Palming Atmosphere

 

Intangibility. To touch with vapor. To extend an arm. In detail, systematic, in search of what can’t become. Or enthused like anger evermore. Intangibility. Oh, Sullen Violin, to become in sound, cellos as witness, incorrigible reigns; sweeter incantation, days at trying boldness, begging for some alien in souls; with becoming winds, with numbness of self, in dear desperation, a feeling it left to chance. In finding a location, searching skies, surrendering to nowhere—in dynamite charms, everyone is in love, or a few refused to omit—scars turning purple, gusts of emotion, tingling in spirit. By roots to arrive, branches indeed, it must be as it is; to plead for clarity, given confusion, with thinking much on matters; fervent ecstasy, needing to walk away, tugged by intangibility. 

 

I saw holiness, gripped perception, offended sentiments. 

 

Alleluia! Instilled liturgy.

 

It was presence of self when it appeared. A soul can say enough, or not enough, always one sentence off. 

 

I used to feel uneasy; it’s uncareful phenomena; most try not to listen, to play guitar higher in range, to become aloof of the mirror, given more to fret over. (Why should it matter? Give one free range, in the end, a soul must cross the tribunal—let God do God.) It doesn’t move. It just watches. Whose fault is that? A spirit will be asked to fix something showing resistance. Intangibility has a sister. Her essence is in particles. 

 

Intangibility. To have a perspective, to have become smarts, a little resistant to others. 

 

There’s strangeness. There’s boredom. And there’s regardless, I’m set for this course.

 

It would become with great hardships. Most things are beyond their agendas. It must unveil we thought. Cultures went deeper. Levi for priests. Judah for warriors. 

 

Intangibility with resonance. Those feelings we can’t palm. 

 

Strangeness of times; it was meant to feel irregular.

Rendered Disbelief

 

I don’t feel it. Trying to get to self. An avalanche in there. By chance to create mythos, to touch logos, to nurture ethos. Midnight pain, early morning rain, part deceased, part alive. Asking for fidelity, given a cloven soul, blamed for the creation of deaths. So easy to hate me, so hard to hear me, thrust through, bleeding faith. Adult memories, like a different scene, same phenomenon. We spoke it clearly, came for scars, the discussion was slanted. Many torrent falls, mathematical oceans, some type of salt pouring. What was he on, took a dozen shots, rust, dust, & dirt? I must return, too much wisdom, it can’t pass away. I find a truth: dear deception can’t accept its nature. It screams. By sea to earth. By love to dangers. By filth to cleansings. The chains attached to futures, the wealth of the kingdom, like New Judah. Too much stamina, it seems unlikely, like a hundred deaths. Welcome Home! Survival of the fittest. Losing humanity. Buzzing off adrenaline. The last identity becomes the first lie, most were sick early on. Have we met normal? I debate that! To arrive at logic, using her to death, hiding insecurities. And I was in love so long, back to the committee, back to raw delights.

We Are Likeness

 

We picture life differently. You see what I see. We describe it especially. I give you more credit. Some phenomenon can’t be mentioned. You lean towards your own. If I told a man he lies, it might ruin him. If a woman lies, you might cater to her ego. Life is spinning. I keep pondering you—part aligned to disbelief. We see ideals, negotiating over truths, forcing certain beliefs—with humanity seeming perfect, in its imperfection. You read it. You feel it. As I asked another: What is the resolution? He was venting. I kept asking self-activating questions: What becomes the final cinema? The question lends towards some line of thought—while most aren’t debating resolution. One doesn’t look at a spouse and discuss the ending scene: to end is to depart, truer satisfaction doesn’t leave its sources behind. Sun beaten zinnias. Lavish cries from a mantis. Death kisses us each day. We love wisdom, we deny her cousin, deaths. So knotted on days, true fiction inside, to realize we see life differently. To know redundancy, to believe in change, I’ve picked my horses. Mauled by thoughts. Dewdrop beauty. To have hope for others; knowing, we discover our philosophies in unveiling ourselves. I lean into patterns. You lean into patterns. We see things differently. Too much emphases—in a given direction, proves a flaw. I think differently. To ignore patterns, we never would, to believe against deaths, we never would, and finding reason not to sink into utter despair—I believe this comes by temperament. The travail of labor, the fable of perfection, the story against imperfection—so cloven, such in nearness, so different, I wonder if we’re fighting against particular truths. If so, who’s lying? 

