Sky Chains

It never becomes mastery, importance, dripping anguish, celebrating happiness.

Faucet pain, sensing its divinity, grace & rain. 

Smoldering weather, decomposition spirits, I wonder about father.

I was with epiphany, vacillating, velvet skies—as if passion is affliction. 

I prayed as a child; I sweated by pores; I bled my life.

I fathom by needs, affirmative deserts, when desperate, we take action. 

It never seems enough, so hungry, so rapacious, the sin is greed. 

With deep patience, benthic intolerance, a soul is a contradiction; 

Awesome rain, dearly alive, barely situated—

we spoke with demons—we strained angels, we disrespected existence.

In God’s Country, we can’t see it clearly, we feel neat, tucked in, disputing facts. 

I never felt mastery, so sullen, so tacit, filled with ghetto anger. 

Spigot abuse, a precious seed, to become a monster; most important are tenets, never found it at home, in seeking—he was deceived, in needing warmth—he was mis-lead … the end didn’t justify tragedy.

 

By afflatus, dear discernment, so numen it aches—

if knowing was enough, if one had warned, I still would’ve moved forward. 

Such vivacity—

so near its cave, capitalizing sorrows, hunting bigger truths; 

so much to adore, born with flaws, filled with negotiation.

Original means iconoclastic; similar means exhausted; 

by a benighted wind, a blackdamp, feeding pigeons at the pond.  

Raw Almonds

A flattered man is a blind man. A figurine in spirit, a pain to self, too many abstract thoughts. 

I was enlove, it felt like hell, to desire what never accepts you.

Back to trenches, rebuilt, it still whispers. 

Like loving what never gets closer, just enough to continue adoring, just enough to addle brains. 

I was influenced by you, a dream in you, a miracle to survive you. 

When you died, it was hell, no one understood. 

And when she thought in me, like a scream, to have sinned by calling upon holiness. 

If one is innocent, as opposed to a bastille, to have success in matrimony—just a small feat. 

I was enlove, I was acrobatic, I was influenced. 

What happened? 

So depleted, so agile, so sullen. 

To explain it without saying it, to need you without claiming you; 

 

so offensive, senses grieving, to build upon a star—jumping in space, tribal lessons, revving parts of us. 

(On a bad day, I feel it, so low, dragging us, flooring us, just imagine what it becomes.) 

(On a good day, like Jesus came, flowing in sequences, heart reverberating, smaller vibrations, a sudden volt, to know—it was a beautiful day.)

I was angry—it seemed a spell, so removed from myself;

to ask a vital question, to sing a sceptic song, so secluded, so close, too far to reach. 

It was never precious, it was ever good, to become so bad, to lie to myself. 

Too wild those years. Too flushed—raw emotion, to hate what gives life. 

Like a running man, an escaping woman, to realize—it was ever imagination, it wasn’t real, so dearly affected, some fretting curse! 

We know what was done, so esoteric, a blind man calls us a damned creation.  

Dysfunction

I gave more than natural; needing you, exonerating you, trying where most surrender.

I gave by bone, blood, essence & courage; you died so completely, a ride I must keep, 

by a carnival in hells.

Unlike mundanity, sky whispers, dragged in deeper, threshed & thrashed, 

most beautiful, most bizarre. 

So much to maintain it, so close to ruining self, with you permitting it.

I live by vows, thrust into furies, favored by omens.

Last of fallen graces, rebooted so timely, tugged by terrors; 

brought back often, cringing the unacceptable, addicted to chaos, illness of its maze, people were pointing.

They watched. They envied we were living. They asserted themselves, insulated their comments, vexed it took place so long.

 

What we give in exchange for pieces; fierce realities, passionate taboo, aching in desperation;

storms in thoughts, walls in brains, anything for gentility—a careful enterprise.

 

In adoring those regions, to have denied harmony, a day of peace goes into skies—

by dramatic moon, drastic profanity, relying on redemption; to call it living, for it yanks at sun fall.

