hemispheres. Mossy pains. Bosky souls. One fast letter to skies.       

Brief Meditation

 

Take it to its root—echoing on high, slow snails light by torch. I needed You those waves in cadence those angelic voices in liturgy; to soothe what became injurious, more profound in genealogy, more intense to have Hildegard. Greater iniquity in knowing by refusal, in sinning with purpose, in living with denial; Oh Father the soul is uneasy—much has come to pass, thunder struck the trees; Oh Sacred Spirit, to dine in essence, bypassing closure, each step is pushing forwardly. Pressed & stirred—wings flapping, feathers wafting adrift—sure Passion to have lived, to have descended, if to ascend in ascension; grounded souls, galloping with fierceness, furnished by ghosts, heaving in the Great hope; reaching inside, loving inside, a product of mistakes inside. Oh Precious Mother, to sit where loins bled, to have God inside, kicking & making motion.        

Maybe I Aggrandize Her

 

celebratory souls, concerto discoveries, a spirit will sensationalize greatness. art made of ghosts, phoenix soaring, sun-balanced energies. by a man’s crux, in desire of a creature, he must sail by seven seas—body made tired, patience warn through thread, satin hope, carnal paganism. certain downwardness, timbre in heaven, ethereal palaces—whittling cottonwood, her face appears, a thousand degrees into majesty. no gray humor, of humble insanity, of passion borne of souls. taupe eyes. cirrus smiles. to have noticed each other, some passing with time, to ask for a soul, its cards, its miracles, soot, and damages.

 

overborne into delicate-robust tears—

a dear charming elixir made by law.

if days are warmth most tamed fears—

overborne into delicate-robust tears—

a soul scorned for habit of years—

flailed asunder left torn left raw.

overborne into delicate-robust tears—

a dear charming elixir made by law.

 

of sober seas, an albatross at hand, shooing and shushing, most alarmed a pianist is flying. a mere amateur, some gift if known, to see with eyes pure of being—lacking impurity, of rare motive, by pouch of dusts—to sprinkle upon high, to wage war on selfishness, to need what sustains art—

a most unhappy bliss, a mouthless kiss, to have spirit in soul, to have harmony riven in twain, to want and need with venom dripping into invisibility.      

Addicted To Us or Restricted?

 

I was never sick like that, said so cautious, said one afraid to live. Most perish going in, baked early on, trying more to fix it than to live it. I was never on edge like that, intolerant of mistakes, loving her guts—the voice of the picture, the angst of the climax, so afraid to win. There it appears, drums beating sanity, anxious to live literature; if it feels good, I must walk away, if it feels bad, it’s more natural to me. I exaggerate, slightly, feudal, crazed, obeying, defiant, laughing in the face of dazzle; racing like speed, told to slow pace, mad she disagreed. Deeper than a platypus. Aquatic sensuality. Suffering from aphasia at points. I was sick of her. I was addicted to her. It was hell on a bridge to her. So into nails, so captured by biting, so aloof three hours after breakfast—I exaggerate—known to live, asking foreign questions, pissing off Ms. Innocence.   

Upon The First Heartbeat

 

Eating coconut mantis—learning religion—sawing at inhibition. He wrote his obituary and read it to strangers. He dispelled anxiety by disappearing into dust. A false horizon must return to self, waking up at distant hours—seasickness inside, swaying ships inside, love and stature inside. It probes its reality, so much an unusual creature, must we all desire her? A nauseating question, like an MFA in chemistry, so hurtful to ask, so causeless to say, no! At first glance, a quickening shock, a phobia for years in passing; bathhouse baptism, arranged in there, so compartmentalized. In hating her, the poet loved her, so many tears in Tibet; thoughts chafing, oxygen wafting, so tender inside—the guilt of a falling castle. Eating prayer wheat, fretting so much the beauty, knowing—most are a fraction of their beauty. Many inner portraits, pictographs, minds undergoing satori; much upon rawness, a sickle to spirit, to touch, taste, and tease. So serious—preferred in essence, feeling unusual to smile. Gibbons at rest. Mystic fruits. Leaf cutters moving at pace. Hands in slime, mold growing, so purified, so cleansed. Casual eye contact, jerboa swiftness, quite imperceptible. Remora instincts, fighting as we sin, some uncomfortable with being realized—wilder roses, gripping thorns, self-analyzation. Each crucible inches to skies, so grave in sanity, too bold for faint of distinction. (In boundaries—wandering her excellence, catching palms filled with vapor—miles into some space, an unreal dungeon, found smiling at zinnias—by fever at seconds, bodies too explosive, parts planted into the future … purple dynasties, violet heartbeats, drums made tribal.)     