Admiration Made Ardent

 

We know aesthetics; like music made beauty; like dying more attention. It’s never fair, so much it hurts, to kiss & drop a tear. I imagine more than I’ve lived: the depth of passion, where it aches, kills, satisfied by a kiss. I met her by accident. So precious, innocent, lustful, smart. I was a kid back then, impressed, laughing freely, without suspicion. I fell in what I knew as love: so shallow, so deep, too much to suppress. A brilliant lamp, a sickle to esoteria, unsung & dancing. Deathless adrenaline, gnawing inside, pausing for church; seismic art, idyllic anxiety, hoping, wishing, begging it increases. So songlike; such a mesmerizing choir; dearly knotted, pleading inside, it couldn’t be actual—those facts, that blimp, such decorated brushwork; to bounce back, to get closer, to lie when it churns. Lunarias. Iris, Love. Freesias & freedom, if but to die again. Some recipe. Some stranger’s critique. Or bluegrass roots, all night affection, too near to exclude, pure exclusivity, I remember feeling good. One knee, one anchor, one hook. So medieval—like life is a parable, primal, catastrophic emotion. Dear & untold. A dirge into a smile. If only to be destroyed by resurrection. One kiss. One agenda. One death.   

Sullen Trials

 

I knew it before it took place. I warned of it. 

I was met with shock, like human nature

Isn’t susceptible to that. 

I felt wistful at first. I was sad. I was angry.

I realized a need—we seem to share it,

I try to erase it. It makes for weakness,

It leaves one undone.

The wheel inside a wheel, those waves & 

Arts, purpose of one’s dreams. To need

The falsity one gives, to know—it isn’t

Reliable, to walk in, hoping one will 

See beauty. As 

Vulnerable creatures, mourning souls, in

Somberness seeing the best of pains—

Woes made indomitable, immutable, 

Dependable, a knowingness, an

Appreciation for truth. I 

Stood at billows, fed birds, sat at parks; 

I walked while reading, paused to say,

Good morning, kicked at sticks, 

Prayed under-breath, to imagine

How souls manage.

Except for prose/poetry, or seated in 

Some thread of therapy, I never let on.

It’s discovered, keen souls, deeper 

insights.

To stumble upon a word, to gaze into a 

Grin, to scrape a smile, to realize a 

Kindred soul. 

A musical concerto, a cello played by a

Survivor; dreaded a scene, forbidden a 

Knitting, lost in sullen laughs.  

I need timbre. 

It Has Observation

 

Through dim lights, those arts, chest deep in prayers. They call us dense, another pleat, to debate phenomena—some property. Essentially turning inward, an indwelling universe, a kingdom of components. Wondering of what greater love—in the midst of reality, or plagued by phantasmagoria. To conjure it, or to awaken in it: such fruit upon fertile grounds. It seems a thought connects with a heart & the two generate resonance. The thesis of spirit, the dissertation of God. Just us, moving through diamonds, redecorating pictures, sweeping darkness. In meeting mystery, she possessed confidence, she had an edge to her. Life was intimidating, & judgmental. Couldn’t paint it differently, eyes filled with deer. Pushed into orison, flame flickering, energy wafting, invisible testimony—such serious souls. To have mention of love, to imagine what it means, aside for desiring possession; we name attributes, pleasing, this is what we have achieved. Upon an old album, into a chest made of cedar, to awaken in a sweat—so curious about meaning. During church time, to glance over, to connect like it was ordained—the ghosts we filter through; to have existence, free of commodities, pure with passion flowing.  

Memory Lane

 

Anticipating it, like death is chasing, from cradle to casket, into the grave. We loved best we knew how, no damn training, it came naturally. Half at all times, foot to the floor, smoke filled lungs. We outgrew leadership. We lusted for powers. A soul became a friend, a needed experience, on a late night, filled with vehemence, one game too many. I visit his grave; it’s been some time, moving like water, maneuvering like foxes, listening to old music. I enter traffic, I reminisce, doing 70 mph. It was cruel, the crudeness of existence, the good die young. It doesn’t make sense; despite degrees, we seem to use wisdom to pacify ourselves. Fraught by a desire, to have existence, in a game made of trust. I fell out with many. It must be me. It kept happening. I figure you watch, seated on high, hoping against hopes. We miss you, the glue to the crevices, the match to the fire, the water to the baptism. Life is changing. Love is nuance or commodity. You have a niece. Indeed, I keep floating, looking at all times, or not quite caring.    

