One Palm Facing Faith

 

I was absent those years, un-present, as one in limbo. I couldn’t see mirrors. Days were darkness. And hope was wanning.     The loss of naivety, a blessing, a cruel curse, both?

A soul waits on answers, waiting becomes unbearable, writhing, seeking self, doing all to stand.     Faith is complex, it requires conviction, to believe against odds, against reality—the depth of sunshine.     I’ve seen walls move, dynamite exhale, the Passion rise.     Tender beginnings. Rough terrain. And souls are leaping.     Faith is intimate—made of invisibility, made visible through actions; to swim a sea, to land on pillows, falling through earth—the friction inside, esoteria inside, communing with something private inside; moving faster, fasting longer, drifting into focus.     Belief is enchanting, losing naivety, listening to epiphany, gauging palms of reality.

Conscious But Unconscious

 

The way it ends, it was destined. The way it begun it was foretold. The pain was necessary, the revenge will disappoint us both. I see visions—much mental activity. Love was pure, another was crooked, seeing it so much, muddies one’s perception. If pure of soul, relish in that. If shady, plus, semi-religious, consider it redemption. It shouldn’t have occurred, it shouldn’t have happened, but tears are purification. So laxed in perception, so convenient in thought, tortured, battered, and hurt; the fire cleansing the temple, the reason to kill the messenger, the hurting becoming a vendetta.

 

I was lost in darkness, still there, so absent to purity. Praising Father, wanting greatness, disbelieving in Father’s children. Seeing it play out, time and again, learning to play pretend. Maybe some people see all beauty, maybe they ignore the havoc, maybe they wrestle a tumor. I keep hope for the hopeless. I fret the ending of time. Maybe the universe will collapse. Maybe it will withstand itself. Maybe I’ll come back—conscious, but unconscious. None really can fathom probability. It will continue. I will be present.

Walking Edges

 

The pain is the story. The story was vetted, eyes teary, to imagine what humans endure. I was dreaming, to see many sights, like approaching closer to the sewer. They need brains, a different creature, a little weird. I need answers. I examine each corner. I imagine it’s deeper than what I can conjure. Maybe gone. Maybe loose inside. I feel tight, locked screws, maybe too much belief. (We must be careful. We must insist on clarity. To disbelieve in self, and it’s easier to conquer him.) I was younger. I held a triumph. She was lethal. (Some are designed to push back, to go inside, to imagine what it looks like.) I need evidence. Despite what breathes. Despite what breeds. I need to see sequences. Each letter is against itself. Each sky is watching. We never talk about segments, delineating the mountains, wrestling with coyotes. I knew Love wasn’t ready. I fell back. One might not look into self. Pressing outward. Sensing arrogance. Never to realize, a lack of courage. Many aren’t ready. It’s coming. We’ll meet at the tribunal.  

Ironic Dance

 

Belief is life. Life is belief.     I found you by mistake. I adore you by accident.     Waves flowing, ebbing into frequencies.     To love is shallow. To worship is obsession. There isn’t a medium.     I desire a problem, an indifferent opportunity, smiling coquettishly, laughing at anything.     The days are innocence, minds straying, against odds, moving slowly, dry as moisture.     I’d see deception, sensitive behavior, maybe elongated/breaking eye contact.     Illogical thoughts. Illuminating dreams. Closed skies.

A soul will ignore himself. He will drift into a mirage. He will be scarce for one, and full for another.     Clanking iron, and ferric dynasties, a head full of bronze.     Many herbs to conjure you to existence. Many feelings in gold.     Shirking emotion, playing monopoly, aged and developing. Prose as a problem. Souls as intermittent. Spirit as traveler.     I was silent—lifted in time, feelings were debated.     By a fluid hydrant, aside meadows, aged and dying.     Mental databases, to witness indecision, formed in the belly of the beast. Insincere laughter. Uncomfortable presence. When one reflects on indiscretions, temperament, and disguise.     Searching for a safeguard, to locate a friend, while working against self. Something unwritten, as a code of mystery, a part of soul hates itself.   

