Halo

 

To become a halo, a furious nimbus, prayed through eternity; edged to die, fleeing ghosts, a name in the Kingdom. An angelic star, winking at atmosphere, those with it, praise it. Blessed with beauty, artistic cries, reaching to cast a blessing. Digging deeper. Life is never enough. A driven spirit. A career woman. A mother. A wife. Fraught by saving grace. Faithful to intestines, at love with passion, infused by infinity. To get close to Awe—is to feel Awe’s sentimentality—such writhing at points, gripping one’s guts, hunched over, saliva pouring out, tears dropping, forehead moist with sweat, a humble cry! To have experience! 

 

An inversion by addiction, needing Christ, an effusion into the universe—most radiant creature, surefire incandescent, suffering the greater joys. (Why do we speak that way?) 

 

We would watch miracles, as profound souls, treading valleys, seated at the King’s table. To have solemnness—a deeper secret, a furtive element, a fireball racing through atmosphere; the risk for God, an anxiousness, all one desires. To become a halo, separated by nature of it, deserted it might seem, listening for a small whisper.

Centerpiece Topaz

 

It was a beginning, ignorance sinning, lots of laughs & grinning. It was immaturity.  

 

Spectacular endeavors. Caged wishes. Caves fraught by artifacts. We learn to soar. We learn to sing. We learn to feel miserable, by trade, not by choice.  

 

I could if time permitted. We’ll grow older, some with grandchildren, we’ll die holding to orison. Tales told, feelings blight, too much wisdom to fret. As phrenic creatures, looking at brightness, seeing its darkness. One furious river.  

 

It wasn’t supposed to go this way. Poetry has a mind of its own. It turns corners, to bleats, ignorant of fate, days & nights made a blur. 

 

Something is mourning, battles inside, to have become everything one loathes. That terrible second, in passing a mirror, such a tragic witness.  

 

They call it turned out. 

 

Let all souls exclaim: I have meaning. 

 

It’s easy to become resentful. If it brings life, it will be exhausted—

 

Those dreams hebetated … millions on a Rose … painted by traumas. 

 

When it rains, when in gores, through pain a man lived … through misery, a book was written. Those implications, imprints, to have adored pure affliction, it becomes mythical.

 

To harass until one flips out, the grit of dawn, morning of its star. Never reaching happiness.  

 

A cursed man is an awakened soul. The girt of insanity, the pith of lunacy, as sane as William James.

 

But a name uttered, is an appeal made, we become skeptical. 

 

Skies fill with hopes. Days warring the same damn wall. 

 

Like it never lets up. Like it has an agenda. Like it needs the filth of its palms. 

 

Caught in his sin, wedged afar, product of his nature, blessed for suffering. Fire of the castle, drained in aches, to laugh out lunacy.

Interior Observer

 

It gets heavy—what was God thinking? He had a plan. She knew how to dance. Expecting much more from us. High hopes. Higher spirits. I was liquored up. I tried sobriety. It aches. Nonetheless, it continues to ache.     I met myself, it was wonder, a soul mirroring unconsciousness. All day in society, listening, watching, wondering how we got there. Rare creatures.     Life is glory for some, I have to believe that.     Too many categories, such simplicity, such profundity in some souls.     One minute snapping a picture, another second as pallbearer, another second trying to address his mother. Of course, she hated existence.      Something positive—goodness keeps its badge, a poem draws a tear, a passing image culls a vision. Indeed, most aren’t aware, I wander on God’s Claims, asking, why some are more affected? Yes. I run a risk. Nevertheless, many are occupied by sex, money, eating, or all the above; others seem sullen, moved by inner portals, trying to locate joy, she seems to run, she seems to cherish a certain lot. Many disrupted by the inconsequential, more self-chained, needing a nudging, if receptive. Nonetheless, all are existential, nothing is trivial, just some are occupied by life, others, pains, many all the above. Good sex, good eating, good money, & deeper darkness. By flame to vent to those reading, by gusts to float, by aches to convey perspective.    

