An Issue

 

Been too long, appeasing flowers, asking in disarray; penalty over apples, laundry by the gates, tell me the tour has begun; melting, listening, it will never be over—it gives life! Some acute losing, more acute winning, I see the culture can’t outlive infraction. To become life, filthy hands, turtles on ten speeds; more business broken, ants at it, lunging into a giggle. So private, milk and honey, so appointed when it benefits—sacrifice is much forbidden. I remember her old person, like her, I don’t pay attention to God’s molding. Bringing it up, trying to nudge the mind, just make the payoff, attend the funeral, smile in private. So sickened. So disgusted. Like offense means forever. The pride of a plate, a million-dollar entrée, to find fault in missing diamonds. Last diary, gravel to dirt roads, a street made immortal; and wow Love, it’s passed admiration, full pledged with an issue.  

Thunder Force

 

Flying into assumptions, asserting the skies, mental cameras flashing; too unreal to imagine, too superfluous, so necessary, to have touched, losing lights; wishing into a lemur, leaping vicariously, kneeling aside a mantis: it was revelation they said, it was pain they presumed, suffering has history in promise. Squinting at a gnat, palming a moth, learning from an ant—armor filled with thickets, tumbleweed amid the summer, heat amidst the deserts, washing and remaining muddy—like mere filthy rags. Africa has a sun. Egypt has a crown. Jerusalem has religion. Like a cactus from hell, or a star on its ground, comets, cosmetics, comics, and fire. I’m soon to make home; I’m soon to see a vison; if to state it plainly. I was elixir in clouds, myths in study, much more presumed than necessary—leaf litter, mind cutters, wells and dungeons, beauty and sacrifice: many figs, gummy feelings, sore, sour affectation.      

Introspection

 

 

I look on skies, kick at grass, reposition critical presumptions. Life has been ready—for elasticity, fortitude, form, and motion. I was a wish to a soul, a hassle to a spirit, a dove to an omen; many are winds, afloat on highs, with scores of beehives. The chameleon has wings, an animal’s body, a human’s head—at crucial points, I have adored images, idolatries, kneeling in dirt, washing my spirit. One becomes omniscience, fibbing as we do, with super insights and ghosts attending tribunals. Most amazing grace, to have outlived a bout, if to plead beyond scope: hoping in you, remembering your name, wondering if we’ll meet again. I was a wish to a soul, a problem to motion, caught between spheres: needing something with measure; gathering parts of imperceptibility; rummaging old emotions. Waiting on something not moving—a little concerned, going through immediacies, befuddled by repetition and service.    

Reaching & Undone

 

I’ve framed a mistake, tired of reaching, doing it, nonetheless;

in absence, to see presence, symbolic purple—

edging towards reaching, bathed in inadequacy, tired of absence.

You seem cured, albeit, heavy, to see you unlock—

chambers and voltage, acting naturally, like old country folks;

tallness, as it drifts, courage, as it flourishes, born ebbing between beauties.

Many solemn seconds, pure grayness, to find a man guilty, for he tried reaching …

never his soul, looking back at determination, frowning, filled with loathing.

I’ve framed an apology, reaching more rain, sullen sickness, sickle swords, arranged to see one too much oaken pain;

daylight blues, wonder ever after itself, to become specimen, research, neither human nor alien, a casual feeling, a dismissal in time, to have noticed a rising distress.

Looking, of course, traipsing passed, wiles and waning, approach and retreat;

nothing works, it’s all for naught, as one believes in reaching.

To be noticed, to fulfill purpose, used, abused, just for rites, denied humanity, just for range … trying to commandeer Love, like a fool:

they have history, pain, manipulation, art, passion, etc.

I’ve framed armor, becoming vulnerable, feeling, in spite of self—

time in thought, to make it forever a gem, tongues remain tied ….

I would catch an old emotion, balancing on a tightrope, forbidding itself as it would rise—estrangement, alienation, attached to reframing, reaching, nonetheless.

In a space, addicted to expression, waning on the esoteric, comfortable to be a Believer;

neither asking for it, nor needing it, as for further the days.

Each ingredient permeates the stew—becoming significant, blending into a paste, if to believe what wasn’t said.  

Roads & Highways

 

 

The seas open to sails made oblivious with time passing. In the middle, by its core, a flower, a daisy blossoms. Morbid reflection, identity held by strings, most fiddling violins—another in essence, too much fire, a soul grabs, scratches at hearts, mingling with souls. Ocean powers. City volume. Morning refreshments. Staring at religion, some frame, ignoring warning signals. It never mattered. It never meant much. Made overpowering, overwhelming, to hurt and bring joy; so forgetful, like normality, to sway with emotion, to motion through feeling. Not much regard for humiliation; thus, humiliated; soul and soft and supple flesh; to have arrived to leave, with a certain ache inside. To capture a glimpse—to sail through hurricanes—to survive, it feels unsettling—skies falling, sails wrangled, waves higher those flames—like seven beats, nine diamonds, to return where it started; buildings on quicksand, solid miracles, most tried hard enough.  