Internal Warfare

 

Such is imaginary. It can’t exist. It’s too metaphysical. The love of the error, the error of the mistake, the mistake as the building blocks. So sardonic to wish you success. So bold as to say it can’t occur. And so ironic one speaks to irregularities. One listens to complaints, vowing to hear, debating where it will go. An animal!

This is what it comes to, not a human, an animal!

 

But I feel and I love, and life can be tender and adoring you makes sunshine; so consequential, the burden of the soul, to need affection, to battle shadows—a glowing smile, an immortal kiss, only meant for a select few—the hope of the fruits, the wage of the faith, abiding by dreams and visions and passion.

 

Made into spirits, looking becomes a privilege, the way you disappear; the volume of an aura, those looking into one’s countenance, the fight for the arc.  

Some Elements No One Is Explaining

 

If we imagine the regime torturing thousands. It becomes difficult to manage.

 

Essence in flying, trying to complete one spectacular assignment, vying for immortality.

 

It will end horribly. We’ve willed it this way.

 

Power as it breeds. Many dimensions of probability. One mustn’t ignore it. This is humanity!

 

The gift loses its cache. This is the motive. To take something—is to lose something. I am no better than the ones I condemned.

 

The narration is long. The consequences are psychical. We lose our grip. We suffer righteousness. We become intangible.

 

The skies must fear the earth, and the earth must fear the skies; even then, one is unsatisfied; it becomes level for level.

 

The occasion was the folly. The revenge took place. But it felt good. It gave one life. So it persists indefinitely.

 

In all of my getting, in all of the struggle, I’ve picked up an immortal curse.

 

To sail seas in cities; if to die thrice and resurrect; if to prove silence as a miracle; the force of the reality, the cage of its freedom, the soul as unlocked.   

 

No one listens we say. But one knows, aside for others, just calculating the sciences, making assessments, realizing something unique is rising higher.

 

I make no pledges, no assertions, I’ll sing it, as it evolves—the dear pavement, those abstracts we can’t live without, the ontology of religion, the metaphysics of colors—to live like dying, to die like living, some creative curse, and the world is now happy, elated, beside themselves!

Allergies & Rites

 

By and by, a stern face, looking pensive;

and God came, swaying in winds, a savage

for clarity—by and by, a wistful

smile, a soulfelt celebration—southern

excellence, northern hospitality,

so deep in surprises—the magic of

prose, the geometry of memories,

so soft, anti-cuddly, racing in

the rain; power of ten tigers, moving

dimensions, framed as invisible—the

post of the mystics, so engrained in

atmosphere, to approach thunder and

lightning. Oh Mademoiselle, too many

times at beck and call, so dearly

justified—those with passion, fiery

anxieties, the way we die slowly.

So experimental, to have crossed

creativity—landing in something

unique—those flaming into sanity,

such raw expertise, while a soul watches

each move; carrying a tortoise,

wrestling an alligator, becoming

a gila monster—praising in prayer,

gathered in cherries, allergic to it all.       

It'll Remain Unjust

 

If loving you is wrong, by song of its completion, then dying has become illegal. Buttercream eyes, elongated nape, caressing eyebrows; a feeling made mesquite, an emotion out of order, the cage I ingest; a blacksmith with keys, a drummer with drums, a violinist with a cello—to have loved like fugitives, racing into blueprints, so grand—pineapple assurance; frightened to see you, alert to hear you, knowing home is over yonder—many footpaths, augmented lusts, fretting it might grow wings. Tarred and feathered—ink-stoned rubies, fiending over luxury hips, intrepid thighs, a woman, as opposed to something gray—floating into fantasy, framed in fevers, alert to a galaxy—withstanding the furies; lips parted, gaze treacherous, glowing like Angelica—the pain of its habits, so wrong in debate, to fret over ought behaviors. Looking intently. You know my thoughts. Trying a hand at slow paces, featured in allergies, so great the force.  

