Pegs & Links

 

Aside a zinnia, near a garter snake, sat petals. I clump grass, kneel to pick a feather, time has wings—those salvaged years, to redeem by insistence, to settle into mestizo: darkened passion, the holy lands, a soul facing himself: demon auras, area sound, variant depressions. I take courage, adrift in volume, to hear silence echo. Another is wise, prudent, dark talents & excellence. I remain mortal, sold to it, alive in its debates, threshed as ultimate challenge. I need to believe in us, to believe in goodness, to witness balanced behaviors. I won’t drop names—many had it, most miserable in private, contributing to Zeitgeist. I sense details. I paint maps. Eager it seems to locate what’s inside. Many live silent lives, reduced to Condition, tending to existence. 

Flowers Upon a Flower

 

 

I wasn’t when it was thought I was. In kindness a message is sent, a tender note, casual insistence. It amazes how we mince & mesh meanings; so in need, such curious souls, as we drift through realities. It is what it wasn’t intended to be; it breathes, she smiles, I gaze into her, I see it. So deeply in love with essence, core heartbeats, drums, certain ambiguous cadence. I have thought of flowers for over ten years; I have angered self in thinking about flowers. I never heard you; I was never made privy; I assumed you desired affection; I was confounded, sorrows abound; I sense now the begging, as it’s laid out, it meant to a needy soul more than it meant to reality. Let God be good; let meaning remain significant. 

 

The days belong to each other. They resemble each other. They have language, message & shadow. In thinking deeply, I felt a mind pang; in adoring the thought of poetry, you might deign to speak. It was beauty upon an image; it became hell upon a thought; such insignificance to each other. A whole life would change; begging the question, so grand a slippery slope. To posit some bizarre map, as two gaining closeness, with a feather between realities. To know a kindred soul, to see what I never see, to believe it’s enchanting. Most mediocre spirits, trying upon courage, fenced in by mundanity. So great a channel, flame into segue, too many flowers.    

Perfected

 

It feels like church, a song of contrition, a tale of perdition, memories of human examples.

I was running fast, the fields were full, it was dynasty;

we found laughs, buried in whips, hickory sticks—so far into a forgotten future; 

losing courtesy, the pains of a gentleman, the penalty of chivalry.

It feels like church: podium and pews, elders and youth, preacher and deacon. 

I can’t explain leaves, I can tell origin, but I can’t prophesy about leaves. This is life—looking for new ears, old ears are familiar, blasé, sipping truths.

I walk the lines of leaves. I crumble waterless leaves. I pluck plush leaves. I look to their trees, if to tell of origin, a 100-year-old cypress, rings inside, I hear they tell a story. 

It's morning simplicity. It’s baptism pains. We might take belief seriously. 

We might abide by faith. 

We might become insufferable. 

            We must watch out for segues. 

It feels like church is ending: hugs, cheek-to-cheek, palms held, religious language: “God is good!”

Ham hocks, neck bones, cornbread, greens, beans and pies. It feels like church.

            I was with spirit, traveling downhill, filled with transgression, outwitting my image. 

            There’s something to feeling perfected—in a world made to feel ugly.

River Sand

 

I should never wither, feeling wilted, blessed on one point, cursed as a gift.

I bled early on, I made intimacy at twelve, lost to California, loving the seas.

Years off. Watching silence. With the world flogging. 

It was easy to pass away, it was hard to resuscitate, most felt justified.

I trip off it, a soul held a twenty-year grudge, and never knew the person was manic. 

Love has design, percentage, we’re complex. 

I should apologize, in dealing with science, in all honesty, how to deliver words? 

We sense mechanics, we look for authenticity, we need to see some struggle.

With life coming into focus, with meaning seeming out of reach, with Love at some perspective. 

Big Picture debt. Ventriloquist pains. 

Such pantomime years … walking into a cave. 

So easy to walk away—unless non-permitted. 

Love will never know, those bent corners, a flurry of fantasies.

So filled, eating osmosis, spirit flaming—it meant much, soul eclipsed.

Love isn’t that sense, still compelling, ants form hills. 

It saddens to understand absence, to know it aches, so bleak, such reality, if necessitated, one might appear.

Years at it, getting better with seduction, too late.

Maybe on infusion, a dream we suggest, still some strange element … reading scrolls, trekking Dead Seas,

the river is filled with sand.  

We Gauge Attraction

 

No one to blame but self. And looking intently—to witness magic. The song is rich: What have we to give?