Infatuation

 

I catch chills upon mention of a name. Steep into silhouettes, searching pictographs, silent, like nothing hurts. Each canvas holding potential, rewriting brains, inner atmosphere splayed across skies. I’ve adored what I can never have. I’ve worship God begging forgiveness. To have loved like wildness, upon a curse, sin tasting marvelous. A soul as it lives; a spirit as it dies; looking at you has become quite painful. A round of infatuation, a grimace to dispel, a few years of fantasies—filled with passion, fraught by liquids, asking in a dream for permission to cry. All sorts of ailments. All sorts of deliverance. If untold, longing in shadows, a kiss would exhilarate illusion. To lie to myself, to imagine a perfect person, so much in my favor. By sweetness of sweat, by dripping cisterns, to have located deaths—smaller increments, beautiful panic, an inner seaquake. Let’s believe—a few are making incredible passion; let’s believe—it never dies; indeed, let’s believe to continue existence. You’re out of heaven, a dear performance, prurient & in control. It comes by nature, cellos for candor, excellence seeming easy; faced in an edifice, a soul rebuilt, years at dying gracefully. 

Dormant

 

When lights become liquids, a child was born. Stressed out, until it matters more. A slight disturbance, and bouncing back, before another ruse. Any soul trying to make it, will face walls. Appetites grow. I never seen her before. Some strangeness there. A form, most formless, when time grows legs. So aesthetic! A soul calls to itself. Trying to carve an ore—whose to blame? Wanting to gaze forevermore. 

If to lose all senses, to desire with intensity, upon a first glance—the kaleidoscope souls’ passion.

It’s a shame, never steady. It’s sheer pain, ever a charging. Never a sight. As ever a sight. Dreams are killing us.

Too tamed for many, what have they to offer? 

It stirred something dormant. 

Beneath veneer, removed curtains, to face a demon, to haunt an angel. 

When tales are told, we speak of such souls, we never say what we’re lusting after. 

Ashes & Paint

 

I know for winning, agaze, life has built its empire. Never knowing immediacy. Never completely complete. So foreign to souls, allotted three maxims, wondering if God is confused. Threatened in it, pushing passed it, it angers itself. To be with age, charmed to have thrived, a little too consumed. (I know for losing, detached remnants, the last shall fall in line. And loving has been lethal, rain as it plummets, earth as she submits. Fire of a kiln, so discontent, froth, ice, & flame.) Too casual for some, head first into pains, to look back & apologize for fury. (Days losing it, memories kissing, tender upon an aching heart; to disagree, to feel denied, wondering what two are flushed about.) Softer colors, rainbow pigmentation, as distinct & clear absence—from promises, from self, running to escape back—to a time, with wings, all were souls of fires. When spirits come together, when trust is pivotal, aside a furnace—shedding tears; a child saying courage, an indecent awakening, a soul sewn into fabrics—love of its sin, days of its love, if it went well, every time, what are we talking about? It seems green to souls, it seems blue to jazz, it seems life is losing, love is winning, despite welkin clamps. By habits, by dreams, by flames. Upon broken skies, fevered by forever, drowning imperfections—to have specialness, to evolve in a second, to look back & scream, nothing matters. A fool for his pen, an art for her rain, a seed blooming into a diamond.    

Apologetics

 

Same healing process, if it sticks, oh’ paramour. To imagine more than activated. To die a smidgen, running from your soul, desperate along dry desert—ache of its past dynamic—to render an answer to calling a woman holy; some grander schematic, akin to stigmata, as if a man was intentionally obtuse. When a soul witnesses another soul, to admire a spirit, one thinks of no greater thing—to believe it’s universal … to alike a soul to something holy, as ultimate appraisal … never as an insult. A soul would rather be vicious, deadly esteemed for unreachable beauty, an aesthetic disaster. Indeed, jesting is lethal, love is burgundy, to have located a gem. Such demure, though sassy, every time a soul goes out upon a cliff—met with mystery, some cherish such an identity, those more advanced, wished to be addressed as Individuation. Same dress, different church. Most genteel of creatures, most refined of doves, there one goes again. What should a soul say? There are many considerations. If being a gentleman, one is limited. If being a cad, one is hated, to a degree, let souls be souls, we say. If timid, Love passes by. It must be meant, & in contradiction to existence, a soul calls another holy. The pain of a withering rose—arts of an autistic child, whispers of a mystic stream; in decent appeal, to assert, it becomes what in hell it desires, as a thief in his night, as a queen in her castle.   