Partial/Palatial Sunshine

 

With a funny-bone, moving swiftly, asking of the vaultkeeper—the address of happiness, the kiln of joy, with flaming, with electricity, the quickness of the rose; at the crypt-teller, the matriarch passed, Who’s left in charge? Most roots in moonshine, swollen anxieties, the crooked know existence; most eyes are dripping sap, many palms are gripping Jesus, most come to it lately—the art of the buffoon, the casualty of the earth, synced and diced, minced into pieces, laughing it hurts! The fuss over bending letters, the majesty in tortures, a giggle for spirits, a smile for omens, a gift for living. By angst into a portrait, those chasing those running those at peace—if and only if—the fires drowning amore, as one resuscitates, while souls are resurrecting—the filth of experience, the mathematics of dying, like people come back to sing. So deep the wattage, riding on social-cars, the lamps just popped. Dear Jesus, What was it, What was it? Total nor partial, searching for symbols, fretting the Easter Storm, and mother was there, where armor left.  

Mantis Diary

 

The sun is out, those centipedes are moving, I reminisce on Kansas. A different excellence, maybe show me glory, so alphabetized. A sickle to soil, a feeling taken to heart, and medieval silhouettes—to come to depth, to plumb the earth, feeling in parts, a curse.     Born into sludge, rinsing daily, asking pertinent questions—of deacons, priests, the bishops, feeling homesick, if to skate heaven, a spirit lost to eternity; a long while, sundown prayers, akin to the nightmare mantis; such a sunburst, on a Wednesday morning, alike to a feeling in rain—the pouring down, upon flesh and soul, a cool evening, a sin to recollect.     Back at it, a mini-crucible, reminiscing on the inner dimensions, a city filled with miseries, a culture born to struggle.     Many say things, I’ve analyzed it, no one escapes the interior debates … drinking sugarberries, eating sugar-apples, and life was never so sweet.     Blessed enough to see triumph, some great adventures, it isn’t all disgraces; the turn of souls, the spirit grinning, a fret to love justice.    

Tambourines & Hearts

 

Essential colors, eccentric phantoms, rooftop on buses—laughing in feelings, sad a night moving into some quarters—so young so lost, feeling located. They know us, they defined us. Leased and drained. Majesty and wings. To adore what I see, to ignore what I hear, taught both sides, a product of coins, hair made bronze. Lucent at times, deeper at seconds, trying to laugh again. Light in topaz, each sign inside, some symbol in accordion; lutes whistling, horns for Jerusalem, like crazed hearing Judah. Lustrous domains. Lustful getaways. A soul loses sight in understanding the magic, the mystic, the force—the bounce back, aged and lost, found and lost, changing each moment it affects the soul. Refulgent dreams. Radiant promises. Looking at his rearview. A second to speak, a thirst for lightening, many gripping thunder—floating and flitting and thus flying.    

Nontraditional

 

I didn’t bake a turkey, nor prepare stuffing and trimmings, instead, I’ll cook something elusive, nontraditional, taking some sort of stance. It’s a toehold for me, maybe a lazy one, or maybe a conscious initiation.

 

I sense while time

 

flies, futility, a laxing feeling, priorities

for family differ from stances, political, or keying awareness.

 

The boots are traipsing through India. Wars point to humans.

 

I take a magazine, open it, read from front to back, swat a fly, sip coffee, and drift back to childhood: canned cranberry, nothing major, ham, turkey, arguments about cooking skills, pumpkin and apple pie, stuffing, peas and mash potatoes, etc. Eyes buried in traumas—survivors, with some contending.

 

One loses emotion, drilled by emotion, and filled with emotion. The denial solidifies the strength of the denied.

 

Transcendence shows promise … deepness of presence … padlocks opened, chains shattered, doorjambs removed.

 

One chisels glaciers, by graces, remaining warm hearted.

 

What to say more?

 

Symbolism is powerful. Each soul will hew the other. Something so simple, so complicated, so hard to achieve—to walk through pits and ditches, pride and soul, to exist with freezers chasing. The love of the pain, is the pain to love.