I was damaged at first, I was nearer to you in a second; to die existence, to push passed passion.

They will chuckle, a deeper anxiety than laughing. 

No one to tell you—it aches; thinking through motions, arriving home, seeing an image as it chances strife.

Life by strategy. Pain by rivers. 

I glance over at eye-contact. Sudden upon a shock. Walking away, disputing seduction.

The weather will change. We will ignore a second avalanche. Art as it says nothing, it winks in private, a feeling rising inside, dry as a bone.

I was born yearning, lost to waves, trying to return to our beginning: looking at you, I feel omega, praying to you, I feel abandoned, in essence, just waiting.

I know another, innocent pains, to put too much stock in her beauty. So dear a shallow grave, too deep—they run, to vulgar, they feel repulsed. 

It’s better to gravitate, to fall, to remember when pavement was sturdy. 

You’re a thought unconquered, persistent, with the world laughing at innocence.

Esoteria Origin

 

Such dear concentration, the line we trail, kicking rocks, listening to trains. I would imagine images, swayed by essence, to remember, it happens when we stop trying. I will never be as assumed, it isn’t me, I believe as I achieve—thrust through, begging in spirit, walking stalwartly, never to find the great weakness. Waiting no more, digging into self, I remember the infraction. How many years have passed? It was something in it, something deep inside, to demand accountability. Self-reflection is pivotal. Living to escape self. How far will it extend into insights? We walk alone, despite the myriad onlookers, filled with remorse, shame, retribution. Needing signs, even they abort us, it will never be as we presume it should be. Many of us are stubborn. To imagine a son was over punished, to imagine why he no longer repents. I’ll never meet you, you’ll be to your family, despite any type of inclination. But let’s be realer, it’s a manifestation of science, it gives life more than reality. Who cares about feeling it? It’s commonsense. What in hell are we hiding from? Like fucking kids. Either raw or nothing at all. A partway dance. Who in life pays attention?  

Unending Moons

 

I can’t redeem the time. To sense slipping away. The mind as it experiences, rules wrinkled. Two hate each other, no other two on earth. It might do damage; I hope we bounce back. Too much spirit, too many words. Years preying on a mantis. Lions ignoring gnats. Jerusalem known for grieving; Africa remains trespassed. The will to move further, the bounty on those souls. Why does it return to religiosity – why must two experience life? I imagine deeper sorrows, too much to walk away; and God might have a hand in it all. Thoughts facing beauty, aesthetics bleeding, depth and disaster; longing for clarity, nothing more, just clarity; and that’s too much. It becomes this: If one longs for it, someone will oppose it. It never comes without struggle, unmentionable resistance. When there is a flood, we build an ark; when there is a covenant, we select a witness; when we work seven years, we earn a wife. I ponder these things, given nothing for participating. In all honesty, it can’t help but frighten a soul. I’m not nosy, and still I wonder, what do people tolerate – how much pretend is in a given family? Such kindness—and sullen waves—with arts seeming like riddles. I live by – It isn’t my business. What do we do when one wants to be located, and tries hard to remain hidden? Heaven might be another trial, an uncanny event, more frustration. Maybe constant resistance gives a soul reason to live. It seems unreasonable. And it peters out, but only as a strategy. 

Spiritus

 

A voice by faith, amazed to have breath. Cadence of sunlight, wafting winds, to flit and scud across souls. Most tender of thefts, bereft of existence, to have travelled, to have returned. Victor of death, Father of mercies, adrift like gusts, coming as you exact life. So— tender the scar, filled with venom, cleansed by breath—harsh sunshine, sweltering heat, smoldering baptism. In loving you, in chasing you, we come to expect you. When thoughts are blue, the horizon orange, and far away, we see a rainbow, we marvel at your name. By understanding, of some exclusive dream, we envision feet of bronze. Granite made supernal, excellence made immortal, by far we sense when spiritus trickles; by assistance, nudging particles, provoked by girth—of word, music, undulation—those days waiting on prophecy, to hear as they prophesied, unaccustomed to reaching faith.     

 

Most intense segue, to speak of goodness, your arts coming into lights; you died so early on, it was pain glorified, to have trained with fervor, with zeal. A precocious seed, a menace in adolescence—sunshine Father, baptism King, unto a lady holding your spirit. To keep it to heart, to never say for justice, rendered perfection for sorrows. You cried to hear the story, you ingested the saga, surefire affectation. 