Green Sunlight

 

I plucked a gallica, drifting like dogwood, murmuring under my breath; so seismic at points, like distance consecrated, like math for the first time. I sail upon motion, looking at reflection, out of laughs, courting a disastrous fable—those with silence, so pure in pains, wandering about channels. I stumble into you, as a probing galaxy, extended, usual anxieties; a mélange of problems, so much science, hurting for hurt, traipsing rafts, at a canyon inside. It seems different for you, wandering channels, needing sincerity, divine light, things most write away. I remember asking about abstracts, fiddling my brains, years will put existence between us; many spasms, rotten away, like tomorrow has different chalices. By pinions, so incomplete, like faced by moral excellence—to take in account, arms swimming, so much accrued in one breath.

Energy Transforms

 

We never die, a theory in skies, so concrete inside—not necessarily true; days with blues, suddenly feeling true grit, sullen becomes normal. Love excites souls, styles made on purpose, I keep losing cadence. Love makes reality, senses controlled, evoked, with one feeling unidentifiable. I won an emotion, won more distinction, one remaining obscure, made vague, flickering over ember—California loses, bigger behaviors, looking in her direction; so cold back then, so warm lately, still charged to behave—to keep science close to acres—and dying becomes illusion. Love is understated, cherished by life, given sin exoneration—morphing into energies. I never understand, some part hurting, how we adore to feel that way. At asphalt in tongues, sensing a pencil moving, at my mind to sway into distant pash; so infatuated back then, so enlove aching, fretting those eyes.

Concerned About Us

 

Could’ve been aborted.     I assert:     It was never a consideration.     I assert, I said.     I move through mountains, I adore the Bulwark, sober at it, lasting at it, restricted at it. Lost too much to get it back—more in eyes, looking into mirrors, what in God am I seeing? Never knew you, desired you, looking at a contour—those fingers, those wrists, those hands—a smile on a feudal glimpse, at Malibu instincts, spelling insanity, cleaving to sanity, many hoping in reverse—the penalty of the design, a woman has induced skies, with Jesus looking, “Maintain faith!” It seems correct, to know something askew, as it offsets the agenda—so sour with you, so enlove with the manifest, at a few in memories—a second on passion, it was hell getting close, it was science to last so long. All we wanted, all we craved, it keeps a distance, I wish I was different.     

Only Defined Inside

 

Try to fathom language. Removed from self. Bouncing into sea-skies. To absorb life. Wiggling in dreams. Decisions are made difficult.

Too much value, to love opinions, walking wires.

Hearing as it listens, moving in sequence, trying to touch the imagination.

In communication, sitting with invisibility, can’t contend it, nor give proof—aside for interior, it’s influenced, like crazed in design.

Right there. To see justice. Many were looking for more.

Most sluggish. It peeked and took energy. Too much to insist.

Love keeps secrets—living with schisms, it’s deep in trenches.

Closing is gentle. Opening is fierce. Love has life for a universe.   

The Fall Is The Rise

 

It feels like Sunday morning, dew on rugs, gloss on clouds, and thankful for the children; death by living, living by death, a mind saturated with glory—and much anguish; an existential machine, feuding with the human condition, so religious in private; many would argue—it means more in public. So enjoined to you, seeing visions, growling at myself. Much a song-voice, so singsong, closer to figuring out humans—those powerful wings, so indebted to teachers, so aloof from normality. Like gremlins coming out, like wilderness secluded, to pet a canine and walk away. Figuring to lose what was brilliant; to fathom a soul doing her rightness; like anything is fortified against loses, wires, seduction. Indeed, a gray area, a map with fury, a demon fretting over beauty. Waiting to kiss one time, like Cinderella is pure, and one encounter brings hope to existence.   