Music, Disharmony

 

Decades float by. The last time was the first time—to ache in beating oceans, to sail seas, to nestle aside a beehive. Never many photos, so inordinate, angered to lose our way. The walls make it uneasy, words form spontaneously, things stated seem to anger, with one undermining anything beautiful. I need to release the gray moon, to un-clutch the raving sun, to unmind the stars; if it was easy, it wouldn’t be original, so much power in you. I was musing a dream, caught under a spell, wrestling ideals, and you appeared—those sensories upon a spectrum, to see us as opposites. Poetry never ends well. It never fixes the sorrow. It drives souls into spaces—becoming artifacts, again, inordinate, filled with promises, nudged by iniquity. We failed each other. Terms became unbearable. You changed the agreement. I was firm on the tenets. I see it went sour. You met an equal … on your terms … a little more equipped. Poetry never ends well—it spins without permission—it has a feeling in itself.   

Dear XYZ,

 

The latter is behind us—aside us, right in front of us; never a thought without remembrance, never an inclination without a flashback, never a curse without its justification.     I was with immediacy in some small advance, left with grimace, twisted stars, agonizing over some middle world.     A thousand lights between us, wattage reframed, aching in a part unknown to touching.     (Granny spoke of it never ending, she was maddened by it, most ignored her understanding.)     I speak to intimacy as it appears, vague as it is, ignored in turn, asking for awakenings, tribal as thieves, the temple suffers from violence, and is confronted by force.     A soul plays piano, or fiddles a flute, debating thoughts, listening to intuition, with unremarkable doubts. Never knew XY and Z, to become such as it demands—those riddles, to apologize for what is now apparent. I was with haste in some tallness of assertion, as you watched, not much further than I, not much to cleave to, putting life into a spouse, a love, as it connotes perfection of social ranks. I ask time to be gentle. I ponder a brighter world, topaz clearings, many more assertions backed by facts.  

Wrestled Agendas

 

Raw intervention, if to lose surprises, if to let go. Pure empathy. Taunting by his body. I was with glory, soon to perish, again in his resurrection. What could she say? How in hell to make it right? It was feral, disgusting, and rotten before the first awakening. Such derision, directive and vice—those waves, to wither, while loving a particular curse—so mild with interpretation, as it would elevate, to become as surprised as the woman he gave vows. Some matrix, some art, just let it drift; to touch in esoteria, to remember a different person, to have thoughts, dreams, trying to gain balance … to forfeit anything, to adore the one in bed, becoming everything to ghosts and omens, a scar in some vision. Certain marginalization, Love wasn’t at home, a soul specializes in last to know! To roll in fury, to plead in turn, to awaken hot, heated, and heavy. Many phantoms! A soul to his imagination. Forced to ignore even evidence—if but to function at high capacity.

Some Feelings Are Immortal

 

Give me life, become my winning existence, beg me to congratulate you; sick and slothful, rejuvenated and energized, every emotion wrapped in you; dirty, more filthy, sullen, more sorrowful—at piano in feelings, some curse, to fret rebirth; moved by music, a different person, you met a snail, and listened to a chameleon. To slither back when, to feel reborn back when, theology has rotten’d brains, shifted dispositions, made man haughty. [I was sad to think of you—some disempowered woman, so empowered by humility. I placed soul on high, a difficult man, listening to error; so beige in greens, so marooned in science, to beg you to just look; a pleading man, a night with arrows, so accused of asking for too much!] It was placed. It shouldn’t be present. No one knows consequence, naked action, before the tent fell. So twisted, afraid it went wrong, making diligence, careful, torn and alert, methodology of firstborn indifference. More fortune, less fame, more meaning, less haunting, does it end, is it forever, was it a major infraction? (for) Love was madness, shared treasures, another afar just smiling—the last to arise, the first to perish, at mediums to resurrect; and praise was misery, many adrift blessings, so low, physically making dents; with flame into the meaning, parachutes in the eyes, to reach and know it will be greatness.

The Mood Is Fluid

 

Let us dance those wild waves, desert, earth, and damages; sunk in the middle, pushing back, a giggle for fruits. Sure hurtful words, dedicated to a life of rightness, most anything put on a back burner—darkened fleece, pads and shoulders, furious flame and famine; so wrong on parts, certain to amuse indelicate humors, wild feelings and parlance. A muse to souls, an unreal creature, to have become doubt, damages, reality. So tentative, to imagine a lecture, so unreal—it becomes demanding … so filthy, it appears brilliant … certain effect, certain pilgrimage. Can’t speak the vision, nothing in life is guaranteed, and we love on and by faith: a man and his vows, a woman and her earnest, both to pass through time; moved to confess it, tender nonchalance, affected and thus changed. Serious souls, banners upon clouds, empty beliefs … a life of chance, superconsciousness, delights, so determined to have happiness: an elusive creature, peeking and peaking and disappearing, left low, such wonderful beauty, such vivacious skies.  

