Autographical

 

I’ll never see again those valleys those aches running into blurriness.

 

The mirage was appealing. Inner

chambers, mental caves, alive in an

instance of suffering. Closer to Christ.

The story told an old narrative.

Washing my fleece, scribbling my guts,

traveling layers. So astute to one

fact, most will sacrifice for what they

adore. The noble pains, aloof to

reasons, just decided inside. I see

ascetic rain. I hear contrite cries. A

beleaguered soul, most gracious in arts,

moving towards distance.

 

Life is a sketchbook, filled with

consciousness, one marvels, something is

different, some praise, others chide, chastise,

so skilled the man after his demise.

 

Into a trance-zone—a summary of

wailings, a mystery he mustered a

smile—peculiar spirits, giggling with

eyes watery, guts hurting, trying to

antagonize freedom. And the lissome

gallica, such lassitude, sparked

by a simple sunrise.  

Dust Storms

 

By methods by Greece alongside Africa, and Love was Hawaiian.

I appear to myself, eating a tuna salad, unaware of how it

occurred. I disappear from self, a can of ant spray, dialoguing with

doves—

hypothetical happiness, aging roughly, something in his brains. I

never asked. I discovered it.

I smoked a cigarette on Boardwalk. (Rebuke!)

We ate loquats. Kids and lemons. Running aside sugarcane.

We pitched nectarines, adored fantasies, curious concerning romances.

Upon a gateleg, trying to have good times, watching roaches.

Too many bugs, swatting mosquitos, gazing at television, had to

give it a break. (It breeds!)

—topaz existence, the gut goes deeper, a giggle means something

Different—so Inappropriate!

Condition & Souls

 

The uneasiness is palpable dealing with the inner giant. I was losing ground in a system with color at its root. I was mesmerized by what I called love. Out the trenches the mud spread over the ceiling. Most souls are pensive upon a wistful feather. In sensing you I add the holiness, despite, the filth in us. I’ll leave that alone, tilling trauma, a sickle to wisdom. Permeated by healing the justice of the forbidden, eyes awakened, moved by innocence. I’ve learned humanness becomes skills the object is making it seem natural. Infatuated with the explanation. Mind mad dilemmas. Adopted by condition. Either all or nothing the partial celebration is incomplete: waves to comforts, sensing the winds, motion desires navigation. In looking at you I was embarrassed. In talking to you I imagined we weren’t speaking. From courtside to gardens the aborted feeling with breath at the core. You might fret an emotion, most fret a life, many know the cycle. The uneasiness becomes existence. Trees became witness. Each literature tries to explain human condition. Something of entrance has consumed humans. A dear soul passed away. A good person. A literature icon. He never emoted emotion.    

Differentials

 

I can’t emote it; to imagine putting self in a kiln, to sing when sorrow hits: a sad poet, electric cries, feeling goodness to a tear. I can’t feign it; emotion becoming boulders, aphorisms seeming like sin. I think about it, death creeping slowly, trying to outlive it, spatial reality, seething unnecessarily. With taller tales, bodily responses, I can’t confront it.

To adore must be pure, sincere, beyond calculation: irrational, to have loved with wholeness, cosmology inside.

Sacred nonhumanness.

Unsacred holiness.

To seek a decision, made vital, to celebrate an existence: hardcore fundamentals, needing classification, much better with love brewing.

I can’t emote it. It must be natural.

She remains in atmosphere—sparking cosmos, falling into a sensorium.

I can’t say whatness of eternity—to cherish beyond understanding, such a person must be healthy: the greatest apex is the boldest caring, with memories filling existence.

Thatness of character, a sullen nature, smiling with joys, at life struggling nonidentity, sure identified, warmth easily passed along.

To mean little in muchness as it plagues, to probe interior dynasty.

 

I don’t understand like I need to understand. Love is uncanny, nautical, gods and goddesses. I don’t know what to say about infatuation verses true love, adoration. They seem similar.

To have a vision with me, all day at times, without another sensation, this can’t be love.