Similar Ingredients

 

The dead might listen—to pain, arcs, and anguish—the living might analyze those maxims, with a few caveats to give in return.

He was telling me. I remembered that technique. Much anxiety over a symbol.

In adoring the vault, readily

those charms, angst from a simple kiss.

Life is full in experiences, fraught by emotion, framed in feelings.

Surefire fatigue, kinetic furnace, naked on the inside—livid at understanding—the algebra, those indexes, the entire farm.

The soul rationalizes love, humans, debate, and reasoning—filled with contrast, comparing society’s daughters, those vanguard souls, each gust, ever into glens, flooding the meadows.

The dead might not listen—to happiness, arts, and jocularism—the living might determine a person, such sweet categories, deep into soul, and unfledged.

Sheer futility—the war of numbers, by ache of survival, to have loved sight unseen: to never know those mornings, prior to coffee, to awaken with fierceness about the loins, a tongue filled with anxieties: to never fathom each game, its insistence, its memories—palming gypsum, fretting naivety, bashful at mind, confident in countenance, observed like animals.  

Sunbirds Dynamic

 

Dusky deserts, embedded in time, with it passing gently. To pursue regardless, fixed by obsession, searching for disharmony. The clouds are low, seasons are vexed, over power, over art, over sensation. The cry is in a mirror, sullen battles, to redirect an existence. Comic tragedy, scorched by reality, too concerned to endorse freedom; a tale told sorely, holding with anxiety, trailing something imagined. If to soar through cosmos, skies made metric, the horizon made tranquil. A soul with identity, a soul with fury, remains a haunted soul. And Love was with wings, a fair hearted phoenix, aside one flame; as dances topaz caves, beige lagoons, rivaling to walk away. To need something, with all of existence, if to sail southern wiles. Dusty meadows, a woman sneezing, passion floating in droves: a semi-curse, made legit, founded in dark spaces.    

The Body Is The Music

 

First rejected, then selected, a cycle from cyan to purple; so great a beige creature, so many emotions, allegators inside—motion above, a crocodile gnawing his heart. Wine-stained glasses, lipstick rims, in days passed. High tech understanding, blessed her mind, her ache, her culture; a feeling like London, an arc in space, even New York grows lonely. Art moving through gutters, lyrics on the black market, Neutrogena to rejuvenate. A gecko on a glass table, a little mirror, to see it nosing itself. Confessing more, lightening in soul, palming purgatory—

belly aches, muscle sweats, purging spirit; fasting, moving in circles, backing into walls.

The core sandblasted, in minds made of sandy marble, chiseling winerock.

Upon a pendant, to sense hostility, her face made deliberate: garment meant to mis-guide, excellence in breath, scruples up for debate.

Closing in silence, listening inside, remembering it started upon a psaltery.    

Irony In The Testimony

 

How does one unaligned speak of love?

The joy in unhappiness the ink spark.

I was wheezing aesthetic time & mud.

How does one unaligned speak of love?

The pain in joy, the eternal whereof;

To adore eternal the passion of the dart.    

How does one unaligned speak of love?

The joy in unhappiness the ink spark.

Examining Kierkegaard: The Unhappiest Man

 

The present belongs to remembering, the future to projection, the past to memories. Tall waters, walls made of helium, rising into atmosphere. A soul is given a moniker, a heart filled with pressure, a battle to survive. I’ll be a liar, asking for a pardon, if ever to lose one drum; I’ll be a miracle, fighting against elements, if ever to rebuild interior. An insane crush, similar to obsession, with violets upon petal droppings; coming to rain, sipping, palms full, longing for sunrise. I read concerning “The Unhappiest Man.” He’s one living forever, hoping in something unattainable, his reality is fraught by wishful thinking, one struck by death is happier. An extreme position—the unhappiest is struck by his present tense, unable to reflect on his past tense, and too disenchanted to create a future tense. Happier is he able to remember, he fills his present up with memories, and hopes in his future—a most wretched man, unknowingly, better is knowing life is fraught.     We desire warmth, hope, consideration of the good—if to reason, if to feel, where gravitation is towards the heartburns, the mixtures, the trombones making melody. I lost a piece of self in his literature. I snapped into focus. It can’t be what, for many, it is … the deaths, the miseries, life is hurting. The wretched man is living. The living man is blind. Freedom belongs to vision, triumph, moving through reality. Pain is false happiness.      