A Child’s Glossary

 

Trying to find new spirits. Trying to make it to the picnic. If its written. We keep looking at the big book. 

 

I was dipped in water. I was made promises. I’m here to cash in. 

 

A soul of God’s, chasing clouds, mire made murky—one sturdy mirror.

 

I’d never forfeit it, too long running, the target is Christ—

upon a vacuum, palming velocity, feeling verified.

 

There it extends, unto rebels, announcing shared veins—lost in a sandstorm;

 

mind becomes a large church; it requires definition. 

 

So viral, thrust through, aside a warrior queen.

 

Alive by sight, a cemetery of bones, a prophetic word, sudden construction, sudden sinews.

 

Legendary spirits keep returning. Life is scorching. A jar of essence. Living by faith. Ape strength. Gorilla presence. 

 

What was that lady’s name? 

 

We swore we saw Jesus. The mind will obsess unto a vision appears. The mind is stronger than elements. 

The heart has music.

 

I should tell a story—this is true prose.

 

There was a child, looking to skies, & he disrespected God. His life was hell, he didn’t know why God would do that. Another kid heard him, ran to his mother: “Your son said he hates God.” 

“Come here! Go to your room.” 

 

The child went to his room, seated alone, thinking harder than normal. He swore he heard something. He couldn’t make it out. It appeased him. 

 

We know claims. We doubt them. The child, we’d say, was under pressure. What did he hear? 

 

We chew up such assertions. We break them down to possibilities vs. probabilities.

 

And what do we see?    

Inverting Ideals

 

I carry you. I try to discard you. You appear. You disappear. It was incautious works. People make errors, to affect others.

Music gentle into wonder. Calming summer inside. Someone pushing keys, ending sentiments, a desire for untraditional precepts. 

To believe in one direction, where it isn’t true. Or fevered & ill in one area, while condemned & scattered in another area. 

To see it eating atmosphere, hydroplaning upon brains, another with laughter in her breath: I could never upon a storm.

I carry you. I try to discard you. You appear. You disappear. It was improper works. One must contend with inclination. One must learn, if possible, to see what others will do. 

Jazzy arts. Renaissance pains. Ambition works against itself, always open to more. For these reasons, a soul releases ideals: a soul trying desperately is sickened, a soul disregarding tradition, precepts, adopting new ones, is living. 

We might suggest a rule because it gives leverage, never observing unsaid rule. In complaining one seems unsteady. No one is listening. 

Wheels turn. No one is interested. Good souls die early (inside). 

A spirit learns to dance. He becomes a machine. Souls become alarmed. With so many skeletons playing blues. 

To have said so little, in discussing so much.    

A woman will start off with ideals, study wedding magazines, & sing gently into skies: we ask, what took place? What changed?

Human interaction. No need in complaining. 

Souls are fighting for ideals. They give meaning. The wires are oiled. The performers are tired of failing. 

Performers are sharing instincts, silencing chimes, turning on the Great Scribbler.  

Boots & Laces

 

I’ve thought it out, I’d assume, so decently lost. Violent flogging, steep in lowness, seeing a shoulder, eyes, & a smile. So natural, to hear it, so normalized, so outrageous. Keeping pain company, not out of pride, it just feels like life. You came to me, a feeling by design, we spoke in undercurrents. It means what it means. It’s super to correlate an emotion. Blue-green water, starfish, a little island far away—trying to capture infinity. Clutching life, coming by guts, a nation in limbo. (We play a game, we pretend we see, and we pretend what we see is false.) Like foolish people. I’ll never absorb it as it’s imagined. It doesn’t exist. With life becoming ideals. With disappointments driving stability. With life becoming letters. I’ve thought it out. I’ll never touch you, forced to endure you—life as it strikes. Upon a lily, water bees, locusts, a city of beliefs—to die forever, to live a day, coming out of seeds. Never to see it. Fraught by it. Trying to exist by something else; too much forbidden, too great an infraction, with souls in a complex. Can’t go low alone. Can’t rise high alone. We specialize in needing what causes a little rain. Out of greed to desire entirely—a spirit as it screams, clawing gods, evoking paradise.  