Jousting & Juggling

 

Found in a situation, religious eyes, glossy, glowing, cautious of sunlight, precious hearts, and diamonds. Such classic insights, attracted and unbeknownst in the why, so pure in its age; a younger soul, everything is tremendous, raving beauty, nothing is soiled or too gray to love. Time shadows the silhouettes and days act in sequences, subsequent to its unlikeness—by battle to adore again, by war to un-jade those jaded, by miracle to un-classify envy—either/or, nor those rubies, so close it hurts to breathe—a standing fount, metallic identity, wealth in poverty, souls located. Like roller skating, taking a scrape, it’s destined to happen—those miles in essence, the hawk in its winds, swooping, swearing by its nature, to have immortality. Found in a situation, religious tentacles, glowing in darkness, rhythm made, slipping into consciousness; as a small creature, a petit soul, located in invisibility, in each pleat, jousting with illusion.   

Edifice Shoulders

 

 

Ultimate reasoning, like it appeared, succession into my hubris; shoulders heavy, too many things to adjust to—like losing is indebted—a fire in hearts, a Sufi at the tavern, most intoxicated across lands. Much gravel across tables, a gavel made able, eating too much for my jeans; hate to explain it, wrong channel, lost on that one; like television, some movie, kept boosting up my ego; to suggest worth, God at his plank, so slick—it didn’t muster up high enough. Hearing it. Seeing it. Like crazed about it—knowing worry is like hellish. Shoulders heavy, too many valleys to tread, asking in measures, The New Jerusalem. At music with aloofness, to witness as it digs, breaking barriers—to make us smile; running with waves, heart churning, something tugging at my shoulders; never danced that way, to give rain that way, hearing as flame envelopes justice that way.

Aloof From Music

 

Worries as they unravel. Pains as they bottle up. And miracles in one woman. I wanted love, as it manifests, with scientists needing same-like. I did Reno. I tucked my sanity. Living in you is fabulous. More problems, can’t become so honest, each locke a witness to brain power; so many lies, to sprout truths, never met one that way; so cured in the curse, such a paradox, screaming at the sense-wall. It won’t last long, it might outlive us, never in time feeling like glory—those eyes, such bronze and hazel, like a problem for sobriety. So olden school, so baffled inside, while respecting the sanctity of holiness. A unique sacrament, a different vase, while looking across seas. If to get a glimpse, and why we do that? so many prongs outside. I wish I could say it, like one worry, never such a lie: eating superwoman, clenching to memories, I never had much clarity—by facts, her brains, her hearts, like plural locations.          Natural solitude, in body and soul, to ask we exist this way; so remarkable, such a lie, so authentic; choking on reality, eating skies, such a soft scent; why I do that, like a scoundrel, begging to see identity? We ate a secret, aloof from music, so intense about remedies.     

Immortal Classical

 

Mythos becomes identity. The woman becomes an idol. So made to avoid each other, makes it easier for souls saying, “Hello!” Over years one arrives to meet self. I can’t see her … she seems incredible … this makes for disappointment, disaster, and dysfunction: no person should be perceived that way. Logos and bias; rust and dust; slow deterioration.

     Childhood memories grow fussy. A first kiss grows hazy.

     Knowing how he responds, learned behavior, shows genius.

She has mastered instruments, desires fierceness, maybe too, a delicate palm.     So intense in its crescendo—so classical, to have begun at 3 years of age.

            In trying to remain cheerful, in presence of an animal, so gorgeous, it aches, hurts, passion has never been sated. We should stop here. We should permit intuition to sing. In all of understanding, recruit knowledge, so sore its beauty.

            Poise of Cicely Tyson. Style of Audrey Hepburn. Penmanship of Maya.     To travel into time, to move particles, to return to an extraordinary creature.