 

Many shall criticize. Many will fall apart. Many will become enamored. The dearest power, a place in heaven, such healing if done correctly. To have known through spiritus, so tremendous those clouds, how does it look for skies to open?

Musing Upon Indifference

 

I come back to a thought and there you are playing clarinet. You do it with ease. 

I see enigma, koan, my imagination, more than reality. You sit in a chair and holding parts together, asking for peace of mind.     Your countenance is raw and you wrestle a deep spirit … you compose a vignette, discuss a few lines, retreat at a subtle reproach. You hide sensitivity and skies have turquoise lining.     History means life and understanding for you; some parts are egregious, but you love cultures, facing a high gate.     I’d ask you of prowess in an attempt to broach a topic, you see me, you roll your eyes, smile politely, and say, “Maybe another time.” 

I was irritated with you. I was moved by you. I hated to be smitten with you. I now accept you—for a dear entity, a complex person, your rights and image.

You remain with appeal, maybe coquettish, maybe stern with a hidden nature. Silence is unmuted, remaining tacit, if not too outspoken.     To chime with life, to take to mystic rites, many caves, many arts, aesthetic sunshine.     You will grin and say little this is a part in you, and spectacle will remain gentle.  

A Few Reasons

 

I was restricted, unable to claim it, threshed, eating wine. It seems indifferent, it feels like it landed, it’s ever confusing. 

It’s a damn joke. 

How could it be more.

And you died, and I soared, it was hell to the god coast. 

We live differently. We have different realities. 

But love is a similar color. Love is a game.

I never believed. I kept faith. 

Hustling all night. Reality of half-knots. 

I wish you excellence. I wish you success. 

We move quickly. They’ll be another. 

Off the terror science, off the naked memory, too much power. 

I was in love, it meant nothing, to charge life.

I wish her well. Let her live this life.

Life Is Chaotic Nuance

 

I never by chance, only by graces, bled dry and frightened. I never believed you; I knew you were a fool, too much to get close. And born to boogie, And born to silence, many were smug. Many issues, tissues rift, do or die, a language they heard of. I never complained, faced by a monster, we learned to giggle, to chug, such pure dysfunction. “What was God’s name?” To improvise, to guess it’s Jesus, to chuckle and drool. Bent on liquor, spatial like ghosts, so torn before the art bent. Way too major, and we slow the pace, a jingle made of gold. (Something in us desires deaths; to be on edge, to feel and fret existence; like living was a big deal.) Many gave God his ghosts, if to break free, like living was impossible. I never surrendered faith, I surrendered life, like going home was easy. I consider the we-ness of my penalty, lost to midnight, like a mad ass epiphany. So related, so broken, trailing and trekking like a warrior. And I see an Old Country, many harsh opinions, to hate the soul of survival. What have I done it for, alienated to religion, looking death in the eyes? So intimate, Soldier, deaf and dumb, Soldier, living and alive, Soldier. I remember, I never would, I never did, and headed to the great nap. 

I Admire She

 

She chances with a chant—a million miles away—making hearts into summer. I was ripe in my nonchalance, expecting a daughter, through mire, excellent addiction. Poetry wanes, words rarely devastate, if so, they wither like petals. In each reign, her eyes glow, surreal and powerful presence. Dresses flowing, blouses flowery, stars standing at attention. It meant receiving criticism, a critical pen, with Love smiling and laughing and acting gayly. With everything in you, with life hurting, with pain sitting in stillness. I was sickened, crocheting skies, trying to fathom God. My life given to it, theology in veins, every art becoming anti-philosophic. Take Jesus to ark, take life to grain, tell me it ceases to ache. She seems together, drowning in perfection, each word flowing in glitter. It was hell at the mic, the crowd was indelicate, you looked, I saw a tear, such love for genuine empathy. Such an empath, lately I’ve been close, with the Ghost giggling. It seems in there, spirits at themselves, eating and sipping grapes. You are she. Danger in adoring, the heart ruined, wraiths at the illusions. I will deny you, as you have denied me, it seems harsh, but an ear for an ear, an eye for an eye, a limb for those soaring through heavens. It seems otiose, without meaning, looking at what dies. So close to winning, so near, up against every ambition, hoping through a storm.  