Consumed at moments, in trance-fantasy, with doubts correcting inclination, this might be love.

Pages inside. Carnivals with clowns, sad harlequins. More to treasure the dearth than the presence; in sensing what’s with me, I sense what I don’t fathom.

This becomes yearning.   

Silent Walking rain

 

By interior skies, warned of hues, with value undermined. Wilder spirits, gentle paw prints, or bells ringing—days wandering, to ponder phantoms. It lives in him, we’ve noticed webbing, removing gossamer, to slight avail. Country eyes, city wits, reduced to humility, in part those times, rhythm sweet sounds. I was relaxed it seemed, to become a puppet, with darkness begging its creation; to dwell near static, to undo a feeling, over a cloud of rumors. I was with anxiety, bathing in angst, watching time deride wilderness. Most are facing a desert, a monastery, or famous for particular company. Upon a petal, filled by passion, made placid with rules. If sung gently, infused with powers, most might give an ear; fury of mysteries, numen permeance, radiant antipathy … snippets of snapping, many need fathom, with being human as a ruling maxim. By interior skies, unwitty of circumstance, sensing palms slipping from helms. To have given sanity, to beseech a phantasmagoria, wrestling reality—disputing excellence, chastised for soundness; with memories of redundancy, to imagine why—into another galaxy. Gentle paw prints, harder weather, or silent walking rain.      

Sabertooth In Spirit

 

There’s space in dreams, a saddening location, to dwell so low. I knew she was intimate with said location. I knew she hid from daylight, ate nightmare, grilled impossibilities. I would worry concerning consciousness, neglected from treasury, reading into atmosphere. Pure emptiness, it must be filled with more, presence is different humanness. To assuage a gulf, to mend a breach, many will call discussion banal. Campus gossip, animated feelings, we might pride voice and being sung on High. One meal. One drink. One shower. It wasn’t looking right. I knew she observed herself. I knew she ran a marathon. I knew she played with widgets. I knew these in passing a cemetery. I knew when it was picking at peas, washing a plate, listening to a neat, un-silent rug. A little starving happens, so near to remain unvocal, palming a patch nose snake. Self-examination. Refusal of entrance. I knew I’d need to look differently, speak reality, persuade with exactness—to see in soul more than happenstance. Such a vison, a neat pamphlet, a casual brochure—sick with seasons, needing one at existential hospice, with one reason to hold with determination.   

Anitya

 

The duhkha wavers—silence in God, no need to assert the living. Threshed by anatman—consumed by western thoughts, blending susurrous landmarks, an arrow through winds, a target, an achy arc. Upon voltage, to notice wilderness, the tumbleweeds beg for freedom. Wicked into mind, listening to duty, remembering the soul is born yearning. Into a cycle, desperate to till wisdom, nibbling parts of deaths; inferior in comparison, of creative creatures, longing for things never made evident. Was fatigued, unrest, nerves shifting—the sun grew weary. Looking is a misprint. It amazes how fervent a lack of can become. A mystic yogin. A cogent yogi. The esoteric mystics. A world combined of energies – to move galaxies, to overwhelm reality, the mind segues through Aum. Unto orison, fraught by furnace, pleading the miracles.   

Nausea

 

Seduced by doctrine, the virtue of experience, those with confidence. After a while—it all sounds strange—so apophatic. Mind galleries, filled spirits, a different level, most dismiss newness of sound, newness of songbirds, sour, alone, a smaller universe. Shrapnel gates, fevered, aching Christ. Full. Filled. It’s nauseating. Many afraid of intestines, performing arts, always inside the margins. Such teleology, sore metaphysics, if not for the foundation! Love is a sculptress, a dream, a little surreal. We dismissed it. Humans! A soul made excellent. By sagebrush, by interruption, with life, to become numb, to fight misanthropy, to struggle with adoring some creature. Paradox. Structure. I was a perfect specimen. Upon a gumdrop, aside a gallica, breaking ground—trying to laugh with sincerity. Such a deficit. So certain. To learn he lost years.   