Gray Feelings

 

An argument inside, a mirror with petals, what lurks behind eyes—craving essence, a slight haunt, feeding geese in dreams. 

More rain, deserts flooded, mongoose abandoned; a miracle needed, a scar deferred, if altruism would sing. 

It comes by a riddle, challenged when seen, no one measures another; it will be difficult, blame human nature, blame, in private, a few spirits.

We esteem concrete roses, to discuss harsher weather, unaware of future mistakes. Leaning into a conundrum, favored they seem, never quite with facts. 

If it lives, holds composure, it must be different. 

They have concluded for all; this is an error. 

Upon a whisper, deep into a ravine, a raven has matured; if it would to its inversion.

An argument inside takes precedence. 

We do things to get under each other’s flesh—most remarkable. 

I didn’t ask for it. It just came.    

  

II

 

We might object to one saying we. I’ll focus on that.

With life being empty, filled with preciousness, it’s not enough; to find one, seeming in a groove, seeming topaz, it might curve an inner argument.

We never romanced.

We never thought it.

Displeased another found solace. 

Upon a hill, halcyon grass, lakes made beauty, aside an inner sensation. 

We thought about it, holding to home. 

Higher mountains, absurd beauty. 

Understanding never spoken, slights to guts, because one isn’t filling the excitement. 

Trees unto celestial gardens, nights studying freedoms. 

Jasper soil, muddy sunflowers, upon a gray thought. 

It will become what it’s destined to be. 

With no one laying claim to responsibility.

Enthralled Completely

 

When life is growling      art is begging.     Time is distorted.     Know by presence.

Valleys ache & writhe.     By design I suppose. Mathematical hearts, wild hornets. 

     They determined liquor is a depressant. To suppose lowness isn’t medicinal. I find we live & respond by feelings. I thank God for the training.      Streetcars are running up & down Louisiana. Kites are being crafted in India. True trespasses are by airs, winds, aside sandcastles. 

     On a Northern Shore, a baby was born underwater. Beauty is taking place. 

     Note pads are filled by ideas. Pain hurts & inverts, no deeper feeling. I have backed away. I have left myself. Something is unrelenting. It doesn’t care who suffers. It’s a line unto a thread unto physicality, near invisibility.     I can’t shake it. Too many years with it. It seems uncanny, while uncouth.     Something, a link in the universe, it will find you, it will haunt you, without a remedy. You will become resentful. You will have nothing for that person. And she will appear. Of course, she has no idea of this plaguing, it would be strange to hear, with a true warrior enduring his lot.     At moments, clarity is specific. Nothing is tied to a stream. Reality is right there.     Just plain wrong.     By emotion to soar across a continent, to arise in Africa, to sail passed Portugal     to become a member of one’s thoughts.     She will pass gently into darkness, & never know one was pining through miseries.     I imagine others are gifted, to peruse feelings, to articulate pains; beauty of suffrage, memes inside, fretting you, knowing you have life, rugs dirty if I present self.      I suppose quixotic delusions, if I give in, wondering why God is playing this piano.     Why death is essential?     To happen upon literature, unaware of specifics, just feeling God’s pricking.     Just wanted complete detachment.    

Mimic of Time

 

Easy arts fly by winds, like kitsch, like a wafting kiss. 

To imagine fears for love, to imagine it could summer time, founded upon a volt.

The compound giggles, we might celebrate.

Hoping upon irony, satire kicking goads. 

So confused over it, like a damn fool. 

 

I was absent motion, to catch a chill, Love unveiled—

attached until it gets better.

 

I imagine a book, highly esteemed, a new, beneficial friend. 

On some sky, life & roses. 

 

To forget me. To fly unto heaven.

 

I wish it. May it happen. One worthy. 

 

“Give it to God.”

 

Perception. Does it change? Indeed, it must.

 

I thought about you, so sick of holiness … needing certain treatment. What is it about being holy? Some die for it. Some refute its life. Others run from it … if but a little … if but a fantastic lover. I alter perception. I chide myself. I flog my spirit. I hear it, sheer mesmerism. 