Become Sky Depth

 

The ghosts are leaking, torn and devastated. Each language so centered on ghosts. Most indecent memories, seated in pictures, the deaths are reincarnation. And adoring is impossible, bleeding Jesus, trying to put faith in humans—so great a disappointment. I sense the ethicist, a debate with gods, striving towards excellence—the future is half full. Nevermore the doubts, a moralist and her rules, to determine others are abiding. If given a choice, one might surrender to chi, damaged inside, longing for one creature—the blood we drip. Plus, gods were listening, disputing facts, so torn and apologetic. Indeed, I wish to love like angels, fully aware of mistakes, searching the goodness in souls. With terrors, with appetites, suppressing all of atmosphere, in order to adore eternity. Why must we lie? What does it do? It beefs up tumors. Can humans be trusted? The answer is yes, the answer is no. A lucky seven, a crapshoot, amongst mongoose and cobras. Indeed, too saddening, would rather unknowingness, if and only if that were true. Too much misery. Too much pain. Many are doing right, correctly, indeed, to something else. I was smitten, gaming in arts, loving the way she smiled. I was in love, angered not to see her, gifted with an oily tongue. So coy, such a lovely flower, in desperate need for words. We would if it was true. We’d die an unlikely passion, thrown into mischief, so delicate a scar. To have become this person. Many might argue, it was one person. Nay, it was patterns in over five persons. But Love was beautiful, and Love would cry, and Love desired a father. Some issue we never speak to, some riddle we fathom, if to feel like protecting her. A dear and dire issue, to imagine such expectation, to die in portraits.   

Wine-Stained Goblet

 

Too tired, Love. Too anxious to sleep. It wreaks havoc. Such excitement of the nightmare, surefire damages. I was a child in those weeks. I was an animal quite young. I devastated in parts the giants. Too warm for comfort, too cold for dancing, too righteous for love. How does a dying woman speak? Those years have passed; by future we design by presence. Too sexual for Pride, too captivating for culture, most capture silence with a chill. A step lower—traveling grounded dungeons, curious to it all. Chained to sacrifice. Abandoned to loses. Winning in some gray affection. I would change it all, in a heartbeat, to never, despite the charming skies. Territory tempos. Ghetto destinies. Flamboyant disputes. I was sickened at a time. I was middle bibles at a turn. I’ve no idea of explaining the present. One appeared, shoving pieces, by desert oasis. Too tired, Love. Too churned to rest. It hast to have a negative aftermath. I couldn’t imagine an altruistic phoenix. Some elements begin to soothe us, such desperate reality, to know for a fact, we die alone. In finding pieces, to undress arts, so close its disturbing. I was unvoiced, forced to adjust, in seeing it, knowing it can’t sustain its wings. A ghost in dregs, a slum full of riches, stricken, aloof, afflicted by the miseries of perfection.   

Redeeming Time

 

The in-between are those hours. Indebted to souls, asphalt legends. The anguish we shared, the triumphs we endured. By flickering becomes its witness. By grief becomes another breakthrough. The in-between are those hours. To sit still in an old chair, a palm on its thigh, the other on its forehead, a tear swelling, feet both tapping … the room is full of evidence, years of studies, a voice emerges, to witness distress, by kindness to kneel low, grab a hand, and ask if things are hectic. The in-between are those hours. 

 

I wanted to ask—like an intrusion, to side with silence; to discuss the fence, a bulwark, those island gates—

So drilled in there, keeping solace close, a facial appearance.

Each verse, each lyric, devoid of its divinity, so incarnated, at ashes and Astro flames. The in-between are those hours.

I used to obey my gullet, I learned to hear my spirit, surrounded by dry forests—from soul to brains.   

Those hours formed passions. Those dreams wouldn’t be silent. Each soul is a sign.

Sea Tigers

 

I was in passing, upon a late evening, a subtle grin. I was with you AM hours, the room was silent. I was thinking of what I mentioned, feeling cursed, wondering how you spend your days. I sense argumentation; I hear sky syllables; they say you’re a koan—a legacy aside an empire, a kingdom inside of holiness, a million issues. I heard you’re married, most would cougar, or lion, I retreat. So, we presume energies, we assume souls, we know there’s a core self; what if two combined, always drifting into each other, so far removed, and too darn close; else a man is wild, strange ideas, ruminating over an illusion. I was moving in sights, visions of arts, aesthetic nightmares—the clove in sin, to weave a beginning, to ache in script. I heard you have a child—the sun is high is clouds, a feeling to make it difficult: touched in spirit, forbidden from scripture, reigning in psyches the abuse. I’ve a way in this light, gifted with my problems, laughing at how invisibility hurts. We see in time—what separates souls and animals, with many desiring to feel something. Aging with love—means being secure with the race ceasing. A wild dice game, hats off to the winners, may God continue to show favor.  