Adult Breathing

 

If the lease is up, there’s an option, to trade in on a new spirit—the same soul, the same courage, tiptoeing the blades—like flying on high, or skating on acid, like losing marbles. You took a loss, Love, so much history, Love, to pick and select what appealed to soul, Love. You have frequencies, they waft into being, you popped up—and I can’t decipher why. Too sensitive to it, some at war with it, maybe it requires more than a signature—maybe not. You took a loss, Soul, heading into the helicopter, chain smoking in private. It was early in the AM, music swooped first, soul came second, I can’t, for it was a torrent. I have to extend gratitude; you came into existence—like a flame of fury—swoosh! You’ve delicate power, racing to conquer earth, most see exaggeration, I see skies and fever—rushing like rivers, to achieve the greatest feat.  

Weeping Strata

 

Intensity of a lamb, sheared like sheep, searched for like one getting away. Major celebration, one astray has been located, and carried back to his family.

 

A lamp was under a table, we pulled it out, it gives light to the entire room.

 

I have knocked and no answer, I will give it to Hope.

 

The soul was flame, gathering science, and berries, and made believable.

 

People become iffy, not over reality, rather, mechanics, semantics, allegiance.

 

To feel this way, to turn from water to wine, to hold the staff; and Love would shed a tear, not as vice, more to prove a point, another would drop a tear—so much insync.

 

Many rabid flork(s), little clamps, prohibiting cool winds; such fermenting, to flourish softly, dying to make it back to cleanliness.    

 

I give it to him, so unruled, so much iniquity, and he carries his reality, his sanity in the palms of destiny’s hands. I will meet him at the tribunal.    

 

A valley of marmosets, a town of geladas, and I wonder where humans came from. Such blaspheme! “We came from God.” Yes, and Yes!

 

In terrors, we exclude as opposed to augmenting. A man as he lives. A woman as she breathes. Far enough back, and each person is related.

 

No clear aim. Maybe a couple of impossible fancies. Maybe a ghost inside, sleeping, breathing harder at the moment.

 

The fear was I would lose it. The reality is it has grown.   

Gentle Conversation

 

Into a room, seated in a chair, pressed against a table. To some extent, questions and answers, vice and vanity, music and kindness.

 

Technique is necessary—more in conversation—less in arbitrary silence; a song sung softly, a languid lyric, avenues and art.

 

Most never stop seeing, within a parameter, some say a box, a banner in clouds, others, see until, and no more, this outlines dynamics.

 

On occasion, power struggles, deep interests, maneuvering, complicated by stimulation; upon blueness, steeped in maintenance, much rain.

 

The question determines answers, in any dynamic. Music and disposition, passion and attentiveness—to soul, nuances, breaches and justice.  

Reality Is Beyond Full Verification

 

It isn’t love, while it’s more the love, watching spirit, as it grows wildly. And a lady in the shadows, seeing it all, wondering what he’s done now. Those lines are thin, the lakes are casual, fate needs itself. So great its wilderness. So threatened by itself. So loose in its design. Fate, as crystalized, topaz minerals, gold and ghosts, forever in disfavor, nothing to mix, pure reality, made evil.

If a soul tries, the soul is being controlling. What have we to see?

So Beleaguered so Baffled, It’s made easier. While necessary to trick one’s mind. Else, greater winters, greater emphases on dust, the grit of matter is life.

Into a mental dimension, a bungalow, filled with false glamour—what has reality to offer? Stability. Pain. Art.        