            Made immortal—to angst and concern, to have lived in my arms.

If Born To Survive …

 

The game is vicious, soothing wounds, elongating pains; a lighter to a cigarette, those years, those bottles—my liver! Too poor to get her, too rich to lose her—the torch in the porcelain; so enlove with living, so caught by dying, looking at Jesus—much faith, a jungle inside, maps to planes outside. Made it closer to my kidneys, at my milk with misery, at Love with big respect; worried about dying, looked at like crazy, a man comes to face his mortality; so immortal with literature, unless it comes to perish, unless technology forfeits the ghost. Never would care, so high, lost my daughter—don’t worry, she’s back! So close to a dungeon, smiling with Love, laughing like it feels good to cry; never gave a care, until those eyes, they might give up, I’ll be rockets until millenniums. Aware it hurts, just to look at it, like damn my life! If born to survive, why is it fair?

Bright Light

 

The perfect moon on the perfect space under the perfect rain; much to see, more to feel, made perfect in what I fail to know; admitting a dearth, beneath a dirge, lamenting our circumstance—soft melody, viola wise, cello born.

During sunshine, most meditative, most connected: silence, undulates, another rising into a gem; so deep into its depth, made rich in poverty, such a contradiction, maybe a paradox.

Rougher believes, earned wisdom, most can’t handle metaphysics.

What has the knower said? We’re eager to listen. We’re eager to feel her.

            Along the road, and headed to the pantheon, we met a Bright Light. It spoke to us. Turning in confusion, such visceral encounter, we fail to understand Awe!  

Pelted By Freedom

 

In a soul’s dungeon, its compass bleeds, finding joy in rubescent eyes—the formula of its pity, souls exploding, parts and pieces—spread about. In needing goodness, a soul tolerates injustice, for one brings both qualities; (one never knows—in watery plains—what he will assimilate, condition, and mistaken as fury)—the love of valleys, minds built on science, wrestling with human instinct—pelted by freedom, face-to-face with actions, deciding if beliefs are solid as diamond. What is a question in there? Soft beginnings. Forever in mind. Conditioned by promise—of light, width, girth and style; it isn’t altruistic, it isn’t not by freedom of enterprise, it’s somewhere in limbo—the lights are flickering: crucial to insights, love made fairer, with acceptance seeming Taoism. By ambience—to increase probability, by freedom to choose otherwise.

Maybe The Nihilist Cares II

 

Upon a repetitious thought. Upon a narrow horizon. Rain and sand and dirt and mud. Lizards running quicker, stray kay-nines, we each look for gold; hopeful lakes, swimming rapidly, knocking on clearance—the flame as it churns, the battle as it aches, such beauty in the winners: most mobile in miseries; most managed in joys; life is one huge contradiction: seeing eyes after all those years, hugging with happiness, laughing at a private joke; people watch, they envy the beauty, they smile out of contagion.

I was a lad, looking at bears and kittens and snakes in the garden; the bears were brutes, the kittens were creative, the snakes played violin on the rooftops; it becomes redundant, Love—the fires, the furnaces, the dreams, the penalties, the winnings and the loses; to change what is left of me—to feel complete in what’s left of me—without confessing the obvious in me.

I chase like the river might slow down; sunbirds watching, Buddhists nodding, a shaman digging into winds; so categorical—so much room for Utilitarianism, with hope claiming to attend to duty.

            Pride and action—the trumpets of wars, trying to understand each other. Changing becomes habitual; pain is normalized; and the Great Darkness beckons softly.  

Maybe The Nihilist Cares

 

Is faith resilient? Cultural answers say, yes. The ruler of the miseries, to measure out insanity, with souls coming apart. Faith is washed, rinsed, and set on asphalt for review. Stepping upon sidewalk, playing by piano, so possessed inside; a spatula to us, flipped and moving, when I saw her, I knew the rules, and I was unsettled. I wanted innocence, so amazing, those things we want from what we admire.          Many discuss it. It has become a rule of thumb to ask: Is the Father not with us anymore?          Over teacups and sunbirds, so skyward, tiptoeing and tapdancing.  