Mind Clock

 

To fret the lows, demanding the lows, such pure paradox. I was gentle a Saturday morning, I felt trials the miles of skies, a tender smile, to nudge a friend. So damned. So blessed. The best of haphazardness. They say a tear on Sunday, is a prayer. Each petal from a gallica, each plum from its branch, to nibble and palm the waves of seas. In ignoring it, seeing it more, to regain composure. In falling apart those sacred years was alike to rebuilding. The art as it lives, to take on life, a simple day takes on a tone. To look at a spouse, calculating the goodness, sweeping the badness, feeling a little neglected the pith seems to desire more. In spite of facts, such desperation, a cuteness to it. In giving—it wasn’t accepted, in imposing—it wasn’t appreciated—in sitting and made vigil—it’s noticed.     (What is it? Forget it!)     I was with sunrise, first sunshine, listening to morning ritual: a little this way, a little that way, a swift remark, off to seasons.     To insist on causing an element — that isn’t what one seeks. In its opposition, it forces a lot of thinking. If to cruise Infinity—if to discolor the sands, bereft of pain, filled with joys, trying to balance, trying to break freedom; to know in loudness, to sense in silence, to imagine something being confirmed—rules and authenticity.  

Dear Wraith,

 

If I tried it’d be a joke. I live, I suppose. So gray my perspective of humans. I used to celebrate us—humans, that is. I wonder now—how’ll we’ll condemn each other. The film is on repeat. To go so into self, to adore like dying is easy, to ask for nothing more—than unconditional us-ness. People ache in pains, trying to ignore reality, hoping for a change in humans. But—back to aesthetics.

To have laid eyes on magic, mystic upon its birth, to place yoga in hands—too much upon a whisper, too much damage, who in hell cares? I keep waiting, and I apologize for saying it, but I pray upon you with a new fire, a liaison, a fret in bones, to drag the sun, to abuse the moon. To love like crazy, to have no time for existence, to be filled with enigma. Why not a fantasy for us—never into our misery, nevermore into a bleak future. Just imagine, looking at one you hate in parts; indeed, some do this presently. What in hell is going on? Too consumed, and it goes down a level, to see they don’t see you. Indeed, be careful, a thief is in the church. Who cares the way you do?

An Examination on Life

 

Much of it has passed by—life, that is. “Have you adored someone?” I believe it’s true. Upon a parachute, desiring to desire, somber, with flatness. “The pain isn’t enough?” No, it isn’t. It’s strange when motivation wanes. “You haven’t taken a break.” It’s more than that. I haven’t broken the gates. Life is passing by. “You’re doing what comes naturally.” Some days are easier than others. I come to writing with heaviness. I come to her with imposition. She’s always willing to embrace me. I drag her low on a bad day. “This is what it takes. Try; but try not to try.” A rare balance. Another riddle. We know something is lingering. It always does. It’s never enough. This has become life—with her passing into the great ether. “You know it will pass.” It’s been returning quicker than usual. I am inquisitive. With eyes opened & life is enjoying herself with others. “Life is with you. Life in contemplative. Find her in cogitation.” Something unique is forming. Stars are vigil. An interior is guessing. Apples remain sweet. “This is life.” No. She has other compartments. Life is rarely by totality. “Yes. She shares the best of her appetites with you.” Life is with others, maybe less, but I see joy. “According to one’s temperament, according to one’s lot.” 

Into a Line of Thinking

 

They called on salvation. Many were tampering with science.

 

In trying to find God, another became interested. Watching lowly. 

 

What he thought he felt, what she swore she heard.

 

Years manipulating elements, it must mean something.

 

A soul was a psychopath, she became honest. 

 

Certain features are adorable. Certain dreams keep with unison. 

 

Rather 12, as they say. Rather the casket, as they assert. 

 

It was lively seeing you; it was difficult walking away. 

 

We fight to keep memories.

 

It was pain, in sensing you, I’m reminded, some pains are hard to leave behind. 

 

After years, it hebetates itself. 

 

And it keeps momentum, like a lifelong project. Existence is put on a back burner. 

 

Can’t live—for getting revenge. 