Visit Sacred Hearts

 

More excited to touch, caressing his flesh, she devours a simple soul. I was sicker those years, trying to sing, left in turmoil; fortune to sense, agony in his bones, Love is a star; anthem and pain, art and surgery, glory and fame; so electric, so gorgeous, and never a thought of me—so deep in treasures, more blues, Love was mine in a vision—as to lie the tale. Too connected to shiver free, too addicted to adore a soul, so enlove with fury and gravel; to panic in passion, to have anger and glory, so dear to losing, it begins to become sentimental. A hungry man, a lonely spirit, fretting a million mistakes—if to love like gold, such feral diamonds, wrapped in dirty ecstasy; surefire litany, so many apostates, to feel it as it was revealed—so angered, to have sacred silence, to visit the hearts—so dispelled, so dissonant, damn near despondent. If only to love—until tired, to lose interests—so tired and Love is sinking, a pain in a mirror, as adored the last gem.

To Watch A Soul

 

Moonshine, heart-spheres, deciding on living; to die in you, ribbons for departure, sudden into a spear—major minds, aloof realities, never good enough for you: so proud, such goodness, too abstract for concrete lies; panic presumed, love averted, organized for glory. Alas, too many loses, sung sweet wrongness, accustomed to neglect: ghetto seasons, richness in tenderness, given with a clause; fury of interior, begging to get things straight, remaining below have-nots.

Love was living, romancing by visual, sore vice, accredited with sinning—by arts, love, treasuries … adoring some part of you, displeased with core revenue, needing to walk away: make it even, headed into God’s Arms, a long ways to freedom.

Morose at a second, you demand happiness, so great in insistence; with begrudging, needing liberty from rumors, to have unknowingly wakened a dragon. Corse deliverance, trying not to offend, wondering what it means: favor with feelings, to be aware, to fret over well-being, distraught, frustrated, it isn’t living.

An Underdog’s Assertions

 

Oh to madness, explained by mother, this ain’t living. A smaller chance, million-dollar dreams, fretting ghettoes—coasts to seas. Let-downs, Harvard visions, taxes, more in it for winners; poolhalls, jazz and jive, blues and burials; silent tears, raindrops, beauty in something suffering—microphone testimonies, cacophonies, allegro relations, everybody asserting wrongness, to hate parts of self; bigger loses, integrity loses, spoken in word and at a deficit. The melody never heard, needing to go to a particular space, so low there, so dangerous there—to assert one’s excellence there … most starting to see a gift: bills those lives, tenements those slums, dirt and filth, scrubbing daily, trying to wash reality away. It’s not exciting, until, one garners a scholarship—traveling across seas, still a product of trainings, to catch self in midst of destroying opportunity—the upheaval, the silent hatred, to feel unredeemed; an inner satellite, spinning upon tracks, lumps in flesh, angered, heading into traffic, a mile to surrendering, to see total shocking, abandoned at the finish, or aloof from the beginning—a tale of a soul, his life, his family, starting to realize, an anniversary, a curse made blessing, with tremendous loses: setbacks, illusional facts, dysfunction, many won by leaving—to capture a portrait, to seize self, in the middle of escaping interior—some fantasy—awake in ghosts, rooms, activities, hangups, bad breaks, to win—the circumstance, haunted by trainings, borderline thoughts, fixing self, a daily war, years later, still at a few intractable beliefs. (One will kill himself trying to ignore certain patterns, attempting to be pure goodness, wrath upon his heart, doing what’s impossible, where one says, “Don’t destroy yourself.”) Too late, becoming spirit, art indifference, never a hassle, hurdling over spheres, spending it on something to eat. (We look at each other, tears before they drop, we change the topic; natural fact is, it isn’t easy to care, to accept a person, to live with adjustments, believing in ideals – just wine talking.) To have been a child, trapped, it seemed, desperate to outwit fate; to exist in a box, to break an edge, to peek out, and see a light. To run back inside, screaming about enlightenment, with old timers aching to destroy the findings. Lasting hopes, making it a wailing feast, and God was at the forefront: sad, joyful, simultaneously, an outrage, filled with Love, something a man struggles to achieve. (She might feel me, at this point, to understand part reflection—of self, immediate excitement, to say something, on the fringe of being true.) Those dreams shall prevail, connectivity, in some person, to have been thought before. Refaced. Effacing words, eating macaroni for breakfast, and chasing a dream—to be a poet, to say something unclearly, to ignite a spark, made of topaz feelings, facing blithe, blighted at the garden: to have tried, to have lived, adjusting to  a great deficit. To see it more often—a palm squeezing a tomato, a lemon dangling from a sunroof, symbols and dreams, associated with love, to have a feeling, to ache in its essence, pure quintessence, an epiphany in addition, as to wrestle over something impetuous, trying to become everything to another person … Oh madness!

It seems inevitable, eyes filled with enlightenment, to witness self a piece of dying; to never ask for suffering, some obscure reality, nevertheless, filled with pains, smiling, nonetheless; in communication, asking complex questions, placed in confusion—loving feeling itself; a person as a dynamic force—patience exploding and complex, panic at one sincere.