Alienated

We figured life was rough, determined to change, like one person isn’t enough. We forsook defeatist talk, embraced fervor & fever, in part, too naïve.

 

Daunting persistence, epic addiction, epoch frustration, we debate on what colored means: different sects, casual or un-casual, together or separated?

 

Ideals come with disappointments—refined ideas, nearly chiseled into invisibility—this is life.

 

We imagine being chaste, if to answer existence, most heartbreaking essence; harrowing indeed, humility a plus, suffering made mandatory.

 

Show me contentment. I’ll show you gray matter.

 

Ceilings are immortal. Caricatures & cartoons—this is life. 

 

Show me peace. I’ll show you hard work.

 

I’ve never met a completed person.     I would magazine 

 

existence, filled by empty space, unaware of what fastidious means.

 

I praise easiness: family, career, compassion, & spiritual practice, a life. 

 

To live for it—to die for it—to have worth in it; to look at it, to have a sensei, to adore parent & teacher nights.

 

Show me contentment, & I’ll not dig. 

 

Academia & religion have infused our existential.

 

Many millwheels. Many masks. A dangerous line.

 

In loving one—we presume a few things: consumption, meaning, completion.     

 

Gates & walls, despite beauty, fretting life, structured by solicitudes.   

 

I can’t remember each picture, as it influenced me, where life was romantic; 

 

to have existence, those raving skies, those kites on high; to know life is good, to have for example, a most wonderful palm.

 

We knew wisdom, we knew a little rain, we knew a little discipline, we knew errors, punishments, harder lessons. 

 

I’d imagine at different degrees life is similar for most folks. We’ve experience as commonality. 

 

Although we feel alienated.   

Undoing Winds

Looking to see us, regathered pieces, dreary dreams—a better calligraphy. Many became a mystery, losing senses, leaking sanity. I would visit, feeding pigeons, chasing ghosts—life is misunderstood. Trying to tame madness, familiar mad eyes, a glossary of what ifs. And ridiculed, a fifty-year grudge, to repent might seem shallow—not many need each other—passing time. To ask in passing about needs, wondering what means excellence, spirits in blenders—one grand award! 

I did it for anguish, newly baptized, sensing tragic color; life has pigmentation. (How often we forget kindness.)

And Love is precious, came around last week, looking for a family: if I could dismantle perceptions, or dispel notions, the world is full of coyotes. 

When anxious, listening to parts, asking for a bridle.

A different version of a similar person: souls need to fathom desperation of character.

To forsake a soul—to pontificate—another wonders—so many dice, so many shrimps, lunch with Moet; doing it for ancestors, do it for children, doing it for silence.       

Winepress Berries

 

It’s ever what I meant, or currency of a nightmare, splayed, seeking closure. It’s never what I meant, or poetry went astray, a strange land of doves.

Poesy in July, heaving guts, wheezing at the funeral.

It was God’s Rules, faceless by winds, teal-blue sparrows.

In loving it was darkness. In hating it was self-sabotage.

A little is too much; a fair amount seems like torture.

In dear time, waving through clouds, it requires a few raspberries.

So small it seemed, it became existence, each bone reverberating.     To know with each image, sheer determination, destroyed insides, smiling, feeling acidic.

To see it open, to kill it each time, it’s life a new avenue … valleys born, countryside havens, like noose to throats.

It was out of anger, & one suffered greatly; it was hard to feel charity.

It becomes its vagueness—its shallow depth, with caskets floating.

It becomes its existence, purely existential, trapeze & wire.

To feel certain pride, to destroy everything, smug & arrogant.

Picture begging, a child weaving, to learn of disappointment.

Picture praying, learning a deep truth, God doesn’t always answer.

In despising her, I’d ache her, with deeper agonies—voice of song rites, or your psyche, an esoteric sin;

blessed to have abuse, knowing in summer, bled & desperate; asking of holiness, cursed of perception, trying to break freedom—

the pain in those lines, sheer misunderstanding, years dying too young to become normal—whatever it might gather.    

Strangeness

 

We go into a feeling, if to master emotion, many fears by illusion.