 

Maybe life isn’t as interesting, a child longing. 

 

It’s worth pausing, to reevaluate, to ask, what should have meanings?

 

Never to mean for love, the goal was utter paranoia. To hate one so much he becomes enamored, so foolish. 

 

To know with vital deaths the rage of an adversary. 

 

Just waiting. It will drive one of us crazy: me in a cubicle. Life in its self-talk. 

 

To keep a secret, to know it kills itself, with one forced to become meaningful.

 

With nothing meaning as much, to fret existence, with life loving alienation. 

Half Empty Skies

 

To strike a bone, accustomed to half empty skies. Too afraid to get close, for disappointment with open eyes. The way we guide each other. To have surreal secrets, rain falling. If two are without interruption, God bless them. We never know the ruins. We never complete the sentence. In yearning for life, a man found purity. In desiring a friend, a woman found a husband. (I sit in a negative patch, seen too much.) I feel good for the man up the way, he adores his family. It gets difficult, seeing all of a person. Blues blaze boldly; jazz jingles in jasper; kneaded & knotted kicking against goads; so gone those days, it felt decent, it hurt like goodness. Into a hurricane, aside a tsunami, if to understand love. In retreating, I lose ground, in surrendering, I play the fool. (It hast to sing, to sound celestial, ether, ethereal sorrows, rebuilt instincts. It was crazy when it stopped aching. To permit life to live, as if it needed permission. I still look into the horizon, lost for a minute, snapping back into focus. Something yens to live, to go that extra mile, to write a book about a keepsake.) So consumed by what moves souls, the best in life is to share music—so great a gift in those with tears.  

Examination

 

I wait near a shadow. I absorb absurdity. In needing to be right, I presume the greater good. A man was with despair. He gave his life to subjectivity. He died an outcast.  

 

Faced by it. An existential impasse. I run a risk of becoming inactive. Watching sameness of participation, repetition becomes a blur, a person must reach inside to move forward. 

 

I imagine anything related to mind activity is mutable, thus, it carries nuance. I’ve seen it. The abnormal becomes normal, we see patterns, parallels, we grow in direction: it depends. I’ve a supposition, philosophy is leaning towards the empirical. 

 

In a society where subjectivity is widespread, unless with temperament, pure objectivity might not give to humans what remains essential. 

 

Life, by its activity, is without logic, we impose reason, life is inherently chaotic, with humans searching for meaning. 

 

Indeed. Most know this. We don’t live this. 

 

I speculate softly—it seems humans are wrestling with variations of unease. Again. It’s not a great secret. I surmise that unease becomes pieces of anguish. With anguish becoming idiosyncrasies … particles disputing full on sanity … denial, assertion, sorrow.

 

By condition humans are living in limbo, faced by perdition, happy, if normal, to have family, friends, children, careers, literature, & pursuits. With life tugging.

 

A flower sits, winds blow it to & fro, it absorbs sunlight, it braves the winters … it has life. We assert it feels. It suffers. It has a short existence. Subject to the elements. 

 

Humans reason—for goodness, for badness. The ideal is to become excellent—at living & warding off life.

Perusing Articles

 

The dearest ambition is for freedom of expression. Majestic as it is; fortunate pain, crumbling miseries. I thumbed through pages glancing, and paused on perplexity. The brains are feudal against self; those islands raising warriors, beauty of the scar, exposure of the animal. In his stroke he believed again. In his recovery, he had to remember himself. I thumbed through to see what they liked, the pieces selected for publication, by tragic beauty, by flying wolves, those tarantulas in those trapdoors. I see why they picked those articles: sheer ingenuity; decent articulation; bending reality, not too much. Clarity of thought. Accuracy of insides. The great battle. I’ll drift, ingratiating skies, brains crocheted, meddlesome indexes, argumentative negotiations. Forever is a day—a wholesome pledge—a sight for someone craving—to have longed, to slow down again, to fall apart, to rebuild. We never understand until we do; and seeing it aches, to have a picture as it forms, where it flatters nothing. Needing more than a picture. Needing more than insights. Trying to believe in Intuition. That inner war, deep and dark dungeons, trying to build courage to convey ecstasy. So attached to a thought, never a full discussion, wondering where time has gone; feeling a sense of hereness, enveloped in thatness, reframing whatness. It was purposed as unsavory, same mistake in a few venues, debating in self those unlikely thoughts. An uncanny chance of banshees, an ingredient nigh immortal, a fret in a feeling alike to dying repeatedly. It means so much, in becoming so little, some are extant.   