Human Ghosts

 

Souls of faith, ideologies, & souls of silence, traveling cages, breaking science, leased to this universe. I never said much, kneeling at night, swift into rain, moving like flame. I can’t fathom what history has done—ghostly souls, impermanence; changing in motion, resistant to days, living in part darkness; the faithful, the meek, to wonder why it requires certain properties. Religious souls—abiding by tenets, culture, & temple. I see pictures, immortalized souls, historians, painting portraits. I see dandelions where kids chase, imbued with faith. Some are upset—seeming neglected, chasing incense. Right at concerns, gazing intently, hoping baptism washes it all away. Such great hunger, rougher rides, conversing with the deacon. Ironclad deaths, pricked fingertips, religion seeming unhuman. If to believe, to move a mountain, to witness miracles. Warm ice, purgatory flame, watery fires; & bleakness, covered by lusts, needing to express a part of self, self-talk slipping away. Souls of faith, grace of Jesus, plagued by science—the art of motion, swoosh into a room, a person over yonder. Too much. & it comes to haunt. If most would fathom it. A true debate, a truer pain. While spirit trickles across a page. I never asked, I begged, if to give parts back. The cauldron boils, spells are cast, souls are stirred; willingness pushes, outcomes are gray, suggestion moves waves—most died begging, ancestors befuddled, plagued to the grave; true devotion, fervent prayers, sweating with chills. I would float in vision, told a trance was bad, if but to hear a whisper. 

 

So carnal inside, mixed with holiness, probed by a running future. The skies seem vague, unanswerable, made possible in memories. Such wanton vibes, unless part traumatized, unto feeling hebetated & numb. Most are feeling dreams, chasing visions, made alert to folly—it then becomes sin. In parts many are affected, faith racing, to believe with all one might become. To happen upon a secret, to become addled, to negotiate inside. The mind registers with itself, rearranging ideals, finding reasons to hold old ideas. Looking at noetic spirits, lavash upon a scream, favored by winds; wiser these days, still confused, faith was once so neat, a formula, haunted by innovations. 

 

On fullness, at goodness, it would feel beautiful; at a petal, eyes newly born, possessed by purity—energized, feeling holy. Cherry blossoms upon high, gardens on earth, combined some way, walking a nearby grave. Unto hells, battles, the end of a cycle. 

Does Intelligence Love?

I get tired of ills, willing the great night, skilled at something passé. So askew, so fast, to imagine how humans feel. I bled the clock, chilled on ice, thought it unreal. It was a bouquet of nightmares, a fret in a feeling, to see something ironic—like kisses on sight, like pain in mountains, like Exodus on history. I fuse well. I try never to embellish the truths. I heard where some are at, I couldn’t condone that. To miss some mind picture, never an actuality, to feel part slanted. No one quite fathoms that—until it’s analyzed. I was warm emotions, flowing through grays, sensing some disconnect. Not many are sensing it, this flavor, the way we sell ourselves. I feel awful for it. I had to change my thoughts. I had to see it clearly. The music is bleeding, jazz is dying. The apes are depressed. It seems to get lower, or it seems to sit stillness, with one in dreams, in ancient context, to compare a contrast with nature. What’s best for souls—framed in guitars, trying to impress nightfall. And loving seems incredible, to hanker over ideals, to sum life up in a word called Love. I beg to differ. Hated for that. But life might be intelligence. Does intelligence love? We tread a thinner line. We ask a significant question.        

“I Was Just Thinking”

Upon a dreadlock, no time for maintenance, fraught by war time; origins, to speak it, primitive religion, blue rivers, can’t escape what he can’t see. Becoming me, to sense an insidious odor, spent off lies, anger seeps out on Thursdays. In needing to feel it, I realized it was missing. In looking around, listening to others, I realized I see it differently. To 

 

analyze a therapist, to see one fishing, to understanding there’s a reason to fish. I’ve learned to pause, to erase, to rewrite, flipping a piece of self; so gifted one is, she dances, sacrificing sanity, jeopardizing personhood—those lasting words, noetic spins, filming parts, memory hectic, trying to remember it as it occurs—as opposed to pure perception. 

