PS.

 

 

The strength to withstand the winds; a spell as it effects/affects some creature. A sudden moment filled with absolute certainty, so wrong. How a mind tricks itself. Accused of being insensitive, too much to sustain. Lions in fields. Snakes in dungeons. Part mammal. Part reptile. So impossible. So probable in spirit. In priding detachment, one will lose something. In kneading nihilism, one will become saddened. In revering existentialism, one will notice nuances. So greatly confusing: to watch, to search, to be close enough to taste breath, so divided, a need to look inwardly. Some require tragedy, others need dialogue, and some dispute quietude. Loving her seems easy. She elicits admiration. And she prides relations. It becomes stringent; reality becomes fuzzy. We’ll see it in nerves. We’ll sense it in an undertone. An interior is whole at points, fragmented at seconds, holding to ethical conundrums. An author speaks from herself, neat abandonment, charged in an instance, repenting an infraction. The parts ache; keeping closure. Such precision the art in her essence; sheer magnitude; facing vicissitudes … a quiet person, a full person, a hidden inside person. To seem what is required; strength of falconry; eagle eyed. Filled with intuition. A soul marvels. If we knew depth, misunderstanding, clarity, confusion.

Perspective: Temperament or Reality?

 

 

Irony. In the losing to find parts of one’s mirror. To see tragedy lives, such radiant joys in others. To decide by hands-on, wisdom is pride, threshed like wheat. The beauty in tomorrow; the glee in hope. Trying to ignore being human, the travesty is happiness of the matter. The feeling is strangeness; the cadence is deceptive. In life one might find meaning, until it loses its fruitage. The soul is evolving outside of itself. One should treasure their joys, keep them close to heart. 

 

Often, one entertains something with motives, unbeknownst to us. The seasons come to pass, holding to perception, faced by actuality: to have lived if passed into a condition. Just learning the debt, just inhaling the scents—most complicated of souls, looking for credence, exercising discernment, offered one dark, endless guarantee. Over a bonfire, strumming existence, battling an aged old dilemma. Such mortals; such vulnerability. (In seeing how souls adjust: book clubs, 

 

poetry, religiosity, volunteer work, close friends, to make a world—filled with precepts, other pleasures—becoming vices.) How do we know? When one partakes against his will.  A song is soulful—those days rushing faster, those weeks passing and losing memories. The sun rising—rain falling, to partake of realization—a promise always chasing. And some are filled with joys, nesting in temperament, shifting perspective. They amaze us.    

Holy Handkerchiefs

 

 

At life alike to wars. To enjoy a glass of cognac. To embrace chaos. A soul to dying often, living in-between times, missing lasting realms. In a tear deeper. Into dreams with reapers. Motion never comes to rest. I try to keep quiet. An impossible chef. We’ve a situation at hand: can’t absorb her completely, can’t live without her completely. Too close to what’s elusive. Minds upon tightropes. Souls upon indifferent waves. In trying not to perish—still breathing, trying to be decent—up against all things. Neckbones, potatoes—resistant to it, too occupied with it—if to see struggle in her eyes, if to ignore beige walls, if to listen during times of distress. Such precious lives, oriented by trials, building character—enforcing a hardened countenance—going through dreams. Ghetto charms. To wonder why. From where souls stood—it wasn’t getting better. Byproducts of poverty—impoverished murmurs, indebted for surviving. Faced by violence. Formed by silence. Under conditions others died by. Building images. To walk by faith. A sign—something tragic was born. We might adore what we can’t keep. We might be wrapped in struggle, in love through miseries, proud to have perished together. One immortal portrait—same picture, different islands, parents looking crestfallen; so great by its churn, to make it through years, carrying experience, walls swallowing souls.

Summation

 

Another year made of fantasies, visions, dreams, escapades. So much cheer; so much somberness. A wilderness for souls; watching life moving, promised departure at some juncture. By some point, we confess limited control; at some point, we see a division: what I desire, and what is, they tend to clash. I pay it my mind. I necessitate a few pleasures. I feel a harshness to it all. Such verbiage. 