If spirits find each other aside winerock(s) nursing insecurity.

Some piece of being human: it’s never enough. Neither are songbirds.

Poor word choice—running into meadows, praying upon a dahlia.

Poured into an abstract, longing for concrete.

Too much speculation; too little sacrifice.

In finding it, emotion in skies, falling to inspirit minds—

most determined, devastated, & detoured.

We go into a feeling, destroyed by feelings, made unclear, needing humanity.

With becoming in pieces, creating spots, purposed in an alien land.

We go into a feeling, born in parts, refacing inversions.

Hands put to service. Days untying truths. Philosophic anguish.

A lady says it finds us—seated in solace, disturbed & meditated.

Whenever its beautiful; whenever it hurts!  

With Breath & Winds

 

realizing greater needs—to sense sunshine, sweet phobia cries;

Metropolis disposition, chameleon eyes, Guggenheim exhibition.

years made chaotic, untrue poetics, panda paws; pupils made of horses, sable retinas, discovered a weeping poet.

mantis mornings, nightmare ghosts, supposing never ends, so, life is sciences.

tailored existence. detached intimacy.

frostbitten motion.

by noetic skies, falling enlove with Tibet, leaning into acquisition.

bathhouse baptism. tepee revelation.

to become more of what haunts: essence, consciousness, & details.  

Cold Warmth

 

rightly by wrongness—innocent wraiths, flowers & desert sands. In

taken for granted, riven indecision, whispering love & sharks;

by frustration, held like dying, years to culmination—needing water, thirsting for thunder,

reborn, more in its sinning.

To desire a creature, losing oxygen, pledging what

he can’t keep, weeping in satisfaction.

Too young to keep eternity. Too old to claim infinity.

Undressing with intention.

Disputing blue ocean.

Wily games divide us; never close enough; raffled

by impertinence, cleaving to excellence—as rites into hearts, as dreams into clouds.

Trying to love—as never before, winning before losing;

sheer deception, one is too smart, moved by arts—cautious, frantic upon a scar.

So intimate, they walked away.

So uncured, they roam hospitals.

To long for celebration. Dark brown eyes.

To have died frequently—like no one cares.

To know goodness—with wings to sail.

In desire to love, finding something to adore, nothing is guaranteed; its escape, to remove permanence, to freely crave, in its sinning, we find pieces of freedom.

Before Understanding Love

 

By the nowness of true passion—by its blessing, its lifeline, its hereness;

heirs of desperate love, phantoms of the greater skies, fumbling in desperation.

To love like dying, to become so involved, stronger creatures of walls, lakes, dearness.

If loving were easy, as opposed to blind, raw oceans, deeper understanding.

In finding itself, in moving itself, pieces, puzzles, pains;

those cyan eyes, jasper winds, valleys filled with audacity.

So much younger, giving effort was curious, needing compassion, before jaded rivers; scenery was unique, receiving for its initiative—dearest satiation.

By melody of its desert, born to create, unaccustomed to where it begins; many feelings, to unknit cadence, nibbling cherry plums.

Human Activity

 

We need something acute—something innocent, while we debate Truth, discover signs.

 

Upon a childlike prayer, believing goodness, by tender obedience.

 

Analyzing dearness, knitting theorems, abiding by conundrums, by moral glass, ethic compass.

 

To fall short of enterprise; to transgress skies.

 

Much more to wiggle through.

 

Where religiosity meets expectation; where goodness is vital, becoming humanness.

 

Holding one’s heart, moving into galaxies, dearness to its struggle.

 

Another thought of strangers, to have thrown existence, rinsed into a frenzy.

 

To grapple with a name, making life beautiful, giving persistence meaning, a backbone.

 

With excellence of character—comes struggle of essence, probed by interior guides.

 

With imperfection of character comes dearness of appreciation, to sin as part of salvation.

 

In taking by struggle, afforded one grace, pouring out preciousness, aching by understanding.

 

We need something marvelous, as crossing our palms, as holding its existence—

 

Oh to believe!