Everything Is Irrelevant

 

Found in chaos. Listening to guffaw. It’s in his mind—no one cares—he sees what’s in perception. More credible evidence for historical facts, soundness tested, teased, one person becomes an adventure – maybe, more in his mind, more in his stride, no one cares; much crisis in determining meaning, whatness, nowness, thatness; on par with some conspiracy, as if it doesn’t occur, so many on Christology. Cameras for safety. Phones with tracking. Souls appear, so normal, he sees his perception; so wise, so smart, still battling obvious currents. Settling on devices, erasing his mind, looking without gazing, to see it, to wonder what it becomes, so boldly, so coldly, many more mirrors to exhale. Some path to liberation, fast asleep, up for months—those that can, even in absence, he sees his perception. Clear, distinct knowledge, this is war, despite, what he sees, what he knows, what he feels—even science can’t be trusted, so empirical, such solace, nay, nothing is of authenticity. He can’t trust senses. He can’t depend of analyses. He must exist separated, closely to mind, measure, makeshifts.   

Crooked Lines Are Straight

 

Silence requires noise, in which, silence prevails, aggravates, becoming initiative.

 

I was born in darkness … stern, frightened, needing consolation – miles through caves, arriving at dungeons, searching ether, to heal parts of me.

 

Aesthetics made of dementia; art made of confusion; growing into creation; finding location, zeal, depression.

 

Beauty and bestiality … thin, fragile lines … unison, division, casual suits, fitted for no man.

 

Friendly neediness, unfriendly neediness, a soul desperate for freedom, closed in boxes, becoming more of its agitation; walking morgues, needing what one denies, edged, at a fringe, wrestling to accept help, guidance, as far as love demands.

 

Traditional laws, rules, debating contemporary dictums, postmodernism, deconstruction of values, long too disagreed with; mature examination, fighting assumption, faced by principles, naivety, paradox, contradiction.

 

Where to place color, woman, religion, science?

 

Is it a rule because it benefits to assert it?

 

Flesh in need of tolerance, social bed bugs, theological isolation, estranged from feelings, asked to endure, by waves into a different existence; preoccupied mainly, introverted naturally, keeping silence, with many needing liberty.

 

Mental agriculture, under-silence kilowatts, emotion as souvenir; puzzled along a leap—cashew skinned, middle roads, asking what one can of virtue.

 

Walking a greater pendulum, challenged by science, moving into it, as opposed to raw resistance.

 

Tiptoeing a spectrum, many more extremes, sensing asymmetry in its balance.      

Palming Universe

 

Through mundanity, by

a strange curse, excited to

feel motion. Legend wisdom, passed

across seas, Egypt to

Mesopotamia landing in

Jerusalem. I sense

aging, hankering over

sequences, needing reality

a certain design. By myth-

fiber, a fib in me, palming a mirage

—eyes shocked, inner numen

giggling, with true

rain, with true art, with

dying seeming unfair. To

figure it out, unravel yarn, so

close to immortalization, sudden

into a dimension: having

to meet a face, energy

becoming a dream, a body, a

soul as it walks, speaks, and

motivates. Wits and

dragons; mature barges;

sociable mandates. I know

what’s said, earnest

seekers, fervid orison

—to have passed through

time, pragmatic pains, to

have selected resistance, framed

by culture. Never meeting

a person, mainly looking

at a graph, needing nothing

more than gender and race. Cozy

definitions, rancid beliefs, a

soul caressing a leaf, looking

into twilight, tapping his foot.  

Grown Souls, Empty Cribs

 

I never knew it would end.

Trying to fathom old works.

Too simplistic.

A cave near its grave.

AM hours, daylight follows, an angelic reason.

To cleave to a problem.

To ache a machine.

With slanging bibles.

Religion on trial, mother remembered, a soul moving through injuries.

One would say — “Partner is too this, too that,” with reality screaming at scandalous souls.

I was with music, I was livid, a lasting diary, an edifice built on rubber, flung back at itself, remembering the affront.

Never forgetting, wondering truly, one would latch on to something hurtful.

I’m reading again, trying to understand again, remaining parts of darkness.

More to life, aggressive to sin, if pain is God’s entrance.

Rebates on fibs. Angst in jars. A soul sips moonshine.

Time becomes a factor.

Drama becomes integral.

Adoring becomes a private legacy.

A reel spinning, same picture, if altered, would the sun shine?

I never knew it would end—looking at puffy eyes, bronzed skin, thick, luscious mane; death would swallow her, time would cease to exist, each day would be a year, a year as if a day. Those silvery palms, burning heat, purgatorial charms

—an elevator downstairs, a furnace in a basement, one soul infuses the séance.

It takes so few, hands and bodies, pristine hopes, pure unevenness.           

Not On Tour

 

I can’t read it, lethal masquerades, caught at the gates—bleeding my scar. I paid rent, I ignored the lousy, the feline was still unsatisfied. I saw her without makeup, I saw gorgeous, I knew innocence was dying. Gambling my jeans, eating pomegranates, last to feel the helium—bouncing into fever, edged into concerns, walking a stranger’s shoes. (I was in my mind, I was losing you, it revived on a hunch; waiting my earnings, breaking my silence, like a fucking fool; listening to Miley, asking my part, wolves and dirty dingoes. So confused, waiting for disappearance, to go through hell, to make it through, and it appears again.) Reading again. Ready again. Hating us again. Fleeing myself.

Put in years. Died for years. Back into the future again.