Trunk in the Attic

 

I was fighting myself,

my reflection, my bones—gristle!

Looking hurts. Laughing ridicules.

Loving is mystery.

The war is essential to existence so terrible, most existential.

I needed humility.

Grounds become fevers, too much resistance, something had

to implode.

I thought she was ordinary—prowess like Meriam

—outside the camp, flipping into orbits.

Too confused—facing clarity—unaware of arrival:

the elephant is rabid.

Lately, just vivid inside, just calming daily, so much has passed by

—I aimed for mystics.

Desert dark esoteria … science … some elements

can’t be explained.

I hear it in my voice. I sense in my reluctance.

I see it in her eyes:

Light.

London America

 

In singing your song, I forgot my own. By shadows to return, nibbling darkness. Most of life has drums, violins, walls and arts.

Faced by you, to imagine fairness—the way it suffers.

Dearer than breath, examining me, the Lord is said to relive.

A pile of ashes. A flickering candle. Sensuous goodness.

It’ll open. Many visitations. Love at churning heat.

To barely a morsel. Satiated uneasiness.

Found in a stupor. A crib in its den. Lazy forgiveness.

Required in submission, an avalanche of caring, with anxiety ruling.

To chuckle at self, taken so seriously, parts with pieces.

Everything Seems Unreal

 

Maybe too critical, despite self, neat cynicism—bleak philosophy, a hardened heart, worshiping ideals, bled of the lasting cries. Cattle dispersed, the wolves read asceticism, just one in a dream. I witness it. I long to remove facts. We nurture to instruct if to guide away—from suffering arts, existential numbness, too casual the excitements. It was never easy until it was. A whole life on spontaneity. I feel in part a nihilist. Not many wish to deal with that, despite, the probability. And looking at legs, calves, faces, hearing beliefs, nurturing a private desire, hoping for both holy and threatening. To need certainty, the human dilemma, refusing to accept the unknowing reality. Over yonder, upon a miracle, I assert he adores you. Close to arc, at stability, I value her assertion, unwavering, moving quickly, many agree, sensing darkness becomes intimacy.    

The Human Ship

 

You remind me of Selah, of her eyes, so distinguished, hating to be called holy. That’s how I knew, pondering psychiatry, what becomes of souls. To become features, as they say, to turn on the personality: many traits, several characters, people fall for each one. I imagine knowing so much that a person is never appeased. I, too, imagine such a connection that no one can replace it.

I’m not selling you some dream. I’m not asking for a hand in marriage. What I’ve figured out, concerning humans, let’s me know probability.

It wasn’t your place. We’ve nothing, no foundation, and esoteria is too vague to extend as evidence: un-chasable, notwithstanding, an image, an impression, something in clouds, made opaque, made convincing.

You remind me of Selah, of her style, her persona, her gifts and woes. I suppose at some level all souls suffer together.

With memories only. I wish well the warriors at seas—oceanic sunrise, sailing the human ship.   

Souls at Opposition

 

What wills its power, final hour, a flower in toxicity? Eyes heavy, her heart depressed, her pain lethal — souls fall in love, holding clouds, nebulous replies. Oh Darkness, how have I loved you, breaking pavements, concrete abstracts, adoring the way you hurt me. What wills its power, slipping away, begging for mastery, a symbol that we love? The final flower, petals trampled, skies thundering, bolts of electricity, rooms filled with fog, pleading each other. I needed you, it was hectic pain, you left agony to suffer—you should’ve tried desperately. What wills its power, sheer devastation, hurting so long one becomes a beast? Wrongness + Error is never peaceable – to assign a role, to placate emotion, to try in making love, a need for guidance, a child in the adult. I loved your image, you appeared conscious, pure to a fault, filthy to sustain humanness. I can see you – what wills its power – seated in distinguished blues, mastery of lows, so lit at the funeral.   