Soundless Silence Is Impossible

 

I comb through poems as a fastidious creature—a little restless, looking for one gem.

 

There’s science to it.

 

With needing a creature, with seeing a face, I speculate on dreams, outcomes, waves & arts.

 

Loving seems vulnerable, intimate, it becomes freedoms & cogitation.

 

I never understood flowers, deciduous petals, stems with compass life.

 

In needing unsaid creature, I forfeited inclusion.

 

Surreal desire is esoteric. Love has remained invisible.

 

Bulbous mirrors, reflecting like mimics, making more of perception, if we might fly.

 

I nibble grass, palm dirt, examine an anthill. I laugh without noticing. I remember Proverbs.

 

And still, poetry evades me—until, spirit is ignited. One must be in soul to read poetry.

 

Love would sing by silence, a sound made terrific, misleading & cagey.

 

It seems appropriate—we read each other’s work, we cull thoughts, we chisel pictures.

 

A truth in fact, it’s rare a group will draw the same conclusions. They will vary in texture & tone.

 

One must be patient with self—to center one’s mirror.  

Watching Awareness

 

To race that way. To wait on dice. To dream in visions. So great to adore it, to love it, with fury & honor in us. Deeper turquoise woes, jasper skies, jasmine scented. Patterns of behavior, to notice & say nothing, to move like motion. If it lives it dies. Each has a right: to freedom, honesty, life & pain. Each has beauty of purpose, to extract what works, satiated by orgasm. Some were genius—fraught by a calling, driven to answer it. In

 

winning there’ll be sacrifice; in losing there’ll be an opening. In managing depression, a soul might become enraged, made furious, just one breath. Soul fire. Soul aches. To invert it to live it. All I wanted—All I needed—it became complicated. I imagine time is coming back, to ask a wish, to loosen pieces and mantles. Art of its mask, divinity of its dance, a mind will trick itself. Out of darkness we make lights; out of skies the falling

 

rains; from earth to clouds & one dream. Nothing but itself. Something observes consciousness. So twain in existence at all times. Parts of self, unleashed, distracted by itself. Tragic souls watched, made infinity, dressed theorems, & drove metaphysics tightened by logic. To become provoked, to listen to itself, to nudge an answer. Indeed, too rich, too much, seeking reason above assertion. Imagine self. To lose self in analyses.    

Earth Canteen

 

sound crashing on wires, bled unto spirit, seeming to evaporate     seeming to appear.

a younger problem, an anger attitude, trying at some gem—those cryptic waves, exotic cries, to have everything in one instance.

nothing like her, operative & styles, bred of power skies—a cultic ache, falling out of memories, another season at a live version.

a driven machine, asking for mercy, knees filthy—at a seven in mind.

to exist in it, something tugging his soul, nudging his spirit, wrapped in some relation;

a feeling most heated, or a week of a smaller excellence, life meaning, she can activate it.

sullen works, suffering silence, to imagine why she smiles.

too subtle—too much on said wires, fraught by atmosphere—

lost unto located, speaking another language, something antihero, anti-science, yet

factual.

just imagine a distinguished woman, (never said a good woman), just electric, flying, with a need for excellence—those

with pain, revved inside, adrift skies, palming wilderness.

perception as an ingredient, an artifact, discovered & placed at a furnace—some other world, to win, to fret loses, reduced to perception—either sound or unsound perception.

Energy Games

 

With soil chains, captive lenses, walking into moonshine;

distorted captivity, soul fire, aloof to feelings.

With grave-markings, with chills, with tomorrow seeming indifferent;

bled bones, marrow wavering, trying harder to

ignore cadence.

Love struck me, an emotion or such, sober beauty—soul cringing gorgeous … to know for locks, to need sewing, entering her heart … fraught by insecurity.

Like magic arts, mantic veins, mystic rites—a mind full of rebels, a grander illusion, framed in delusions; never met us, flooding earth, a pair of every feelings—

fleeing rituals, grieving nightfall, nakedness whispering.