What’s the reward? Telling it to self, repeating it to self, attracted to something might satisfy. And hating something the rain. Eating a piece of candy, two days left, the habit becomes the war. I must move left, I need right, with boundaries crossed and feeling pathetic.

I was a menace. I choked on pain. So dramatic. Standing in stillness.         

We Might Have All

 

I didn’t want to believe in you. I hate us. Thrust into subliminal(s). A grand epiphany, walking deer alley, headed into coyote valley; by dance of its grace, by trillions in future lies, affected by inner woes; to amuse self, to love self, nothing greater than I imagine in you. I keep scratching, nerves wailing, so great the affectation—some damn dream, so make-believe, taking palms to dirt and wheezing. No remorse is a lie, no regrets, knowing no other way to meet you, I passed through creeks. So morose, so happy, a dreaded contradiction. The gambler, the addict, the false bravado—to laugh at a mirror, true un-reflection, standing in ill-repute. We were busy with bullshit, some naïve challenge, holding simplicity in contempt; talking to ourselves, dealing on another level, something we could never divulge. Bloody crime, needy me, negligent you; sewn into risks, forests bleeding, a tremendous demon—the battle to live, to need one, maybe two, able to compete, able to chance the rivers.      

Enduring Self

 

I might try harder, secure in negotiations, plainly receiving a steady embarrassment. Closing insides, opening maneuvering, feeling a shortage; boiling feelings, cold emotions, believing in balance. The fire of osmosis, reamed in parts, trying to reface and move fiercely. So sweet the dialogue, becoming closer, forgiving human weakness. I look at moments, to imagine what others give, to fight inside over what we do—the battle of its cavalry. By debt when its beautiful, to sense a conscious human, to fret a feeling, unable to spot its source—the mystery of the souls. A thief put on a collar. A harlot became a perfect woman. A thug became a deacon. Trials of the redeemed, so close to exists, forbidden inside. Some type of soulprint, dice thrown further, to love an outcome—those ruby red eyes, talking to make it, especially, with sunshine. A grown man shedding rivers, a grown woman flipping into space, an elderly lady still feeling youth. The captive vines, cherry blossoms and flame, to be adored, to adore the adoring, to adore in return. The needing to survive, to become an intricate excellence, more than the worth of strangers. So indecent the proposal, so square the splendor, filled with pathos. Lifting a soul, navy blue beauty, army green hopes, deep in the interior. Like a leprechaun appeared, like mystery unveiled, like art became a physical body. The dream of slow remedy; prayers on the bookcase; sitting, looking, debating those habits, an opus in something made utility. The laughing stock, the town is giggling, with spirit raking in blessings—the inner pith, a drink to understand, a soul endures his hands.       

Given To Great Wonder

 

Born inside, flickering into flame, negotiating with dreams. Numen departure, soaring into silence, reduced to mere basics. The face in its mirror, the scream as is shadows, taking to heart those finding joys; so far across the highway, superseding expectations, regathering particles of pride. I may never see the final exposé, misunderstood, looking intently—filled with misuse, trying to fathom—the ink in its deliverance. Living it out the flurry in its shifts, roads to shelters, life giving back our presumptions.  Stepping into an armoire, redressed at each churn, trying to fix a perfect outfit; much an earthquake, sorting through firebrand, attempting to locate diamonds—more sin, more fears, wondering how time became popular. In these few years, caiman genetics, needing closure … brighter lights, feelings in cloves, to watch and bring it to life—such a soul—claiming a pardon. Quilted beliefs, etched in spaces, knitting The Great Distance.  

Refacing

 

 

Color in faces, palms uplifted, a whisper towards its flicker; trumpet and bible, silken garbs, holiness and flame; a fever inside, treading snakes, in woods, hiding worship—hulking for rights. Oh Tender Rain, trekking the Congo, genetics passed into the future. A symphony in waves, completely masked, looking at pestilence; surreal rites, smaze forming, longing for America. Oh Sullen Cave, fraught by blackdamp, building railways, mining hearts—the past seeming forbidden. Undone, washing soot, praying for the Arête … for the goodness of times, fulgent memories, favored arcs, colored realism—faced by self, eventually a war, to awaken or remain unsteady—sure severance into a new beginning, knotted and unknit, trying to become wisdom, made into a creature of negotiations … a sudden whisper, much activity, a torrent of social upheaval—wrought in hopes and dreams, visions of the Invisible … for those in turmoil.    

From Oceans To Lakes

 

Upon a beachball, ladies in bikinis, not too far from the boardwalk. Like paddling, to seize anxiety, so grand in beauty; many souls, a few dune buggies, a Frisbee on high, floating upon winds, gripped, tugged, and tossed in return.

A soul feels comforts, it’s invaded, a hermit decided to walk outside, he loved it, meeting women from the neighborhood shrine: a red dot, the garbs, it felt like holiness.

At a lakeshore, building a sandcastle, putting seashells to one’s ears—wishing life for you, hoping it gets better, showing truism in the presence.

Maybe palm a starfish, sensing reality, wondering if one can capture her; bold tan feelers, sunbathing in light, a little sunburned, tripping over sunglasses. And Love kissed her, she looked back, to kiss in return—exotic, natural, unpredictable.