 

Everyone keeps about war, if we knew war, we’d try to keep away from war. There’s a curse on men, there’s a blessing on men, either/or, and hell erupts. I was in love with an ideal. Life was unsavory. To believe in beauty, untouchable pride, miracle lane. To imagine a soul a threat, so much wealth in prediction, to offset it before it happens, 

 

swearing it might occur. Let’s be honest, people do as they please, nothing more, & any line of thought can be justified; nay, some ponder Hobbs, some know truth, many enjoy eating shrimp. Never too many crossings, one may become immortal. One waits—accruing damages, hoping they build into a fortress. A man must watch souls, at each turn. 

 

Upon a flower, listening to jaybirds, rethinking happiness; to ensure a note, to hear a songbird, to redefine what it means to feel good, for existence has a strong churn. It becomes to evolve—anchors in life, eczema in nerves, a sudden realization, a gut feeling, to become in parts—so connected, & denying it. It’s a big secret, to have truth, told one 

 

has a lie, with onlookers knowing it was solid. & saying it, to listen to knowing is ignorance; & listening with absolute nature, is a mistake. I watch, listen, feel more than anything, careful at thoughts—so intrusive, never normal, just can’t participate in that. 

 

Most of life is affectation; seeming ventriloquists, brain dead, trying to compete in a big realm. To cry is odd for me. It means something is slipping away. Makes me think I’m losing pieces. Acrobatic arts, bhakti, to imagine the pain in some. To live with it, at the brink of it, rediscovered every few hours. And it’s felt in 

 

muscles, tension mounting up, extravagant understanding, & it can’t be released; so, subtle winds, cogent arms, to endure, beauty coming to ghetto souls. I’d be freedom, winning luxuries, struggling over temperaments; to let go, to stop with controlling, to resist resisting those currents.    

Beacon Lakes

 

So blasé at segments, deafening joys, imbalanced pains.

 

I was chasing you until I escaped me. 

 

Church. Work. & taxes. This is cycle. 

 

Pictures are a blur. We have ideas, ideals, self-accusations. Earth, sky, or dungeon. 

 

I spent time trying something as its blain, southern dreams, northern concerns, battled inside.

 

Loving you was easy: I didn’t know why. 

 

Temperamental souls, burning earlobes, science has answered a great deal: I fathom too much, life comes back to particular feelings, days at thinking—certain phenomena. 

 

Tectonic prayers; oceanic depth; seized by sullen joys. 

 

In taking something—she gave in return. I wonder if we know this: intention is partway fulfilling its curse.

 

Palms of goosegrass, arms in marshweed, metaphorical blues—jazz so sweet, a night in it. 

 

Nostrils filled with infatuation, just a younger lad, it meant so much to feel it, to dance in it, to lose interior projections. Nothing tangible! 

 

I keep saying words are puzzles. Poets are searching for combinations. If to draw from energies, dialogue becomes cameras. 

Life Is Faith

 

If it wasn’t for faith—in a moving soul, where’d he be? 

If snatched from faith, pieces replaced, where’d he be? 

The goodness of a man slain, slaughtered, smiling nonetheless. 

An impossible rain—tumbleweeds, cacti, deepening faith. 

So many flaws, so many boxes, looking at it, wondering how it got there.

We find rhythm in the beat, we find dance near fire, we locate faith by avenues.

Such universal language; such at birth; handed a book of life, too novice to feud, abstracts, life, more resurrections. 

The target keeps running, along a chase, preserving keepsakes. 

To imagine motive, denied its art, is virtually impossible.

Thinking is a craft. Pain is a portrait. Words are inadequate. 

To perceive it, kicked out of the garden, to know it was once beautiful, to look back, & understand faults, a dear recognition. 

The birth of remorse. 

It all went right, or wrong, to forfeit luxuries, to side with slavery. 

A deeper analysis—to know it becomes—not what it endeavors. 

Flustering trials. To realize their eternal. To be included, like they are, to realize, something is just about it. 

More faith enters every crevice: life is faith.  