 

Such clownwork. So many antennas, many more sounds. Blood blue penalties—deep sacrifice. Like ventriloquists are watching. Like dolls are walking. (It never meant nothing. Love was there. Everyone was altered. A soul left. We communicated. It was simplistic. It was fruitless. Souls were altered. A soul held to that for his life.) It never meant nothing. Spirits sing to glory. Each on his 

 

journey. Some, one religion, others another. It seems similar at times, such differentials—nothing with split hooves. (We traveled, made thousands, moved pieces, too much to exhale.  Alike to a castle, seesawing memories, so far apart, and Love had a dream, needing before it’s over.) We meet people in their bragging, they meant it. I shan’t complain, looking at many faults, trying to perfect 

 

something flawed (self)—being better, needing a venue, easing into meaning—life of a person’s spirit, days feeling schisms, albeit, days are often good, a slight emotion, a threshing artist, trying to escape while close to one’s beloved—knowing for uneasiness, wondering why, having to push it away, where it makes for errors. A true condition

Us & Ancestors

 

 

I have to surrender, most humble rites. It comes like a vision, a dream, Love. At tyranny inside, haunted ribs, skeleton traumas. Cranium pangs. It seems vicious, a nation born to survive. My ancestors; such radical affliction: We seem closer to an ideal. I have to surrender obstinance. I have to be smarter than myself. I have to know rights are negotiable. Upon plains—into fields: corn, sugarcane, cotton—fingers torn, sweating Jesus, upon a whip, too many deaths to count. I heard of a Promise Land, they called it Canada. I heard souls running, bullets chasing, to cleave to guts, tumble over, one last breath. I feel it more with aging. To see inflexible patterns, a soul pleading to meet humans. I can’t imagine how far from grace souls are, a man finding himself, begging forgiveness, screaming like a mad man. It gets like that, two breakdowns and a psychotic break. One wonders home a soul makes it—drive, luck, training, fortune. I look over to wonder what souls are thinking. This begs a question: Am I qualified to cast such assessments? Who knows. Foot heavy on a lever – days inside – trying to enjoy December. What was done! I read one in his depth. He spoke of fighting a good fight, prepared to change dimensions, proud to have been of service. One chance to soar. One real life dream. One positive prophecy.   

Entering Climax

 

 

When sunshine touches morning dew, when pain feels good, we arise to singing softly. And I never knew for majesty those eyes, aloft and sudden into a daze—terrific passions! Sorry it never poured as a storm, never sacrificed existence, never begged repentance. It’s hard to focus, adrift through horizons, nocturnal pangs, aches and arts, such shivering limbs. And Love was a mirage, a blessed curse, pulling and tugging, silent sirens, sullen goodness. So much fiending, Love, so gathered near winepresses, tender heaving, gravid heaviness. In dying it felt unrealistic, akin to mania, so many creating psychoses. It’s not new. And needing agonies to suffice and survive, to feel existence—sable-blue-green eyed ghost woman. And with it all comes danger, cemetery visions, vivid and part empty, vapid and full of life—on occasion—so nearby. It was never called seduction at heart, it was vibrant violets, numen nemesias, radical realism; in remembering a voice, diary of a phantom’s brains, chased as it is, something living in me—such eruptions, sheer peaking, permanent genetics. To happen upon excursion, hampered by fears, most favorite of dreams. Let it be excellence to enjoy. Let it be pains to enter. Let it meet where it lives. Ripe persistence; aging perfection; by exposé, by watered livers. To sound out syllables, to create ecstasy. To live!   

Departing Climax

 

 

No amount of love compares to your kindness. And let dungeons be gentle—as we surf waves, embody hertz, too much to breathe. Feeling you in my heart, debating a flaming future—as casual creatures, impartial blasphemy; something said would haunt love, would kill parts, thrown to throes of passion ... if to fever in time, to share forbidden ambrosia, goddess of gods, electric fantasies. Fire as it churns. Undulations as they vibrate. Pure value; let it never diminish. Mother of all that’s beautiful; angel of all divinity—sensual elation, cemetery tears, palatial gardens. In chasing to perish by lust; in adoring by ache—it enthralls. Do suffer me—fueled for emeralds, bejeweled for angst—O heavenly nightmare, poetry for its own sake, roses and hay fever. By your utterance, by touch, to need essence. Such unconventional diamonds, to pardon such love. So much a frugal word, so deep in meaning, wrestling with deaths, caged or flying freely; tender emotions, rabid heartbeats, pure wicked kindness. To hate in one breath what makes life good next breath. In capturing devotion; in rationale, remote activity, losing what a man begs for; poetry for its tragedy, warmth for her furnace, kiln as it levitates. At a bridge, laughing unbeknownst to self, conscious, nonetheless; giving all to sustain it, radical passion, desperation eyes. To have loved in vision, to manifest nemesias, such raw anxiety, one departing climax.  