14 Heartbeats

 

We wear wigs, like ancient souls, trekking deserts and wetlands. One will focus on behaviors, another on excitements, and so forth. Eating my thunderstorm, drinking my lightening, and so forth. The plague is its curse, in living with an inner magician, so close to not caring; a lie, it’s in nature to worry, and this is carrying. A festoon at the river, a cult in heart, many things yet to be uttered. To outsoar you, to laugh with you, to live out my wilderness with you; and granny died, and mother passed, and who comes next? Dust to dust, bone to bone, no more flesh. A daughter with mistakes ahead, a problem with terrors ahead, a lagoon with a filthy ass platypus ahead. It seems what it is, and it seems what it isn’t, and most can’t know until one acts out of character—the riot of the trumpet, the boss of the palace, so smelted, flitting as we do; teary-eyed, it’s just my turn, God bless the next in line; much dolor, I hold it well, while Love is nosy, to ask a question, I wave a hand, and crumble a little. The crucible is dusky, the palace is in corrections, the gloss tells its story. Dreaded to arrive, craved to come, like music in the forest. Returned to dirt, spirit made filthy, spreading wings, floating on high, lavished to return.   

A Notion On Negation

 

 

In defining something, we state what it is and isn’t. In saying there is love in an instance, is the same as saying there could not, not be love in that instance. The assertion forbids a simultaneous negation. We can say what is possible. But opposite feelings happen rarely in one instance. And the positive assertion, is not about to subtract itself in the same breath. It can work its way there, but usually people say, “I remember when …”. Not, “I asserted opposite qualities in one breath,” albeit, it’s possible, but rare. “To have loved and lost is better than to have not loved at all.” True love changes a person, and its negation is destructive. We cherish each other, grow familiar with each other, in one breath, to negate those sentiments. It can harden a person. To learn things, to have facts, where some aren’t rosy, as they say. The idea of it all. On a positive note, to see the best in humanity, to soar and dance, and care to love, pulled out of oneself … this is living.

California Human

 

I never met you, not in totality, just glimpses, and the parts make the whole package. Years turn into decades. It wasn’t right; we just couldn’t let it be. So much

 

disliking, hints of volume, much more disdain. I imagine things are clearer … the angel is a perception … age is catching us—much security in feelings, morose, fretting another’s misery … holding a pinwheel,

 

asking something inside, loving you was easy, a mistake, a problem; made colder, made warmer, quite selective, envied, a little envious, making light of something in you, something cruel, how has it become eternal?

 

Maybe the hurt is in the pain—a feeling, to read it, to know we’d write, laugh, talk smack, and aggravate society … walks aside a xyst, pruning emotions, and there I go, pontificating about something probable,

 

made beautiful. I snatch a chair. I find a table. I speak a name … it lacks substance, the river is enigmatic … I eat a meal, I hear a feeling, I remember we hate each other. Maybe not … so esoteric, a book can’t give

 

us experience: moving through it, so close to abstracts, if it were that, I’d be a memory. To chirpsing. To crush on you. Like a fool. It’s much realer now, I shouldn’t resurrect improbability.    

Again & Again

 

Often, a man will laugh, unbeknownst to himself, we must capture our moods. Often, she will smile, unbeknownst to us, we must capture that second—to dine on truths, to ask for clarity, so much to die in a coffin.

 

Often, she will wail, eyes filled with terror, filled with volcanic seas.

 

Often, a soul’s memories will deceive him, he will need decency, where he will plead his apologies.

 

Often, she will perform, she will hate the one she loves, she will need clemency, pardon, in depth the kiss filled with anger.

 

Often, a man is smitten, infatuated, drinking, and he says something insensitive—please pardon us too.

 

Often, a seed sees things a certain way, she isn’t wrong, she just forgets herself, her behavior, her indifference.

 

Often, a man loves without reason, he is a lone star, he sees something unknown to the audience.

 

Often, we seize art, tear heart, and try to fix our songs.   