 

You strike through galaxies, seated with a book. 

There’s something taking place, I fathom why it becomes sensuous. 

It’s written: spirituality is alike to sexuality. 

 

You chance on a cave. You peek in. You keep in contact. 

Musing

 

Life is love, innuendos, discretion & imperfections. In admiring Love, holding back from Love, I got to meet Love. She is self-conscious, watching herself, subtle insecurities, science of a scent. I 

 

have watched myself, seeing her response, the way it moves life. And loving affectation, trekking the great bridge, arriving late, asking for refilming. Some interior cinema, wading through seas, 

 

outliving ourselves. Cupid cries, begging Love, arts under-siege. To have met you, dreaming as we do, made perfect in imperception. To say something consequential, kneeling by suppositions, 

 

passion while it wrangles. By fierceness, thunder inside, days are filled by hertz. To plead with a shadow, imprinted by anima, fretting the great darkness. It was magic meeting you, it was casual 

 

glances, aggressive intangibility, leading to discontent & conscienceness. You take the helm, reaching for heights, cosmos & winds. It was easy ignoring rites, it was hell to renegotiate 

 

passions, it was laughter to see such stumbling. I wish for perfection, the one in silence, an art in the rain it sips. 

Contemporary Psalm

 

Upon spoken word—to unleash heaven—to subdue hell.

“I am exulted for Love.”

I would add—fear, a need, designed to pine for You.

A man died loving You. I presume he won You. 

“Souls are repaid by their very hands, their deeds, aligned by mercy. 

I first died that I Am!” 

Inside lives a bullhorn, a phone, an abstract answering machine. 

“I have spoken to you.” 

I wasn’t listening. Now that I do: You stand aloof. 

Vindicated, it would assume, still faced by privilege, still wresting phantoms.

  “You were delivered.”

You were worshiped.

Your name never shall perish. 

Even sin in with Your honor. 

We shared bread. We drank wine. Have You 

partaken of Yourself? 

“Your despair is with you: Would you contend

with Creation?”

I would ask as downtrodden, so disturbed

in me: Why hath I little understanding? 

Why would You give me darkness? 

Why are we downcast—Why do we wail 

In Psalms? 

A song, Father! An endless song! What is 

its motive? 

Why have You saved me? to make of soul

a byword? 

Who is this woman? Is she a child of yours?

Why have we crossed paths? What is the 

mystery? 

So stirred, hand & pen, art, soul, spirit & 

arc—Oh’ Deliverer, companion of us both:

Will You watch it? 

Winds ruffle. Tumbleweed dances. Joy 

seems to come by repercussion. 

And into a space, aloes, cassia, digging into self, myrrh, & Caleb, his spirit.

“You have us.” Who is she? I sense antiquity. “You mind you, & I will mind you both.” 

If pride is taken into it, if great joy is rendered, shall we be punished?

“What is written?”

Dear Lord,

 

I was introduced to You & I loved sight unseen. I was initiated into Your Kingdom, & I asked few questions. How is it I came back to You, after not knowing You? You have appeared in sparks. You have dwelled in spirit. You have flickered in flame. You have confounded me, baffled my soul, addled my heart. I come to You confused, to the distortion of my countenance, & You went deeper, moving through catacombs, making a maze of me. You are Father, the deer pant at the streams, listening to Your Melody. You are a Bulwark, a Rock in times of trouble. Into those valleys, shadowed by death, You prepare a meal for me before mine enemies. You make my cup overflow. And no weapon formed against me shall prosper. But I remember Job, the provocation, a point proven: Would You do likewise to me? Is Love of Father, & Love of Son sufficient enough? In debating myself, my face contorted, my heart dwelling low, to wrangle my mind, to think of high thoughts, too profound for mortals. To know boundaries on Love, to sense a Shoulder, to ache & writhe in agony—needing something more than intensity; so carnal I am, such weakened faith, to need God to vet him or herself. I will retreat, I will that You increase.

Hearth Seaquake

When it erupts, it disturbs harmony. It takes time to get back to self, walking a frozen ocean, trekking glaciers. Asunder winds. Plucked feathers. Minds wailing with concern. No matter how close I get, I can’t get close enough. 