Accused of Blaspheming

 

I want to worry or complain, who’s listening? I want to fix souls, it’s hard to persuade a soul in his gutter. I was dealt a hand, I play cards, I do it fairly decent. Not as a brag, but I’m still here. It’s monopoly, deaths, & begging Jesus. Blackness is different. We can’t claim but uneasiness. Enough of that. I was a seed, looking out into wilderness, a desert for a monk, obedience for a priest, desertion for color. So close to God, close to suffering, bathed in misperception—a people analyzed, misrepresented, & forsook. I was a lad, reading it, saturated, a ghost with it; claiming Wisdom, loving her guts, trying to fix the tides. Haphazard waves, capricious skies, havoc reigning across countries. We might assert a little difference, a president, while some wonder if he was as he appeared. Nevertheless, plain battle, assertion of color, pleading like normality is good enough. I don’t know consensus, it changes with time, each situation calls for new rules. I was sick with life, angered as hell, forced to get right. More in calmness, more in a leveled head, if trying to aid a culture—to change a soul in his mirror.     I heard sirens. I watched as life churned; many were so angry. I want to worry or complain, who’s listening? We trim words, sheer affectation, listening to woes—asking a vital question: Why so much of it, Why so great the suffering? DAMN APOLOGETICS!  We ask Father, Father goes deaf, how in hell! Something reverberates, many say it’s humans, despite certain phenomena.

Compassion

 

When it was good, as they say. So innocent. So moving.     Such is a dream come true. It takes a human to love.     The victory of compassion.     To imagine a spirit, wailing from the lungs.     It goes slowly. It has an apex. It hurts like a funny bone.     Being in alignment, sequential agony, to want nothing else.     Like rawness, like sickness.     Absorbed with a rainstorm made innocent—an inverted tenderness, to chance exoneration—for times of old.     Like the contrast of a cure, better a flickering cosmos, or better, a blessed curse.     To ask, why? To sense an answer. It won’t fall. Tears well up. A face turns red. Eyes become blurry. An apology rages forth. To have brought such uncertainty to stars. Like no other love. Like no greater compassion. To wander hills, to visit valleys, to engage a spirit.     It was easy to chance upon a sky. To dream outside a box. To waltz upon a mountain.     Walking to each other. The hallway so dark & long. Arms reaching forward. Fingertips feeling for flesh. So fierce. To have located life. So much love it hurts.     How could it not be forever?     Love is … colorful souls, dearest arguments, disputes, challenges, redemption, richness.

Many Flaws

 

Intensely, life is simplistic chaos.     I amble through screams.     Each moment is challenged.     

     Granny made love to liquor.     We imagine the gawking.     A guffaw; dizzying rain.     I see in parallels—the future is the past.     And loving by myth, intense mirages: Love is still with illness.     A garden of lunarians, a sinning winner, catching loses.     They might see it, quickness of eyes, radiance, heartbeats.     I was smitten as a kid; I was humbled as an adolescent; as an adult, I hold the beast back.     We say: “Partner doing a lot.”     I congratulate the humble monsters.     

     Souls were verified; art was magnified; nothing was rectified.      I notice either we know how to move or we believe we know how to move.

     

Where was she? Desert illusion. One glass, a decent ambition. Feeling undercurrents, wrangling interior bottles, jingling according to deaths. Learning new rules. Quite tired of existence. Pleased to see a puppy playing with a baby. If life was easy, as many make it seem, why so many haunted? 

 

Into a ghostly chant, going deeper, knowing how to ache—redundantly redundant—same language, a few new words, to imagine life is different—same particles, same bowels, near a gate, conversing with spirit. Trying to make right, like a decent soul, abandoned to a pool of debts. The grit of damages, those faces, how in hell he woke up?  

 

Orchids. Baby angels. Garments.     It wasn’t recent.     Some pains can’t seek therapy.     No one fails.     It just requires more attention.     

 

Life wasn’t given, it was selected. The family was selected. The more hells the quicker to awaken. “Why would one do that to self?”     Uncanny.     Forever trying to get back home. I must earn what is already mine. I must show out, dance, a sky full of phantoms. I must die repeatedly to live but once. 

 

If the whole life is on camera, many are shedding shivers.     I couldn’t sleep. I imagine others were awake. To soar across lands, to uproot oceans, a metaphor with averages.    