At High Tempo

 

searching through corridors, courtyards, country sides—if to find us; pausing in a lost city, walking streets, reaching for a face, a dream, a vision. so close we shift, I don’t know you, to have so much care for boxes, cedarchests, at the gates; pitching coins, painting souls, too far away—to feel enchanted; pain and pleasure, neat and spasmatic, cold and icy. our paradise, your skills, so many to complain of surrealism—the art of valleys, purgatorial reality, to smile, jotting into one’s life—the mind of heaven, to feel chosen, with passion made reclusive. freedom as a discussion, rain into his mind, rivers through her soul … paradise and war, tugged and delivered, loved and hated—all by one encounter; piccolo silence, fluting a miracle, piano enchantment … violin genetics, such prisoners of happenstance, souls broken, swimming, aloft one last channel. 

Can’t See Ourselves

 

I was sold a dream. Life has been hard.

A voucher for a spirit.

Puma paws, prayer hands.

I was sold trauma,

Lost in a dungeon, aching for comfort,

Land-pain was fertile.

 

Quickness;

Due to pulchritude. A sinner like life.

I started here: rhymeless poetry,

At a weeping bench, a grief tree, trying

To evaporate, ignoring the mass of

Properties:

Jagged swords,

Drop top Impalas,

Debating if Love honors life.

 

I met radiance. She thinks I haven’t an

Apology to knit; I wonder why she visits;

I can’t see ourselves: she

Knows more, well studied, a smile with

Rain.

 

What does one need? It’s woven in

Passing. Engrained in genetics: I think I

Know her—somewhere in the Old

Scriptures—Somewhere in India.

 

We never met, seated across the table, an

Ant moving swiftly, a cup of water, a drank

Of juice, lamb and bread … a tank of

Stingrays, and one jelly fish.

 

I was told to keep with patience, it

Connotes dealing with deserts, ignoring

Purple elephants, eating old clams. And

Love will never know why—the love!    

Our Song

 

I’d stop and rewind the cassette. Addicted—so delivered—held by mesmerization. Some mirage—an ephemeral aura, an uncanny countenance—too much is unfair. Thoughts clamor. Octopus hands. Spider silk, cobweb dynasties. A long line of gorgeous, so devastating, rocket hearts, locked in atmosphere. Photo perfect, sheer photogenic, contemporary phenotypes; austere yogis, wowing graces, jigsaw beauty. At something unusual, making souls yelp, so filled by force, determination, still gentle, so demanding, so casual. Most can’t be decoded, nothing unique, most are aliens inside; to look steady on, like rowing in sequence, I’d listen to reindeer eyes; so many watercolors, one watchword, our trips are familiar; to adore one, as to replace one, fortunate to make a soul person. Over blackberries, complaining of acidic pressure, to lean over and exhale.   

The Gray Zone

 

Gila monster pain.

Gorilla isolation.

Living aside piranhas.

Asking a dear friend —

“If incomplete, do we have time?”

To see a lady: bejeweled, a small,

expensive purse, a chitzsu

hanging out.

 

I spoke religion, then science, she

looked and said, “That’s about

right.”

Gila monster healing.

Apes making it to town.

Societal hemorrhages.

 

I was entitled to diamonds. The genus

was scoundrels. Ashes and butts.

Cigarettes and wine. So young,

parents watching, what can they do?

 

Gooseberry sins. Gravidity sensuality.

Pressured. All isn’t vanity.

 

Maple and oatmeal. Passion and

familiarity. It has to intensify.

 

A bowl of baked potatoes, butter,

sour cream, and bitter sorrow.

 

Serenity should be prose, all alone, on

its merit.

 

The mirage was getting huge.

And the plants were typing.