It’s an uphill traipse. The fields are barren. Those tides are wretched.

I wrote a letter by ink. I told the tale. I placed it in an envelope. I stamped it. I went to mail it, & time stood in stillness. I tore it up. I betrayed the future. 

Strumming she says. Those forgotten seconds, as they meant life.

Into meadows, pausing at creeks, jarring various bugs. Fireflies are out. They flock around lamps. Never close enough—until it’s over. 

Thrumming skies. Depth of what’s unfelt. Reluctant to sing. 

Upon a few mistakes, debating how it came, insecure in a few hopes.

 

Debating Forests

 

Miles ahead are butterflies & dreams. 

It’s late during evening, crickets are talking. 

Birds chirp their language; they settle in trees.

Snails try to make across sidewalks, kids on

Bikes are cruel.     “Hold your heart,” hold

Your soul. It’s painful because it’s close to God.

Sky lungs. Marble winds. Those that gallop!

By daylight to see faces. By light to feel joy.

We’re speaking truth; we’re hurting more; by

Beauty of agony; by grace of an artistic depth.

Miracles flood spirits: gallicas upon leaves, 

Warming shame, in trying to cleanse intestines. 

Bended knees, path of ancestors, wisdom & ink;

To exhaust prayer, sweat beeding up, the brink. 

Cathartic Gusts (Co-Vid Fever)

 

To have breath undefiled, to have existence, to know namaste. In being a monk, a nun, a soul; in making waves, celebrated in California, lower plains, debris, rereading excellence. Remaining elusive, or made concrete, upon an abstract guitar—sheer music, explosive angst, to have touched with trepidation; to have located gnosis, to have dined with ethos, by hectic life, by 

 

gravid faith, in-for-out those winters. Enter my dreams, echoing, smiling, exhausting anger—to have life, why should another suffer, those visions into a pool of wonder? It really matters less, she does not live for you, he does not live for others; abstract destinations, greed of faith, clutching eternity; freely we exist, freely we passion life, reluctantly we pass over—dismissing 

 

our days, 

 

battling reality, harder lives, uneasy about leaving. In the need for what he didn’t fathom, the art of the machines, to realize the understanding of what he needs, her life in ghosts, her prints in phantoms, her nights typing his guts; golden shadows, webs & gossamer, a palm holding a spirit, a spirit holding a soul, to have life in its disguises. We speak about sages & sagebrush; we do art 

 

& pain; our days are fraught by diamonds, noise, lust & needing; greater souls divest the souls of their splinters. Nothing is said of those dice, gray language is enticing, too much beauty is held accountable; thread of my soul, swimming with powers, what happens when we grow immune? What person is next? To have offered eternity, (a little intrusive on my part), but still, to have 

 

offered eternity, only to walk away, was it worth it? The math is a monster: she dines on emptiness, full of research, needing what peters out, for self is growing exponentially; maybe sentimental, (I don’t know),

maybe I do—nevertheless, (echelon), it struck a chord: Could one explain anything far removed 

 

from skies and ladders and coats made of finer furs?

To suck self into a ball, to ensure nothing leaks out, to take all and give nothing—for he can’t be trusted, or he’s dangerous, or, I am him. 

Back to something found precious, days with kindness, artistic secernment—reminiscing on

 

Moses, asking for Aaron, mad at Miriam – to pause & return, to live & assume dying, so oldened, ancient, with familiar skills, a knowingness, a scripture, warning against such a person—myself. 

To feel as one appears. Her afternoons watching notes, drinking water, running a treadmill, trying 

 

to play it calmly; a soul is interesting, could never get closer, it just doesn’t have that to it. Indeed, new skills develop, new destinations evolve, to decide in art – semi-appreciation – debate – trauma – healing – etc.

In saying he felt some element, he runs the risk of never feeling another element. In being

 

diligent, careful as we are, we might overthink it, for it gives life to overthink it. 

It matters more today. It means something more. In being patient, she strikes against clouds, she sips fruit juice, she pauses. He can never measure another. She can measure him. The question is surrounded by correlation. (It would be ironic if they needed each other. (Bear with it.) The first 

 

rounds stipulated that neither one of them can be trusted with each other’s emotions. In the need, it would be excruciating). Indeed, overthinking it. 