One remains with visits, made cheerful or gloomy, wondering concerning the yogis; an effusion at moments, eyes flushed, begging composure.

At a shorebird, asking questions, looking for signs; many chambers, social exile, parched and reborn—as a mind shifts and turns seas.

Unfit for language, desperate to communicate, trapped in our cultures: caiman genes!    

Colored Folks

 

Can’t write it out, some souls, the threads in a cello, the minds of a piccolo. Needing oxygen, battled inside, living at the gates—and God knew, when he came, when she smiled; so causeless we thought, walking away from spirit, and Love would cry one final sound. Like a whaleshark, the darkness, at that moment—to lose the beauty, to ache the war, accustomed to humanity’s eyes. Can’t write it out, some souls are excellent, shadows inside, life in stars, and God knew most the grievances, as to reach his ears, as to ache at her heart; so low at those tracks, pitching rocks, so early in the morning. Loud trains, smoke filled pipes, Love sound asleep—the feelings some might have, at negligence in others, with most considered strange, unruly, too much exchange for the good times. Orca brained. Petting a leaf. Traveling a line or two from Langston Hughes. The strength of the servant, shooed and loved, so many secrets—it kills softly. The price of the Great Mountain, the Great Departure, to be given the lonely table. And blind in the message, a garment on her Holiness, a net for lies to sustain. They might see, they might love, oh the genetic memory—sober sound, straightway to a viola, at the piano entertaining at a jazzy club … the pain of the Great Tugging. Can’t write it out, some cruel souls, to have adored where color stands; to have left us with love, to have colored our eyes, to believe in us!       

Windy Leaves

 

 

Where it stands, cacti and weeds, ferrets, charms, and ambition. Some funny mood in time, excellence in suffering, mathematics claiming emotion.

Whirlwinds.

Nothing to gaze off course. Nothing to become lethargic. Nothing to ignore until it ruins.

To fuss and laugh and cuss and dine; to become temperamental, to argue against thunder, to need to do according to ideals.

What hath humankind, other than hopes, faiths, and rudiments?

Never quite met one person, usually souls come in myriads, each meeting with a different gem.

The seesaw is low, and high, and treasures become items, and pains grow unattended.

To just say it to essence, even if unrequited, it might still damage a good soul.

“If you don’t know me by now …”.

The argument is over right and wrong—the song is on repeat—actions haven’t been discussed.

We’ll get to that, holding in tears, wiping away access.

We can’t see eye to eye, and never will – to agree is to validate – we can’t agree.      

Minotaur Sails

 

A rumor concerning pains, prisons, palatial traumas … they made what we read, slapped in vision, mother riding harder than father. Many apologetics, full blame over-there, mirrors remaining silent. I would die by age seven, hated for color, on a thin line, either left or right, catching hell, sensing excellence, with time seeming cruel. I can feel! I have emotion! I fear intuition! Each afflatus, so close to vulnerability, pretending control—over dynamite dynamics. Used and discarded, loved and made to regret love, pulled and surrendered; by seal and ribbon, by sugarcane and resistance, sure struggle to achieve. Be proud to be colored. Be proud to be woman. Be responsible to achieve manhood. Through walls, and souls are wailing, to carry a whale; trauma made explosive, anxiety in her eyes, so insecure, raised by a depressed mother. Either powers or thrills. Either love or miseries. The massive weight of being good, trying to ignore the trauma, aged to surrender and live.   

Belief Is Obsession

 

I wanted order, those beliefs, as sturdy as root and bark; to dine on charisma, air, characteristics, to plague senses. I never knew a glance with power; I never succeeded those dreams; and saying “love” appears fallacious. Into rooms made of bronze, a ferret made of gold, a zillion dollar vision: her smile!

Maybe an academic, a scholar, a scientist of proportions; maybe a chef, a home keeper, another dream, at planks, looking to leap, so existential – maybe all the above, balanced at photos, vomiting at 2 in the morning.

            The rich live differently, maybe more intensely, maybe full and empty. Maybe to love harder, as more persuasions, or, suffering builds links in chains, or, easier to sway, the damaged body!

            I wanted order of beliefs, secure materialism, if to surprise America, fortified from intruders, in essence, I desired the impossible.

            I needed poetry in the person, something grand, extraordinary, unbelievable, neither envied nor endorsed – something personal, unique, fulfilling the empty space.

                        Each tattoo, each scar, for faith, branded and flying, if that second, bending flame and water—to remember pash, infatuation, love, promise and styles—by fever to imagine some battle, where souls debate, soaked in passion, coming together in helium, too holy to digest.   

Feathers & Fledglings

 

Dice tickling concrete. Fathers with necessities. A euphemism for drugs and liquor.

In dealings, a uniform to heart, he dies to get respect—the juvenile with issues.

Falling into love, what we call addiction, tucked into its demon.

I would see her, to dream her, never to know her;

Pain with song, as she drifts regions, its misery to need beyond redemption.

Never came back. I felt it in soul. Like I lost a chunk of myself.

That innocent soul, taking it in wisely, a kid knocking on a coconut.

Lost virginity. Never owned it. Where do we go from losing?

So sacred it seems, treated with disdain, to love and win!