Unsteady Consistency

 

A puddle of blackwater, a blackdamp, a black mansion; in dry Australia, or a rainy desert, chasing a rhinoceros. Dry rain, wet, moist fire, remarkable lights. Upon a flying fox, to have died repeatedly, always giving life. Never dehydration, cups filled, wondering how it moves into another season. A devoted wife, another chasing wisdom, both trying to be “good,” where others chase winds, dig pits, cast snares, or perish in the tumbleweed, afforded one hope on change; freshwater gators, wrestling appetites, to know a man is foolish, a woman is eager to know more, both passing breezes: no deeper demands, it will unlatch with time, it will come back, if lucky. Dry thunder. Lightening reality. Nomadic order – different seasons, different directions, different perfections. It’s all unreal – the mind is unreal, and so real, always in motion, we say, “A demon was at me.” In truth, parents, siblings, family, teachers, churches, these are at many of us.  

 

Oaken brains, leaves moving, each vein speaks to life – swimming in spaces, climbing skies, rockets at mercy and falling faster; pythons in gardens, pains in allegators, rabbits sitting in the briers. Monsoon life. Womb power. Alas, a man will be uneasy.

Outcropping, Becoming of Age

 

I was freedom in my hopes. A difficult soul, with hardened perceptions. In loving, I became free, free as a lad, when love is beautiful, grand, new, forceful. I would trail the ocean, feed the sunbird, a place inside, surrounded by sand. Other horizons weren’t appealing, youth engulfed us—souls and eagles, patience in banter, jest in romance, before irritations settled upon life. Love was a smokestack, ribs and wine, snuck in through the patio door. Orchids were vibrant, symbolic, making for ambience and décor; so much to give, sore at trying harder, so natural the silver lining, the moon seemed so close; herring bones, huaraches, Ralph Lauren jeans, to sing with gusto, to bathe in vigor, at each soul like life would never change. To grow into concerns, to possess old anxieties, to fear both winning and losing—to feel like Billie Eilish on a lonely morning.  

 

II

 

I was into life, eager to celebrate, unknowing of the tides—as they would ebb and flow, the seashore filled with wisdom, those many to visit and lay cares to seas; seas would listen, make suggestions, ask questions by silence. I had obsessions: neat everything. A soul would scold me, poke fun, point to life on an emotional scale; some typical lad, unfeeling, bottled up, feeling too much to dismantle; the moon would drift, the sun would vanish, little things no longer filled voids, life took on an aura, a field, an uncertain quality. Certitude would dissipate. I impaired the situation; I took to philosophers. The rolling of semantics, The clarity of complex thoughts, The anxiety in being without certitude. Listening to existence, losing parts, pieces adrift, souls at life, everyone headed in a given direction. To have life, meant to let life go, surrendering is horrific.

 

III

 

Experiences are often verbatim, room for nuances, essentially alike; sidewalk flowers, little deserts, fields and haystacks—white, existential whales, uneasy wonders, things and arts, and beauty one dares to approach. Life has remoras, realities that latch on, with little recourse to a quick break—(ironically, when the break happens, something is then missing)—one has to adjust, learn to settle-in, with passion roaring inside. The Great Rift in souls, The Dead Sea Scrolls in personality, The Leaning Tower in spirit; and a man dreams: those start off huge, they are sanded by time, circumstance, excellence. The horizon forests, the vertical happenstance, to lose a part of love, to become too familiar—with life, souls, expectation; like math outdoing itself, passion might outgrow itself, pain might saw at core being, philosophy might become scientific.           

Hell To Itself

 

 

Hell to the condition. Hell to frustration. And hell to itself. I might tend to my brains, pruning stems, addressing the garden. I might undress the inner pirate, cough up mental phlegm, remain a part of self, discard a suit in self. I might purchase a tuxedo, attend a picnic, or walk the cemetery. Some dream inside, makes it to the surface, where I mourn a smidgen; those born with happiness—those celebrating more than in anguish, to hope for a fair percentage. And I might fast today, diminishing caloric intake, maybe manifesting a rare experience; to take it seriously, to know others can, to realize—it might be … on some level … as to let live. I might iron an old college gown, visit a hospital, or sulk, abandoned to my thoughts, nursing an attraction, or frustration. Alas, I might steal a mind-glance, travel into sanity, adore with a given reason.