Trying to decode weather, dripping wet, beneath the deepest sunshine; like life is on repeat. Wanting what I couldn’t be. Sailing into the danger zone. What we see isn’t correlated with what we want. Listening—not hearing! Thinking—not seeing! Touching—not feeling! So absurd, only Camus would fathom, too nihilistic not to care.

Debating Over Literature

 

Like inner dodgeball—to escape self, watching self. A thin line between normality and boredom. Silent sounds, bigger remorse, chasing the fence. Life is one grand diet—mortar and straw, work and keychains. A soul needing the playground, a problem inside, likeness akin to damages; social watermarks, fretting the roofs, sewing a birdsong. Trying to get there, always getting to some place, with reality knowing those places are always waiting; soap and talcum, water and wine, dungeon and person. Throat singing some asylum, wrestling the existential light, sad over mandatory anxiety; must shut off the faucet.     Repurpose life, select meaning, with a need for an absoluteness of character—a property worthy of the nation, to pledge to, to surrender all woes to; the greatest madcap is the absolute maxim, to locate the gagster, to feel rich for knowing, and drained for reaching. Rethinking Hinduism.

“I Want to be Like Magic”

 

I can’t find self—that cheerful child—the one believing at core—it’s goodness; and Light is twofold, the girth the dearth—of what talks to you, rolling into the twilight. Take it to a trance level, mentioned in those letters, while thoughts were fabricated—the life of those sprinting, by war on self, to become a good person; and missing Love, the first one, it becomes dirt and tigerstone and dragons. I can’t find self—that cheerful child—the one believing in core goodness. I walked the wire, I heard politics, I noticed partner was silent—the conversation on his line, look at how it chases us. So allotted the gamble, at an instinct, so pigeonholed; to give back silence, to become aware, to become the first — “His word is good!” Choking on telegrams, looking for one blimp, while desperate to be life. We exaggerate, been there, selling my soul; no mind support, we keep eating chicken, so fried, so alive, like a deadman.   

To The Tall Mountain

 

I figure her rage is top heavy—and her understanding is running by the sylvan … to know it couldn’t be personal, for he never knew reality, despite, those flames and furies and fires—those indiscretions in him, his baggage, his misery, his anger.     As a doctor, it comes to ache, to gather figs, to nurture prunes. Not necessarily going for excellence of style, rules and such; more concentrated on message, art of design, and word selection.     It will pass over the tents, those with posts covered, it will pass over the tents.     It bothers because it aches all parties concerned. It was foolish. It was with unspoken grief.     (I have had a problem with rotating arguments.) I never believed honesty would flow; I never tried to see: it’s infection, vice, death, me! Let it run its course. But I am dearly sorry for the pain I have invoked. It was impetuous. It was sightless. It was quick, and thus, wrong. Anything more might seem deceptive.   

Poet Pianist

 

Most possessed by music, most crude, most dying;

to have outlived science, blended in

melody, transfixed, transparent, it never

came, it never happened, it’s now with

delusion—so sweet the beauty, so ripe

in sunrise, abandoned to miseries.

 

A lady pianist—to have known

penalty, to live like illusion is

triumphant—the poet chimes-in, a

poet means so little, art for the sake

of art—we do imagine!

            Softer memories, wailing as they clap,

honor in such aloofness, whelmed by triumph,

crumbling in an empty space …     so

many people: Have they seen us?

 

            It begins like a cartoon, it

trespasses upon life, it remains

incognito—the flail of the flagon,

so free into spectacular courage,

traipsing and leaping dungeons.

            No greater pain than obscurity:

said of so many elements.  

The Path

 

She knew he had potential. She knew it would get heavy. She wished that for him. He’d deliberate, repent, try to move immoveable essence.

He could see gravity—apples falling, science disguised as religion. It makes for wonder. When does one vanish? Is it possible the impossible, as it might flourish?

He experienced her powers, not her flesh, and walking into dimensions, he wouldn’t see her.