I would envy spirits, trying to have spirit, elements in stars, dreams in scars, and trying to adore.

It was death when granny died. The glue to the problem. Mother emptied her account.

Bankrupt, acting rich, eating 50$ burgers. I laugh!

Wild Childs

 

Dying was unique, drugged-out, liquor in his kidneys. Captured inside, a victim of poverty, a vow to suffering; like wild wolves, hungry for hell, giving nothing in liberty. At the trenches, on the roof, mother dying—it kills his insides, it breaks his Father, the sky was good to me. Adrift in tunnels, mesmerized by ideals, what lives after croaking? I was lost in business, I was logic in brains, feelings seem a problem—filled with emotion. To misjudge, to hate with passion, fretting The Great Loss! Neglecting soul, a month with water only, 40 days of prayer—laughing for a reason, no one understands, like Jesus broke wilderness; trying to squash wars, a problem as it churns, a filthy piece of onion. I was friends with him, high speed chases with him, couldn’t believe him! To leave childhood behind, something dies in that reality.

Philosophizing About Love

 

Strawberry lips, answering to Sky Father, maybe deeper inside; the inner God, seeking Nirvana, holding hands with Invisibility. To ache for a person, to dream in a person, so cursed from unsaid person; hours at converse, private a storm, loving me better than others can; lusting for stars, a grievance to Holiness, asking about wilderness. Pleasant pains, resistance pains, didn’t need what took form. Flowers upon sand drops, knowing you’ll never understand, wild locks, neutral beginnings, to have adored dirty nastiness; so much it was, so past-tense, so close in a given moment. Dancing, bellies laughing, mourning how it ends. And resurrection, drifting into intuition, accused of nonchalance—a great deal into meaning, what is sex, other than a session? We were sold on hesitation, seduction, flailing flesh, baffled, regathered inside, loving, for it hurts.  

Internal Faces

 

The line is thin, existing between spheres, conversing with walls; hills fraught by ants, sociality screaming affection, indifference, frightened to succeed. Knitting you is easy—pictographs flickering, eating kettle corn; knowing you is fire, inside moving, such tender strangers. The line is thin, hard to walk away from, most intrusive atmosphere. Oh Delicate Arc, stories in sequence, enough to have loved sincerity. Most defeated by circumstance, most a giant in essence, to become humbled by aging. Oh Athletic Hearts, piercing regions, galaxies, combing grass, suffused with numen. The line is thin, existing in souls, tugged by cosmic fervor. Crocheting cities, argued as winning, with many scars beneath the surface. To know it will never occur, with it ever present, torn asunder in design. Life will stay with us, begging internally—for existence, love, pain, fraught by the improbable.  

Prose Paragraph

 

Each notion spells her name. Each syllable makes for fiction. Loving became science: a smaller gesture, a grand response, making music the voicebox(es). Buried by Infatuation, to have sin in one life, battered by beauty. Angelic scar, made harsher than terrors, so smooth I’d expect. As addicted creatures, yearning to be an ideal, with little respect for dying—by deaths to have won hearts. Divinity lights, coarse whispers, auditory intestines; to have adored what hurts, such benign beginnings, to have lied so often. Was I right in wrong a song splayed and never existed? To achieve passion, longing in disappearance, to realize, it has no ending point. “Let us know her name!” Indeed, memoirs will flourish, diaries with madness stories, most will say, “He was a saga man.” Darkness envelopes skies, let there be light, as it rumors in minds—value of the unforgiven.

The Intangible Has a Name

 

Left with granny’s blues, laughing under breath, looking at myself—it seems dangerous. Love was spinning webs, feeling insecurities, wrought in suspicion—to hate a soul for an audience. I was going through dimensions, dragged into turmoil, one working heart-magic—minds colliding. So much effusion, so passive, pleased one has me in thoughts—the vacuum unsuspected. Candle lights for you, a nerve for you, torn for life it seems—never quite with clarity. Life is vague, a treasure in a ball, so mythic and mystic, plain blunt at moments. And Love was moving, jazzing was blazing, eyes looking like mesmerism—the pain of the Lover. I was with philosophy, trying to include you, so much dying to remain an outcast. And Love never suspected life, on measure to adjudge for a word, felt securities; so charged in a second, falling into sadness, with a thought watching signs. Such is an abstract, needing something asphalt, demanding on you, what you can’t give. To sense with passion, to adore worship, overcome by excellence—reduced to a neurotransmitter. Trying to depend on you, trying to believe you need me, with contradiction flooding intuition.   

Grandpa’s Story

 

Standing still, and swoosh, like everything rearranged; how in hell’s name, so damn gorgeous, a number of automobiles at the Promenade. Squash it—the feeling in hesitation, to walk with a palm filled with bees. They at it, a million on aces, dice on cages; somewhere Jesus, so far lost Yahweh, the last scam was detrimental. Unlikely his fate, as getting it right, so much trickling rain; a mouth full of sulfur, a pill those nights, laughing and it hurts; gut confusion, spread apart, like asunder those waves. Squash it, before feelings erupt, to need something fretting its goodness; a small measure, a large feat, the case was shot to milk and honey, the Promise; a drink for her, a nightmare for us, to love something one can’t keep—the close scholarship, the teacher in Clarks, a man forgets most are human. Climbing up on pegs, traveling alleys the dirt he did, the life he shook.   