Sacred or Profane

 

From deeper seas: I was born to master it. A long time coming: so many bridges. Alike to unreachable gates, immortal swords. And by love, we mean healing.  I felt unborn those years, cleaving to the profane—such unholy creatures: it becomes a war, striving for the holy. The artist spoke it clearly: “It’s a feeling.” I entered by measures. I swore it by the Ghost. Having difficulty with clarification—outside of belief. Such nomadic spirits—sudden joys, settling back into essence. Full pledged darkness, upon a spark, awesome lights. Aside musical rites, slave of the rhythm. Pure ecstasy; down near caves, reading inscriptions, feeling a certain vibration—if to live, if to perish. Torn elastic; framed by it, still trying to master it: an illicit activity. Primitive souls, sabretooth twins, kneeling into ocean sand. Seemingly, seeking skies, emotional comforts, and life appears harsher than first thought. Like a breeze at times. Like numen at moments. Pneumatic concerns; at a fixation, transfixed, unto grave and resurrection. Utter dynamics; such modern-day primitive creatures—to see as it unfolds, a moment between comfort and immediate displeasure. Preparing by choice, feeling phlegmatic, disputing necessity versus preference. Souls of the nocturn, ancient presence, at Love with a diamond ring. In hearing, “Yes,” no other wildness.  

Everything Is

 

 

I revisit illusion to see clarity, upon ironic paradox. Would entice through esoteria, a soul begging the question: What is reality? I was thrown into cadence, standing where invisibility erupted, an elderly woman asked: “Are you alright?” Winds into valleys. Death to each, as we fight for immortality.  Such metric melody. A soul will reminisce … —through drums, bass lines, tribal alertness, currency waves … to believe in affectation, emoted from depth those wells, phantom of ambrosia; in becoming christic ink the oceans filled by zenic archery, a man to his enlightenment, pains to their arts—to have adored with such little information: by gentility, by grave, by cemetery plots and passions; fleshed out, listening to gait, debating disclosure, all of a human’s being. I revisit illusion to sense understanding—forsook to koans, trying to decode antiquity—longer into nights as upon a thought—seated in numen, a place in minds, a galaxy we attempt to control. I woo some part of delusion. I sing by silence. Such surreal ambition, collar of one’s spirit, gown of one’s holiness, feathered wings, regathered essence. I do weep the damages to character, faced by cryptic morals—something telling a soul he is with penalty—ache of those moments, tower of sails, across seas to conquer, pleading religiosity, to chance upon one, to cherish unsuspectingly. 

Core Person

 

Rather the difficulties, rather the curses. By vice and performance; by chains and resistance. The legacy of profundity … baffled at all times. Seduction of the core person; articulate pain. If to taste life, to live ecstasy, by dear disappointment, sudden reincarnation. A given pool, sweaty napes, thrown into passions, a sigh, a giggle, a knee. It wasn’t intentional the rivers inside; it came with ripples at heights those chameleon eyes. So many prisms; plangent winds, mythical gods, every incentive to create meaning, if to define existence; asking Love for clarity, attacked for masculinity, minds dedicated to persistence. Wasted wines. Waist bound. To give ink, to challenge consensus. (Years pass swiftly. With remembrance of schism, stained church glasses—in trying to feel goodness—she passes into glory, so alphabetical, pursuing her come sunrise. Experience is fleeting, to have loved sight seen, a smidgen of dying as years passed by.) Soulful persons make life—to want versus to need, if to study personality, if to become knitted. Amazed how spirit necessitates, some element rising inside, making desire palpable, to yen for one soul. Purity of experience, such human vessels, perfected vassals, going through portals. So heavy those years, addicted to a feeling, so neat the company of angelica—a cured man is a deceived man—it takes eternity, several trips, sweet resurrection.             