The Valley Is Immortal

 

I did not do as was done, with terrorizing regret, I did as impulse inside the filth of the graves those caves above hills, a soul might climb his mountain. With soul the health of spirit too amazed by body the arts of physicality.          It never comes to perform for traits, the mind as it endeavors, to move skies, to utter life, breath as kef those tantalizing woods.          It’s blasé the feeling. It’s trying to correlate. Souls upon fears. Thunder of the mountains.          Something has changed. Momentum is curious about itself. Memories are mirrors inside of mire made sand.          Another person might see nuance in the mundane. She might flicker the stem to churn the wick. Wearing trials the interior walls, watching self-struggle and its resistance. Hurting was its intension. Bear with me. It’s crazy to remember, seated closeness, traits running haywire.          Such notoriety. To possess obsession. To have much more in spirit. To carry pieces of every myth.          I did do as was done, against what was oxygen, clearly it desires the ending reality.          He was a man of peace, dangerous soul, speaking compassion, he went through silence, the ultimate test.          It can’t be pride, too many deaths. It can’t be empathy, too heavy the universe. It hast to be greed, the forest over, our inner importance.          It comes to perform for itself—a dynasty uprise, an empire rebellion, all in all, a dream went awry.

          It awakens with agitation, prone to a blasé exuding, somewhat indifferent, with a hint of excruciation.          I met a man, to appreciate his wisdom, to notice his wife, a certain air of ingredients.          Another said it shifts. That was all he noticed. We wonder about giving what we need in return. True to arc, we select who we need it from.

          In closing, the character of the valley, the darkness of the valley, the banquet of the valley.

Untie The Fog

 

Upon a boat. Into seas. Nursing a shoreline.

Noisy silence. Aches in pains. A soul was born.

Breaking water. Cleansing time. Facing

History. Beseeching mirrors, if to appear twice.

Longer rivers. Deeper memories. To ask for

Baptism, to deny experience,

Fueled by chastisements, science is

Whelming. Bosky meadows—traipsing mystics.

Greensward landscapes. Opalescent horizon.

Falling into dreams. Inly sleet, snow, ice,

Breakage. It must be appropriate—wordings.

Plash at times. Right at an ear. To see image,

Subtraction, light memory.

Plumbless depth. By a gorgeous soul.

Fraught by agonies. Moving through fields.

To have unlocked inside—sheer hell!

Needing what one is, what one possesses,

Self-effaced, weeping with smiles.

Star-crossed. Pushed. Cultural warfare.

Cultural history. Cultural science.

Cultural depression.

Banshees at cultures. Life in caves. Seeking

What requires submission.    

Gazing at Flowers

 

Can’t retrieve music. Can’t discover roots. Can’t articulate source. It happens, oddly enough, to analyze listeners. Systematic beliefs, quick to assail, memories saving his life.

 

Neurology became intimate—fraught by reasons, to travel, investigate the synaptic pond.

Upon a whisper the power of the rose, symbolic petals, realized watchers.

 

Petting an elephant, dreaming about queens, climbing the high mountain. Smelting self. Redeemed in time. Promised something extraordinary. We leave those thorns, kick

 

tumbleweed, walk the ghost towns. The war seems evident. I sound different at moments. To hear Zimbabwe. To know sources. Failing the deeper self. Walls inside. It was

 

interesting. Pushed into a corner, by souls dedicated to liberty. So many singing silence. To imagine how souls exist: the self-assistance, winds in diaries, if children knew the

 

outcome. Under-graves, inside of catacombs, ancient bones, hieroglyphics, reasons for confidence. The fight is a mirror. The world is its reflection. Understanding is its perception. To witness as seen is good, to witness as intended is better.      

Pieces of Many Births

 

When waking, a silent thief, intimate indifference, deference to essence. Sullen storm, made innocent, to believe in strong resilience. To push through weights, redundant tornadoes and patient winds. Loving was transgression; asking was shadowed memory, as if it becomes eternal.

 

Scenery greens, western deserts, prisms inside, mingling with elements.

By intonation of sins, skies held in derision, souls wrestling with Faith.

By transgression those waves the arts by strength … caves, us, lies, life.