It was hellish, heaving, hooded & summonsed: those with favor, anxiety without release, love by its caveats.

In loving you, it hurts. In sensing you, it angers me. In disguise, listening, palming ghosts. To know it’s just for kicks, it means nothing, like you never felt God. Like life is selfish—made ambitious.

Over shots we might render decency.

Writhing over questions—sutures & scars.

We sense an hour striking, to give all never sinning, bleeding upon a crucifix—those charms in blood, surrendering to a greater sacrifice, battling conscienceness.

To adore with patience—to have passion once again, to know it has just begun.

Most titillating creature, flawless in indifference, made of pure astronomy.   

Life

 

It comes with a price, diamonds in brains, livid in a daze.

The deathbed polygraph—to see what prevails.

Laying there, close to departing, begging for entrance.

What is believed?

Oh mighty Filmmaker, segue to eternity, exit into hells.

Many more unloved, surmising, filled & fraught by iniquity; filthy palms, forgiven, like a dam miracle.

To walk with self, to know dirty crevices, to try to make peace with hands—their journey, their mechanics, a bloody death.

To ask for repairs, to need to feel erased, longing for maturity.

Like dying was good, like living was bad, what else do we have?

If it was nonchalance, did it hurt?

Surreal battles, fighting a damn ghost, what in gods is in us?

Loving is never a mistake, saying benthic things, smothered by skies;

head monopoly, gifts made too subtle, like Jesus is on radar.

A fretted silence, a freezing gut, hydrated dryness.

In feeling Love, it was hatred for Love, with nothing more than freedom to draw from: pure illusion.

Nomadic spirits, traveling curses, looking at day become nightfall.

To take it back to cymbals, tambourines, tribal discussion: smokestacks, walking coals, spears through flesh—

to live it at it edges, to cliff ride, at a ghost town:

praying for good health, to live it freely, rather pray for clarity of thought.

Virtue in a demon, omens in angelica, it’s funny how scripture tells a story.

And back at it, early morning greetings, a voice in dice, a female essence—terrified of living, like dreading science, filmed in absence.  

Incomplete

 

Late in the works, motion moves, silence remains vocal. To have lived like aliens, detached from self, wrestling perceptional madness. And Love was aching, saying goodbye, laughing under tears. A man with wilderness, an afflatus soul, angered under submission. I have loved in absence, glory at its rising, sunshine falling. It was magnificent, by hurting terror, afraid to love on levels; grogged those years, making musicality, walking through mirrors, seeing dear reflections. What made you? some creative creature!

To learn rhetoric, to debate essence, eating by a heat lamp.     It was horrible where it ended, terrific in its sprouts, a palm full of hopes & dreams.

A most charming soul, to have everything you desire, to have won excellence.

I lose a part of you, in gaining the pain of woes, adrift in one incomplete poem.       

Through Illusion

 

I haven’t been the same, a longer road, a lot to discuss. Heaven seems far off, aloof at intervals, pushing one to try harder; like athletes, it’s never enough, & then, they retire.

I never knew her, nor studied her, to have missed some illusion.

Time was invested, it had its purpose, in something delusional, came a story, a saga, if souls would begin.

I haven’t a clue to it, adjusted, & shall again.

I see her typing, either falsifying happiness, or enjoying daylight.

I see myself listening inside, digesting cosmos, eating universality; such complex pictures, loud xylophones, silent clarinets.

I could’ve on some level, often, it doesn’t matter how we respond.

With sarcasm carries hurt, truth, neglect & dice.

In never adoring her, I lost self, I disowned happiness.

Sky particles. Indecent luxuries. Decadent delights.

Smothered comforts—long mental lines, hard to falsify happiness.     Duvet wrapped, passions astray, adoring what I’ve not met.

In trying to unstress self, pressure arose, palming delicate times.

In ignoring reality, slopes slipped, inevitable sun whispers.

Captured in a matrix, polishing moon rise, hesitant concerning wonder.     I grabbed belief in order to survive, I made it through high tides, I begin to question what sustained me—it seems human.