Cognition Is Damning

 

The mind meditated on tales; living us, like sickness, sunshine weeping, dreams ignoring reality. I was young when it happened, some type of fire, senses ordained to sail; by sullen aches, by surrender, framed it seems in dangers—the beauty of one slipping away, the dread of what he couldn’t possess, flamed in cultures, arranged by deaths. Days are with you. A soul ponders dearth, sunrise, battles, neglect, & moon rise. Never thought it this way, feeling detached from control, some spell as it becomes energy. I rethink you weekly, nay, daily, with nothing there to latch to; most uncanny—to live hells deliberately, in depth to sing some song in print; the gates, Love, the damning gates; it was psychical, it was noetic, the fire—it would stream into cosmos; like roaming scriptures, running through psalms, some incredible nonchalance. I would say, I love you: it feels like intrusion, all the properties, never the obsession. Each tear in there, it becomes a flower, a name trickles like rain, I ignore it, it presses to intend its agenda. I imagine living this way: never to touch, never to crave such, with one inside wreaking havoc, sickened in pain, as it becomes strength. I adored in haste, hurdles seemed shallow, I imagine it would never become freedom of angst—the fierce years, the blood leaking, to hold one, and a thought strikes with vengeance—like a sick ass game. What is poetry? The lines blur. To rethink it: your eyes when meditated; your pain when seeping out, breaking seams, long into the skies; or, your angst, in a moment, so conscious of self. I was horseback in spirit, a headless soul, looking, blinded, wondering your end result; to have immortality, to collapse in depth, sunlit, dazzling, in love with being worshiped. Some type of identity. To have a good ribbing, to never laugh, to at best, pine in deepness, denied internally, detached from one at the end of the couch. To have scent, power, to feel sorrow, to die, to love the deaths, to write a masterpiece.  

Eucalyptus Candles

 

 

rooms are large. The inner office is crowded. Pitch blackness, a little light flickering. I hear it clearly, Paint a picture. 

On a side note: What is intimacy?

The darkness we share—the path we bend, the deaths we live.

Back to its course: treehouses, snakes in caves, legs running, fangs deeper in souls: endorsed, filled with lies, trying to swim freedoms. 

By her collar: Episcopalian. 

Those rooms open wider; brilliance, awe, hands to clay.

Literal liturgy, concrete baptism, a public confession: heart wings, paw clamping, clear out the inner office. 

Spirit motion.

On another note: Explain the nights.

A soul trance—most enthralled, washed feathers—we go further back: I now fathom, core reasons are mediocre, 

gray moon fever, sunlit fields, cotton made evil.

 

I was a pawn. I didn’t like it. I became a bishop. I liked it. Moving into action, thrust through, a sword at the mind. Long live Jesus!

Fluidity: this is culture. Free flowing, this is torture. 

I fear for him. 

The war seeps out, it leaks into traffic, the graphic circumstance. 

But …

a soul goes hungry, for too long, it builds a creature, it makes for all or nothing.

To speak it moves me, to practically forfeit life, to give a care—to say it politely.

The charm of desperation.

 

The picture is foggy; we knit quilts, spirit crochets, to dismount as we gallop. Sweet lamentation. Witness to shoulders.

Deeper into self’s pasture, formed in the bowels of religion.

 

Birds made lavender. Sky providence. To have adored in passing what hurts more.     

Training Is Forever

 

Most things are difficult. Some are mundane. Others remain uncanny. 

 

I remain one catching up.

 

The sound strikes a response. Thunder seems with motive. Who can understand—God’s music? 

 

If it becomes life, I endorse life, despite the notwithstanding. 

 

I ate what I understood. I embraced what aches. I forfeited what seemed destructive.

 

Last to claim omniscience. First to be quiet. Most of life is middle grounds.

 

Learning was strenuous. Receiving was a challenge. Abstracts served as asphalt. And loving seemed esoteric—like it required hidden talents—like needing ethic convictions, moral appetite, whereas, most seemed to sail, moved by waves, upset with tides. I’ve meaning in meaning, with sins at the gate, pondering many headed intuitions. Seeing souls in predicament, many managing their station, to imagine we need, at moments, a kind gesture. I remain one catching up. If it becomes life, I endorse life, despite the notwithstanding.

 

It would seem unlikely if one waxed with charm—it belongs to souls to make assessments, with nights speaking mysteries, an affectionate thunder, or an infectious wonder, with time always debating its motives; purity of soul, an unending journey, desperate to feel right, to get closer to clarity, in becoming a mix of creatures, confounded at times, life becomes the sphinx—and it chills me, to imagine caution disputed as paranoia—in a land framed by deceptions.  If it becomes life, I endorse life, with more to understand, with some level to engrave, filled as wings open, life has released a little numbness. 

 

Most things are difficult. Some are mundane. Others remain hermetic. 

 

I am with notice of a given fact, the soul of one is with skies.

 

I remain one catching up.