 

            Suspicion of irony. Steadfast seduction. Sawdust, dirt, mud. To have worshipped, like filth is marvelous, to have never a doubt, to feel reassurance, this was love.

 

            Waltzing upon clouds. Lost in a daze. Praising, kneeling, Olives, gardens. May the cup pass.

 

            Esoteric intrusion … truths trampled … blossoming tsunamis … greater abandonments.

 

It would ache in time, pulsate when driven, laugh now and cry later affectation.

 

                        She grew wings, floating away, adrift in illusion.

                        She was dragon, snake, monkey and rabbit.

                        Too complex for simple existence, too high for helicopters, enlightened, dangerous.

                        A thief of souls, sexual passion, alienation, torn from her reality.

                        Melody of persistence, sound of angels, guest of her body.

                        Devastated by anxiety. Sketched by impassivity. Ruined by reflection, by ideals … made barren in time, soil rich pains, the thief came with vengeance.

 

To deal with reality. To know her name. To hold fast to indifference. To become entertainment. Guffaw in its box. Muffled groans.

He was chided, taught to endure, assailed by derision … what has he seduced? … what has he become? … visitation … given to reasoning … unable to decode experience … many fueling Faith.

 

To vigil denims, dresses, wisdom made into art’s resistance … spliced in twain, tugged in chambers, walking silently, cedarchests opening, a soul becomes more of an interior specter, solace of doves, memories, sounds of before.

Spirit Pouch

 

At risk reality. Inner pools. Abandoned to condition.     Camus cartoons. Is it more than apparent?     Pages inside. Indelible ink. Racing sunshine.     Do forgive a drop of a name.     

     Left in experience. Given a desert. Needing sincerity.     Maybe sharks invert, ghost become corporeal.     Medieval women—touched in shadow—sky silhouettes.

     Sugarberry kisses. Makes tomorrow appealing. We’ve vetoed sentiments. And have become insistent.

     Unsure about beauty. Casual acquaintances. It just irks.

            To hear a crumbling voice, to nurture prayer, to repudiate facile boxes—most unspoiled spirit, atoning, as sight fixes, stoic at times, trying to accept nuances, winter, and summer.

                        Wondering about crucibles. Realizing depth. Feeling low grade.

     A burst of sentience. Most pertinent passerby.

            Sickles flood wilderness. Picking. Digging for gems. Souls unveil ability.

                        Tender charity—in soul, spirit, and body.  

Religious Science

 

When it happens—nothing matters, turquoise birds chirping. When exhausted, one finds energy. Sore soundness, silent excellence, made privy to dark kernels. Reborn to feelings, sold a great story, unkindness, stern environment, to imagine what family might assert. Crossing scales, conversing with ferrets, nursing a headache. Dearest Decencies, buttons, drums, fantasies;

debating sunshine, indebted to moons, courting skies. Before it wails, before it’s told, defining something held to heart. When it was—it wasn’t, it was sewn into soil.

Walking Through Woods

 

Zelda, by and far, wits, charm, passé, adored.

Souls excused each other.

Graveyards with cadence.

Zelda has art, lives poetry, neat sadness.

Memories eat at a woman.

Pendants. Pins. Pledges.

Many xylophones, clarinets,

Protestants and Catholics … love if

Spoken.

Zelda might be more than behaviors.   

The Inner Comedian

 

Trying at mystique. Looking at eyes. The roads are longer. The years grow fewer. Departure is in horizon. It will be there, mocking, holding soul in derision. The iniquity. The Ghost. Like happiness can’t be purchased. I was fueled, sold into it, it kept laughing. A bird in distance. A lagoon inside. A mental platypus. A broken petal. And mother knew. Lived her life. Enough of that!

Trying at numen. It keeps giggling.

Trying at innocence. It wails louder.

Trying at purity. It kicks mud.

Some of us have a different experience. Many love and remain loved and read like silence means beautiful dreams.

I never ran the show. A product of the sullen. Souls latched to familiarity.

Trying to get further. Trying to feel normal. Something in cards. A bullshit cliché.