Love is many realities, several ghosts, disguised by innocence.     I never approach with wants, nor offer sunshine, on a colder morning.     Some backstory, deeper in woods, flaming as we chance.    

Clear Moon

 

I need to see him, I need to hear her, like losing sanity; to give existence, to forfeit logistics, saucy sacrificial(s). Upon a demon, those demonic eyes, so at Love, like a fretted curse. Never closer, holding hands, hacked unto deaths, awakening and screaming, scorching! So framed, made wilder, tamed in due time; life is anxious, minds are anxiety, trying to meet Ghosts—fire of my exile, terror of my alphabet, tragic upon a lost wilderness; accursed unto vacancies, a defacto, rereading her memoirs. To live desperation, to cuff a memory, at lies in there; seeing what feels glamorous, ignoring slums, so close we deplete each other; to feature one, to see it, to adore the controversy of your hands. God is proud!

Around a corner, nestled in a nest, to find solace. It matters so little, it means nothing to me, call me deranged, call me a misnomer, call me aberrant, but why? Indeed, so close to a feeling, so at needs to be complete, upon a fiat—it gets to ambition.    Color on sacrifice, pains like magnets, to lock eyes and drown. Maybe it matters, maybe it’s untrue, maybe I ignore Jesus in you.  

Cold as Summer

 

How could it be—thriving under pressure? I never agreed, a hassle I hold, heaving through exhaustion. To witness a dying office, bled into wood, strangling over steel; iron platinum, so much hurt, debating this life—to question a wife. By numb solutions, by rethinking meanings, lost in essence—a silent scent. Spent hundreds on steaks, a trillion on wishes, tragic existence, with Love in his belly. Rented a women’s hopes, lied to mother, fell into father’s traps; with edges leaking, each fringe in me, at a cliff with spirits—leaping, landing into faith, caged by realities. Had to get bent, had to do a ritual, had to believe in God. I know nothing else, so real to me, like a cross, a tree, just dripping life. Love was gorgeous, beaming in an afterlife, to awaken and disappear. I vanish, filled with secrets, a ghost!   

Forgotten Rain

 

I have an issue in a problem secluded in a mistake. It was roses, diamonds, to sin in you; it was forbidden essence, passionate redemption, gifted for ignoring passion. I sense it has passed—the terrors, those waves, all into another’s eyes. To have adored a mistake, to have loved ignorance, lacking in knowing and still moving forward.

We’d tether insanity, filled atop mountains, bled and dry, those with crosses. To possess an omen, to obsess over infatuation, core depleted, loving how days have swollen. So grand its remorse, so much its need, framed in passing mirrors. Shrubberies and briers, demons and angels, to feel upon a nightly trespass. Unto fire to bring dynasty, aloof from drums, fretting how it aches and churns, with waves in another’s embrace.

Sunshine & Flowers

 

Fresh crisp weather, brighter skies, life making its rounds. It haunts itself; it relinquishes nothing, it takes existence. Oh for favor, vying for her essence, rivaling myriad interests.

Gravel on earth, fantasy in stars.

Climbing steepness.

Fresh crisp weather, brighter skies, life making its rounds.

To fall into trance, to ravish invisibility, sinking into static.

Some semblance of artistry, seductive with chimes, a porch filled with fireflies.

To desire some glint, to garner some light, losing first flicker.

Bothered often. Unraveled shards. Pieces climbing to build a picture.

Born to this ending, each going gently, that final moment.

In wondering of legacy, demarcation, those in portraits—waltz of persons, agile angst, to sip to no avail.

A spark, a deepness to it, churning inside, talking to self, trying to walk towards easiness, compelled to dislike.

Uncanny canopies, naked honesty, a man will learn to censor himself.

Some are cynosure—by rites & dreams, years invested into artistries, making life difficult to exhale.

Indeed, why?

When most are alike to x, & one is far removed from x, life must be rethought out time & again—it is given depth, it becomes complex.

It can’t be a fairytale each round.

Fresh crisp weather, brighter skies, life making its range.