Much vexing light: Why be kind? Why disguise kindness? Is it kind to expose one to elements? Is it not kind? We could go on.

An initial urge has become a voyage. Deep tissue massage …

Two will have a time redefining reality. Is Reality solid?  

Selfish Cave

 

Excuse the cliché, but it’s much bigger than us: the publications, the notoriety, the comradery. I was in a zone, palming spirit, made to realize my hauntings, taunting(s), houses made of glass or straw, the fury of the miscalculated; only as good as officials make me, only as beautiful as we exclaim; like a silver back, watching, listening inside, it amazes what’s taking place in there. Something resists itself … its nature is grim … it feels like something unrealistic. I’ll employ the words, but I’m not big on ghosts and goblins outside of metaphors.          It will make us stronger. You will drift into the horizon. I will lay claim to sanity. Else, we each have many mental components to address.          I’ve been sawing marshweed—dazing off, asking my mind its number one concern.          I’ll be curt: I don’t want the entanglement.          I would prefer make right, endure to liking, and vanish into the daymare, which is life.          My mind paints a mean creature, so much personal insights, the soul is roaming its guilt.          Such psithurism, trees and the like, leaves and pain, blowing in the winds. I was fast asleep—it was life—I never asked for what you carry—please forgive the selfish waves.

Growing Wiser Into Spring

 

You gave poetry. You wore polyester sheets. You carried a bowl. It was out there, another region, pointing to beauty, headfirst glory, then it sings in eloquence. I took a handsaw to invisibility; I murmured against self; to imagine filth in souls. An attic of stripteases—controversial languages—to give more than one gives; maudlin woes, chauffeuring pains, some sad and sullen poet. Palming seaweeds. Lopsided perceptions. Looking into a backdrop. Too few seams—to feel emphatic, with drums leading into Africa. Save her umbilical cord—make it holy—for life is going to do a number. To savor the good, in one inside, with the secret being—One inside; books on war, frantic the curse, with life seeming like war; (a child would ask questions, if to protect a tender heart, the adult child asks the same questions—we give him his answers). Like marksmen, racing to an icebox, begging for what ice can’t give; so high-powered, identity is a chase, so fragile – as we palm words for consideration.      

It Seems Normal The Seas

 

You entered by stealth. Like a soul in a spirit, like salt in a pill.     You’re by measures, by sun-glance, by rivers to omens. I approach with hesitance, sea pains, octopus’ ink, so deliberate! What was it then, in sheer darkness, befriending some inkling inside? the tales so tall, the frames so narrow, without a feature to call by terrestrial landscape—so esoteric, so passed the chase, an adventure made irregular—to wonder—if they love you, if they’ve died the sundown miseries. Sade in excellence—digging more out—so human it hurts. It seems crazy it must ache, hurt, churn a measure. To approach with caution, unraveled a tease, wondering as we do, enflamed, upset, bothered as we are; a high loft, never ending, angry forever—the cries of lands, soil with skeletons, seen suffering through other’s eyes.     Time to stop watching what we adore the most—time to expand.

Mistakes: Old Pathways

 

Out of gates, raw, horrible beauty, the soul unclear—running into you, asking boring questions, ripe for a throw away meeting; unyielding forces, magnets bled, like damn close to whispering—the pride of the lions, the rage of the apes, the gorilla in the desert; sounds amazing to become selected, a rebel, a dream of some atypical genius. A slight tone, a little sarcastic, as pointing to rationality—many desire peace of mind, love overflowing, undulations with kisses, children and dreams, a healthy family. With the bathwater—as we say!      If to spread courage, it comes with politics, how to tell enthusiasm to take a camel trail? How to temper raw courage, innocence, feeding on adrenaline?          It was nice seeing us—the losers of the crowd, a little wining this season; the way you looked, the dance in the gait in the eyes the winning was palpable; so clean, so possessed, with a viper lurking, a cobra debating, an adder speaking its language.          Haven’t won in a while. Been at it watching. Needed to hear your fierceness. Avenues of concern, blocks of mysteries, corners parading closure; a little mythical, a tragic curse, plus, an old memory popped up.          It seems cold winds through the savannah, the cleats keep digging in; so great a meeting, so dark in undertones, nerves try to maintain the rapture. Such tsunami vibes, deep mirrors, aching at one tear.   