Die & Live Again

 

The wrong decisions, never portending existence, the pain you give; a town filled with laughter, a man crawling, the dung smells sweet; running backwards, fueled for losing, to have won a privilege.

           

A soul feeling sadness, ignoring the obvious, with one neither love nor hate, neither kiss nor poison, so infectious, as it wavers from light to darkness, upon a whisper.

           

They can’t leave it alone, they need it to crumble, it neither tries nor denies, it just is; something tender, those vocals, as singing to win, a town learning to see itself.

 

A sad song, a TKO, running into water; shocked to love, never believed it wins, with many sacrificing soul, art, with angst bleeding; trying to control it, losing my grip, too vulnerable to feel comforts.

 

Love woops the whip, so many private deaths, to receive all he needs, with Love begging her heart.

 

I slept a week, neither did I eat, longing for mystery, joys, sorrows, and forgot to ask favor.

 

            I was at a creek, deep inside, wondering if it’s different in the islands; needing to say perfection, needing to reach soul, while too forgetful to adore winning; if it was as advertised, some great product, so significant, so lost, so in love, those anxieties to rest, bodies clashing, the sun inverted and begging for baptism.

 

            Lord Knows!

 

            I never took it literally. I thought it passing fancy. Something in a moment fraught by earnest wishes. To mean it in that second, to hit a corner, to sense a connection, so fleeting, so remarkable, to let go, to hold tightly, to die and live again.

 

Flying was made a curse. Longing was made a feeling. Emotion churning a sip, wine-stained lips, looking bashful.

 

The noise in souls, it distracts the atmosphere, keeping company, for it hurts to be wishing—so alone, so crowded, one asks questions.

It’s Symbols & Architecture

 

Never imagined it as it manifested: soaring in miseries, balanced, too sad to chuckle, too much evenness. It seems what it looks like; it becomes an issue; it isn’t what it appears to be.     Clouds deigning. Smoke guiding. Deserts opening, and offering water. The camel might witness it, the donkey might speak it, the lion might give honey.  

 

To adore like destined … to ask permission to see and sense and interrogate spirits—those eyes, I know them, I was inside of them, laxed, took life for granted, and father baptized us.

 

Many rooms. Too many dungeons. Making a happy face. In the moment is different than going through the motions.

 

I need to need more of what God needs.     Life is substitutions … at times, early on, it was gratifying—before convolution, pearls in purple, rising and falling, before The Great Absence.

 

We might race to fulfill the calling, embrace the gift, asking for majesty; to need what we need, to desire what we admire, to possess what might be goodness and dice.

 

Open the cacti, strike it with a staff, remember to advertise God.

 

I might stand at the Promise, unable to partake of the Promise.

 

I can’t speak it. I must speak it. Raise the symbol.     

Seeking The Great Face

 

 

Nothing but faith the garden spoiled, wherefore, someone didn’t listen. Flesh mistakes, casual liaisons, a little satisfaction the soul churns with wilder science, wolves and hyenas deeper on spirits. Many concerns to be so naïve, so young, those years, seated beneath a crooked umbrella; father forsook the helm, mother repainted the ship, others pledged devotion, only for profit. To touch the hem of energy, to open skies with a voice falling to earth—most illustrious pains, art for nirvana, to experience the koan; major feelings, the kind they ache, suppress, born seeking the Dear Passion; so fulfilled, this is rumored, with yearning still at motivation. Fighting to disprove a soul, fighting to prove selfsame soul, pulled asunder for indiscretion the mountain as it grieves, smoke filled clouds, tablets and aggravation. Many on liquor, more on pills, I couldn’t understand the magic—at a fever inside, moving the lakes of yore, fraught by antiquity, many asking about sequences, a flame for mother, a fire for sister, adjustments for the author.   

Speechless

 

If those moments were sacred, how have they died, if the focus is immortality? I sense blockage. I can’t speak it. A dream raffles an instinct. I can’t speak it. It seems obsolete, as it weakens its presence. I must speak it—those islands must welcome us. It becomes more difficult to reach the sacred space—as deeper in us, a place fraught by unkindness. Feelings and emotions … visions and fantasies … imposition and naturality.

 

Bolted to science, voltage through religion, spirit motion and dreams; to know esoteria—by a plausible frame, wrists given to belief; a vacuum inside, skies screaming, anxiety in a stranger; her days meant for anguish, her aches plural, I can’t fully speak it.

 

I find self a state of being, dear intensity, still naïve, simple at moments, and critical.

 

When we met, she was still young, a semester after marriage, she was apprehensive to speak. I saw it, what I can’t speak, its elusive, built-in illusion, for though she cries, her laughter is infectious. A soul running to itself, finding solace, able to believe in itself.

 

I couldn’t walk further away, it’s similar the same, to witness a knew but similar set of characteristics. Emotion: pulling, yanking, pushing, and tugging, even to repulse at times.

           

I can’t talk it. It dwells in sin. Plus, it’s holy.

            A strange, froward design.

            I can’t speak it anymore.