Peg

 

The shoreline and seagulls, by dreams we sculpture. By ancient art, by sepulcher. 

Asking is sullen measure, surrounded by

Sunlight. 

Upon a dying gallica, petals wheezing. 

Impassioned anxiety—so confused, pictures upon a Mirage.

Numen based. California dampness. 

Courage of every phoenix. 

It could be torturous. 

Each day as crocheted. 

To remember winter as it appeared. 

Subliminal communion.

Melancholic winds—joyful suffering. 

To make passion an art in deaths, faced by Intangibility.

Upon release—it aches. Trying to break barriers. A 

Soul involves his quintessence. 

Certain incandescence, numbing pride, upon an Explosion.

It will be as it is, upon an internal peg.

You’ll Continue to Smile

 

It’s a low mood, a tender quake mood, lawn passion picnics. It was over in essence, blues of a maddening mind, glad to have met, nonetheless. If it hurts to watch, it hurts to read, a head to a shoulder—sweet magnificence, treasured curiosity, or tragic vendetta. Late at night, it was us, so ironic the communication. A needy soul, as I beg for clearance, a lonely soul, as we keep company. Indeed, technique trespass, a man shouldn’t be believed, still to carry furniture, to lunge into traffic, craving a cigar; heads low these days, deeper exhaustion, or polite chastisement. Softer music, hourglass measurements, something taunting, something aching, something pledging to the good in souls. Indeed, never trust a spirit, if such a soul has caused discomfort—it makes things easier. Tomorrow has feelings unwrapped, today has sadness, the past possesses a bundle of metaphysics. It’s not meant for a tear, it is because it sings, it speaks to truths, ever the liar in me. A kid played on train tracks, kicked rocks, prayed for new beginnings. Stray animals, particularly canines, just to interrupt a particular feeling. It was never as it seemed, so impetuous, such a pain in its shivers. Forever to remember. Forever to sky domes. Forever to a hear in memory as it passes. Magenta thoughts, along a whisper, feuding with self over forgiveness, needing something as it remains unspoken to itself. Those times it pained to live, those days it joyed to live, those times it churned in silence.

Clock Shadow

 

Life is not enough, like strung out on promises, lavish upon a curse. Oh’ melancholic artists, fiending for one in tears. Those darkened skies, wishing into a daze. Miles to excellence, underestimated, one dream in its needs; abused beauty, sanctioned swords. Forbidden crops, devastating harvests. In loving rain, in its exploration, exposed to elements. Show us the Great Entrance, aside those wired gates, next to a fence near an alley. By a backdrop, on a backstreet, so casual how it’s executed. And Soul was dying, one furious explosion, impassioned, thrashed, cleaving to guts. To have adored in vain, so glorious by verse, aching to read one final behavior. Perfected by loses, merrily in chaos, to assume there’s more. Those days eyes pierced veneer; those winds on a sunny morning; at times, it’s hard to believe in fate. Everyone desired you, a few made excellence, such dying to align an inner whisper. An exposed winter, jasper evenings, jasmine lining. By a ghostly glance, gusts & leaves, webs & gossamer. So right to love you, so wrong to try you, with days to execution. So galvanized, like galloping, knee deep in pash—as luminescent souls, abandoned to time, until it stops ticking.  

Lay It Down

 

By deep illusion—to conjure up love. By winter’s pain—to adore a mirage. Bone aches, traveling skies, a message betrayed. With misery comes a spark of light, a flicker of wealth, if to seize a moment, inside a cliff, to have warned of damaging infatuation. Like chasing grayness, rhythmic examination, concluding in grayness; needing a solid conclusion, left with falderal, asking for entrance, where Love is smitten with blossoms, sacrifice, & mythos. 

 

I appeared to a mirror, changing the soul therein; told the seasons have design, they kiss & obey internality, they soar nautical seas. Summer coldness, by koan, by gravity—melodic chaos, those grieving winds, with passion made contagious, pinpointing eternity.

 

I saw life a dozen times, I met her once; bold beautiful colors, opalescent hearts, iridescent shadows—by arc, by rain—oh’ sweet, saving sanity. 

 

Those dreams became smiles, broken serenades, captured souls—to have picturesque ‘scapes, seasoned beginnings, solemn ingredients—upon a wishing star. 

 

Minds swift to battle, designated hostility, granted one dying wish.