Souls move through prisms. We forgive until it erupts again, as reminded of infraction for some reason. However, what if she is trained, at best, (Friends), on par with her initiatives, she runs the 

 

show. Would he pardon the trespass? If by chance they never solidified ultimate war, and by chance started to fit in somehow, with all properties intact, nothing defiled, on her terms, would that be sufficient enough? A soul speaks to something. A spirit is keen. Neither challenges the soul nor spirit, but the pain, to smooth things out, as two are destined by healing.   

A Tribute to Silence

 

 

We broke silence, anxious in traffic, our parents, those messages, our terrors. A linchpin made of platinum, a soul made of geranium, spirits riding pendulums—habitual winds, dizziness, palatial ambitions.

 

Remaining by course, sacred as death, tombs aside caskets. The face with muscles, the pain with leniency, such as it would live. Catlike cries, drifting dogwood, abused tendencies, to craft survival, lasting as it dies, a fret in bones, pure deception of self. To taste it. To envelope it. To feel guilty. Most have a life. Most never debate it. God gave us a conscience. Even a subtle chide runs into deepness. To have adored it, to walk away from it, it seems unlikely. Nevertheless, Love is close to skies, a flower upon a cloud, famished for perfections. So many graves, such as caves in psyches, a bell as it rung, and no one heard it. A clutch filled with angst, and no one knew it. Or terrified, all to loneness, confronted by an attack. When a body turns against its senses. Nor abated—this life—a brain steady at the helm. Total silence. 

 

What was it? The trauma of the artist. I can’t imagine neither dying nor living forever. What are we fighting for? “Length of treasures.” Immortality? “Yes!”

 

A thread permeates us, a loving affects us, with stillness feeling alone; it was said, a soul hungers for closeness, its first mother, its stern father, drifting through galaxies, until it finds closure, thus, even when loved, adored, it feels a sort of emptiness.  

Gentle Nudging

 

Youth is for good times. It shouldn’t hurt. I was taking flight into some memories—those days, they paint ecstasy, seeming boring, before pains registered. I imagine more the nights in discussion. I sense more a disconnection: raindrops gentle in a storm, crickets, a living room full of red robbins. It was bad at times; it was good at times. To have such a dance, to hold such a palm, to believe in existence—notwithstanding the tragic existential. One second & sadness seeps in: whispers of yesteryears, undercurrents, kicking foliage—autumn was near, fantasy was looming, I called self a fantast: enthused glances, unenthused responses, how souls shift in memory; it never had wings, it never soared skies, it never frightened planes—time together, shadowed as it was, so much of life attacking; a mere kid, in an adult world, placing so much upon a given moment. To wonder at seconds, those sad seconds, miserable intuition, for it settled in dissatisfaction; to ponder those good times, arguing, neglected, curious, finding wilderness. If a sad second occurs, in a lit living room, seated at a piano, send a gentle nudging.  

Walls

 

The walls have gravity. They rise higher. They permit silence.

We grapple with walls, groping concrete, immortal falls. 

Like adoring was easy chaos. Like dying meant death.

Many walls, skies full of fences, gates flitting into focus. 

It was decent, they say. It was familiar walls, they say.

I fear losing perspective, losing walls, flickering 

out.

The whole meal was uncouth; fragments of walls, symphonic gatekeepers. 

So much a dream aside me. So indifferent its dance.

I sense by tears, to see walls bypassed, a dry feeling, a whet resistance. 

In thinking what never formed: walls flickering.

To block out light, to pitch marbles, 

where one spray paints his walls. 

Drinking damp water. Rhapsodizing over blackdamp.

Nerves entwined in wires; Love pausing, poised, 

palms filled with hopes & memories;

violin rust—mental galaxies—gadgets for composure. 

Walls made of jazz; walls pictured in perfection; walls shredded by tenderness—a soul learns to divest himself—of memories, if & when.

Charismatic walls, Jeremiah’s Mirror, a mazeway, 

a curse.

Walls unloved, fantasy walls, vulgar walls … unedited walls.