 

In life, a soul gravitates towards itself, its calling; the writer to ink, the lyricist to rhyme, the doctor to medicine, the love of family—to children. One is rich in incipience. One is found exquisite in arts. One has culture. These come by correctness. Beginnings as ultimate science, regarding a given rationale, an understanding, embedded in a long line or preparing members of a given relation. Indeed, it’s more to understand. 

 

Last to claim omniscience. First to be quiet. Most of life is in between.

Poet Industry

 

By flickering sunshine, a sweet tooth, framed in fire, to have adored like living is good. Too much to assert it, on a bad day, to see spirits, and I swore I heard her voice. 

 

I would kiss a forehead, lay an angel to rest, the crib was with a few items. 

 

He pointed to a poetic gem—a rose in a crevice, surrounded by asphalt—this is Blackness, color, pain, beauty of science, reasons to war. 

 

I wonder about it, tropical gorgeous, to hear parakeets, to palm a harmless, colorful spider. I wonder what painless feels like, no remnant, no recourse to it—just pure peace, if but a moment, no recollection of sorrows. It was like that. It was early on. Memories are void of pictures, void of sensations, enjoying life. It could be heaven, an earlier age, but speculation is metaphysical. We deal with here, now, as children, running through hallways, laughing, eating breakfast, looking at parents. 

 

There is a chase taking form—each poet racing, composing, tentacles & blades of grass; if to succeed, if to become the best, so high an ideal, so unreal, & we chase. Becoming creatures of wars, nothing negative, just seeing differently—a good piece—& they question our sanity. 

 

I like to read your work. I could barely smile, barely laugh, just in trance. I couldn’t lie. I saw rain. I saw humor. They competed with each other. 

 

Don’t fret! I’m chasing. I haven’t given up. 

Best Of What’s Been Enjoyed

 

It’s never enough. To feel implacable. 

It’s complaisant at its gallica.

Trying an edge; leaning into hedges. To battle instincts, share woes, pining

aside distance. 

Evermore by love; shunning

nightmares—crocheting parts,

aloft a spell, it’s not rosy, it drills by

ingress. 

Sanctified spirits; 

the music is suffering. It’s a tired

road.

Sweat & rashes; nerves & guts; ironic laughs.

If it would never its weather, why call

for a storm? 

Selfish surrendering, slanted horizons,

calligraphy on the first page.

All day. Pure redundancy. To have a 

feeling at expectancy, those sylvans 

are irrelevant. 

Knowing wellness, it looks different

than this; 

knowing barriers, they look 

similar to this; 

raw flesh, skin beneath nails, 

souls at doorjambs, 

streetcars, absence, another dam. 

It’s never enough. At best, spirits

are appeased. 

Memories

 

You would bathe in cold water. I thought it was odd. You asked for bathing, touching, both scientific, enjoying passions, discussing religiosity—as spiritual magnets. You were in your fourth-year of college, I was in my third decade of trauma. We knew of liaisons. We glazed over them. We agreed to conditions. You performed a part. You loved to perform in parts. We never asked much, dialogued about anything, sweat & philosophy. Neat martinis. Wines with ice. When youth was fantastic. Months passed. You needed to renew our terms. I met another. She was quick to life. I was smitten. You had a lover—across the street, he’d come over as I pulled away: curbs & rules, dice & flames, arts & miseries. We were never so stern, never so believable, never so certain—as to let life go, to forfeit existence, to dance—parched & dehydrated. So casual about tomorrow. In love with today. To never enter you. To hear a tale. It was all to infuriate the poet. I wrote in passing those days. Life was thunder in those waves. I hear footsteps. I see color. I rejoice in understanding—those arms reached, they played cello, they redeemed time.

Upon Sky Wealth

 

Life is never enough, soot & chimneys, dirt & remorse—to happen upon crucifixion, weighed by woes, refrained in joys. California, a different type of sin, wells of indifference, alienation, gins & portals. 

With embarrassment—terrific pains, shame & chains, desperate at points, if to feel admired in those regions; 

deep abuses, framed in another’s eyes, to picture another’s experience—it mustn’t be horrific, but a little pain might lend to weathers. 

Life seems too difficult to meet her, too much terror to avoid her, wrapped in her, listening to innuendoes: filled with passions, unrelenting choices, pulled with sway, with tides, falling into sandcastles. 

If to locate her—if to feel French, such naivety in each poet—it keeps flickering flames. 