Growing Pangs

 

I run a risk of exaggerating,

claiming paradise, calming  

design, angelizing some soul. Each day

is a fight, morals, disaster,

redundancy.

I was filled with promise, would’ve given

those years, to have tragedy for lunch. In

seeing is in hurting. In adoring is

in regretting. On art’s terms, into

longevity,

with seasons for redemption. To have

praised

in meaning the fantasy of music,

the blatant misery, so beautiful

with time. It starts with an issue, unto

its pain, close enough to unveil each

other. To glance over, to make gesture,

to half smile, slip on slippers, to walk in

decency, to remember youth, to

become perfect

in some other area. I was

surfing magazines, rereading poems,

wondering how legacy ascends. It

was ever so neat. It should’ve been

filthy,

filled with notations, too many hidden

liaisons,

too many disapproving rites. I run

a risk

of making havoc, of disavowing,

of recommitting to something made

normal in its flame.

Those ways, Sade; once so amazing, to

know many lies,

to find joy, to adore sullen

and sorrow.

Admiring An Artist

 

reading your work is misery laced by insight.

being & fantasy, cloves & wishes,

upon trefoils.

you breeze by, uninterrupted, into cadence;

seeing a picture, simply complex,

not many enter catacombs: you stand with your

flag, you beg for nuns.

miracle pains.

cosmic interference: trying to neglect doubt.

            all becomes mundane.

            wrestling redundancy.

            to find it is to undress trespasses.

i needed, and was unprepared.

it’s cute, playful, ubiquitous: replaceable.

we would with fever the grace.

to redeem literature, to relive classics.

the way you bend winds, eat earth,

fuse music; vibing undulations,

careful to thresh your readers.   

Cosmic Identity

 

most are becoming liars: ideas, arts, pelicans.

most are teaching poetry, selling prose

with fire upon etymology.

belly butterflies, flaming winds, discounted verbs.

most are becoming authentic: family, ladybugs,

grass blades.

most are un-difficult, simplifying mire,

most can’t be you.

each line made in apprehension

each tale is about words

disputing you is unreality:

            by chase, drought, miracle.

            something about Goliath

            scholars & surmising.

Symphonic Musings

 

insects nibble leaves—dust mites rummage foliage

gate keepers count numbers in exile, composures

exhale, inhale daylight

war has come, in-excellence, facetious

promise—inner camera, unvocal insights

posing an inconvenience, terribly shy, unkempt

 

unnamed artists, probing my soul, making miracle uprise—

by saunter, by street ballet, in decency, in filth, made famous

martyr—

clemency for children, whips for men, women know

survival—

 

outlawed colorings, fueled intestines, sky surgery

& knowing is law, silence is maneuvering

dwelling in satori, under-speaking, peace & season

loudness, timpani, kettles, fire

for smelting

most marvelous thieving—hearts made pillows, deer sentiments

 

if by song, if unsung, piccolos in winter, violin come summer

blurring time, each hour clashing with emotion

pinched in spirit, to hear it is normal—nights with cello

vanishing in melody, surreal drifting

rummaging leftover feelings, abstract

restless, rebuilding an entire symphony

   

Raindrops & Asphalt

 

By fear of intimacy, the lake is turning, swans are hydroplaning.

Close enough to churn away, with knots knocking beneath flesh, with interior grieving.

Each page has tear markings, greasy fingerprints, chocolate smudges and invisible dreams.

The song is orange, walking by, standing accused—

an absence in us, suffocated by family, never met such holiness.

A rose grew between a crevice surrounded by concrete; oh unhealthy outlooks, seated between intervals, veiled, vacuuming curtains.

Sullen music. A dark, gleeful second, a solace smile, nearing the backgammon years.

To have adored, too unkempt, deciding on behaviors—to insist upon treachery, to never try, too many tales.

Let days be brevity, sheer joy, forever orgasmic, an origami feast, clowns subdued, magicians made sober—

dice and winds, storms and appeasements—

sold to arts, knitting love, confused on intimacy—

lakes settling, maturity growing, loving has been acceptance, guidance, comforts.