High School Insight

 

It was an autumn sky—on a windy day, I saw eyes made of anxiety. You were like a mirror, sunshine when it rains, a day for redemption. Holy and human. By fleece and favor. So with needs. So unattainable. Night moths inside. Tender wishes. I’d yet to dream—tossing, turning, one sacred thought.          The mishap—the discomfort—the contradictory feelings. Autumn was radiant, electric landscapes, so many undulations. To hear one’s projections, to need with desperation, some gift in the holy human. Favored and fevered, serene secrets, casual concerns; to hear you sing, some giant in the hills, made of silver and gold. I saw a human, ethical by intent, living religion in flesh. I hope times have been good, in spite of difficulties, sailing and singing and sewn into majesty; for these constitute existence, a fair moon, a radiant sunshine.

Escaping Ourselves

 

Sleeping in scars, trombone fried, Netherlands is watery; greens and hogs, dreams and not knowing, the battle is overcoming self; violin trouble, dear pain trouble, too much to explain trouble. Each poem is not enough. Each person is a universe. Sworn to perform. Sworn to pass judgement.          Lakes are metaphors—some are under an edifice—some system, unique to humans.           Loving is difficult.          Retreating is confessing what we can’t hear.          So reciprocal the nights; too up to fly—too low to fathom defeat … pure contradiction … this is existence!          It was different; then we met … in all the frustration, I wonder: Why would you share that with me? So imperative, so much understanding, to give both the best and the worse of us.          I imagine, now with serenity, those taller trees—the fountain of the skies—those woes unchiseled, the future spoken in dreams, the ponds, the lagoons, those meadows with ferrets and birds and humility.         Can’t explain beyond the simplistic; and knowing that, you attacked. It was more for self. It had little to do with actions. Just annoyed—angered—needing a reason to live, in a reason to fight, with others knowing more of wilderness, those clouds, the bulwarks, those scars. Color hurt also. Such a broken vessel, claiming into another vessel; some improper potion, some great estuary, into a silliness taking precedence.      

Experimental Human Activity

 

Do you want to know me? Do you know self? That person came out to visit. By far a primitive alien. By waves as it tiptoes boldly. I remember a lady. She was huge. She was moved and poised while possessed. She was distant, watchful, vigilant into the nights. She was said to fight, quite often, gashes running down her arms. Just a glimpse. Just a grunion. Just facts slipping in the darkness. Do you want to know me—some person most imagine? Well, give me facts about this person one tries to enforce—as evident in gait, breath, human science, history of person, and color. I was lucid when I saw it. She stood closer. I wonder if what she looks for is found in herself—that private person, presumed as universal, driven into madness spheres, a projection that all others share in this essence. Try to remember self, exposure, as it requires life, if but to become some other person, more split, dealing with halves. Do you want to know me? Look into self, those inner avenues, colored by us—the you in me, the me in you.   

Each Soul Goes by Baptism

 

Sensitive ears, unneeded greed, fastidious in our pacing; still with furies, gawking at mudslides, defined by social justice. Early waking—moist eyes tasted anguish, a soul ponders oxygen—trees planted, soil tilled, sickle to lights, darkness to the universe; to have lips parted, searching the aftermath, an imperceptible glow; kneeling in good spirits, seeking closure without heaving, active like volcanoes;

 

blocks of dry sulfur, eating sin, wondering if ever another soul as pure as the Paraclete. The preacher is nearby. He is kept at a distance.

 

Most like listening—passing assessment, nuts, bolts, allergies—opening up, happiness has a cost, as it pilfers our dreams; so dis-patient, so uninflated, heavy lightness; the tandem of the energies, the expanse of the cosmos, so filled with what can’t be defined; like inking chaos, irritants in moons, the sun as fire.