Fireflies at a flashlight. Kites in deep turquoise. A kiss upon a swing. 

So much the fever. So grand the delight. With rumors suggesting one loves life.  

Brevity of an Impression

 

We pay for experience, listening to wisdom, made wiser upon a challenge. Aside myself, intense memories, and Love spoke; so far away, to happen upon nearness, to feel in sequence. I can’t imagine what time is, we call it by increments, to supersede space, eloquence, & arts. I spent days in a glance, awakened but resting, seeing better parts of tomorrow: those deer lakes, deeper intuition, to imagine something free, aligned, immortal—those eyes, to have certain thoughts, to realize, if smitten, nothing matters. 

Alas, it takes from itself, bleeding identity, warring its very nature. Those years ache, they weep, and no one quite fathoms dependence. I can’t preach it, as if life wasn’t motion, as if there wasn’t goodness—of dearer dreams, creative crafts, angelic airs; too sense as it awakens, to feel like essence, reminiscing upon adamant lines—fraught by pressures, ashamed of imperfection. I noticed death in excellence, no grander insecurity, stressed to make things better.

Wellness of soul, a wish into a scar, a life with mysteries. To walk further, tugging by lightning, reading thunder: avoided, etched, life seems so short.  

Aligned In Sunrise

 

I’ve little more understanding, cupping soil, letting time heal, as it wills. Convenient mercy, fretting the good mourning, afraid dying is viral. I’ve known excellence, in a sinning moment, most repenting perception, the badness, internalized. Love requires openness, melting glaciers, unclutching the rain. I’ve admitted folly—struggling to redeem my face, asking for what humans can’t give: utter clarity, cleansing of souls, memories altered, etched, erased. When tides ebb, and skies are gray, I surrender my appetite; sore serenity in sin, to have glory in its trial, with so much between deaths—those dreary eyes, a fret in pains, to giggle at naturality—those harping souls, those headless ghosts, sweating, smoldering, desert affections, desert love. To have completion, in a given second, to watch it pass on by. Debating you shouldn’t be rule. Loving you should be stars. Upon a gallica, in a dream, to possess some part as it escapes. I’d adore if it meant eternity, void of sights, only indebted to passions—living as it dies, cursed as it lives, aligned in sunrise. To see hills, halcyon mountains, deer leaping, coyotes watching; all by a feeling, nothing forfeited, life arranged to proceed.   

Unappreciated

 

I think it’s taken for granted.

I think one has her life.

The sickness of the flight, and parents have to leave.

I was distraught, filled with pressure, I stopped at one’s perch, I was asked to leave.

Not much for mercy, searching out mercy. 

I vanished. I ran faster. I leaped. 

Many would doubt. Many would reject animus. 

I wanted her, like going blind, a problem for life.

Maybe off a leash, begging like feeble, denied like incredible. 

I hear one in silence, those ripples flood a pond, those geese just watch. 

So amazed at Love, reading herself, ignoring her essence.

I tried to laugh, amidst a nightmare, and mother died.

I’m filled with eczema—nerves bleeding, to guess at 

a smile.

It was hellish. No need to feel badness. One never knew. 

To gather berries. To enter a winepress. To dispute those few wires.

Honestly, I imagined eternity, so astute to it, feigning distraction, the wealth is the bloodshed. 

I give one to herself. I hope it’s ecstatic.

Becoming Mystic

 

Amazingly dark, into her screams, aside his absence; seated near a sandcastle, eating dirt, looking at dearth.

 

They would if they could; to speak ethics, morals, we lived theology in God’s City. 

 

They would silence hurting, making it normal, where a soul internalized it, expecting nothing different. 

 

Amazingly dark, mentally surreal, epoch by its heritage; cull us from darkness, re-color color, so damned, so significant.

 

By power to find life. By too much familiarity to feel empty. By Love to rejoice.

 

He says his senses fooled him. I know that feeling.

 

If tamed inside, most delicate deaths, if untamed, most harsher deaths, deaths nonetheless. 

 

I’ve sat in many rooms, bulbs flickering, seated where souls placed me; to hear oneself, this was motive, to stop thinking.

 

To bring life to its brink, to understand fear, to know self might destroy its carcass; by irony, the thinking entity, to unthink what 

 

was thought. To rethink motivation, as realized in searching, to imagine what one was looking for;

 

an abstraction, made concrete inside, experience as fate, a subtle argument.