Susurrous Breeze

 

 

Upon a feeling those vibrant pangs, like arts and medicine. If to sing it naturally, part creative, part self-affliction. A mellow melody those summaries, with souls pointing at imperfections. I long to have a dynasty, surrounded by confidants, celebrated like kings—fever of souls, ambitious enough, needing to increase my chasing. And spirit was in its prime, full of dirty dancing, to have chuckled prematurely, to have laughed at another’s anguish. If I gave royalty, I’d expect regality. With so much ahead of science, with so much defaming religion, to come to a point, a road, to admit to commonality, seasoned for greater chaos. To have loved in essence, to have melic charms, by grace, by crude oil. I couldn’t woo as it was those years in ecstasy. Talking nice has a deep clause to it. A soul ages in many respects. If to fall into an abyss, captivated by character, to have treasure in one’s personality, when words are existence, two coming together means life. Such yelling inside, echoing into pillows, to find with time no greater estate. Wilder eyes, prior to domestication. Articulate newness. Much in pains—to have wrecked pieces; in a gentle soul, to redeem time, living sight unseen. I know of tales told, a mythical creature, full of sensational paws, to have stimulated by greatness—curse of majesty, blessing of transgression, art by winds.      

Building Affection

 

 

It was a major concern the ability to soar, to fly and float the four corners. I was with violence inside—too unstable, able to see commonsense. A younger man filled with hunger, a societal man. It was vicious. It made for normality. I hid those rivers, handkerchiefs filled with water, salty residue, muddy cheekbones. Years keep passing. I’m seeing faces. I’m divided between visions. And Love would ask: “Are you carrying something?” Of necessity to wrestle silent demons, such bad angels.  So salacious for riches. Touched much too soon. Knew detriments. Knew glory. Such baffling games—losing innocence, arguing over nonsense. With private oasis—some fairytale, to loosen reins, to feign symmetry, such warped planets. I was looking. As we all are watching. Love was trying. Love was singing and tapdancing. When analyzing a global picture, it seems part harmful. It was a major concern the ability to soar, to fly and float the four corners. I was with silence. If asked to vamp, I’d rebel. It’s amazing how we come back. I insist on equality. I can know one is with error; it’s their privilege to broach the topic. I venture to believe selfishness rages forth. I, too, fathom many disagree with the author.  I wonder what absolute affection looks like. We tend to need absolute necessities.  It seems wrong to swallow a phantom, to suffer while one acts oblivious: this in part is human nature. We might gloat over goodness, praise to no small degree, while aching the silence of true nature. So many tragedies, pointing at similar reality, one is filled with rain, kissing bliss, afraid to imagine one so close—acting contrary. Nevertheless, home is sanctuary, the world is for war. I wonder what absolute affection looks like. 

Soul Book

 

 

If I told life its name, life would giggle. Life is nameless, and yet we call it life. Quiet storms; taboo flames. That feeling is indescribable. And when indelible, it shouldn’t perish. I was being difficult with self, deciding I’ve never written prose. I undergo such spells—under scrutiny. Trying to break silence to draw a smile, malaise has lived so long. Dearest of dreams, an intellectual dowry, a lighthearted notation, years by intimate caves—loving as it was understood; missing its target, confirmed in its wilderness. If alert to subtlety, then alert to promise. With a long trespassing, to have altered structure, as it passes, we witness what fate has planned. By ravenous excitement where numbness roamed, by phoenix cries, intimate dungeons, believed as joys. I would’ve called God, as done so often, we weather that way, sheer asymmetry. And zones shift, each trend dying as it arrives; nothing is necessary, but everything is necessary. Harlequins struggle to mimic happiness, such grayness, surly paradox—asking for liberty, disputing justice. At a wall when it was designed; at a curse when it felt good: did it all as a shadow, hearing bad angels. In a wave of electricity, shocking souls where Love was knitting mittens; empowered at some point while devastated in a selfless breath: worlds clashing, if by its inner soul book.      

Deceiving Self

 

 

I have no clue to how I deceive myself. Many gray pictures, silver portraits, bleeding bamboo. How have we changed?The deep transgression, attacking our brains—something living therein, keeping accounts. Such dear indoctrination, embroidered by ethics, so inculcated, in finding guidance. A world for itself and against itself. To have craved by utter guts, misused, born to experience color. Torn and stressed-out, sable-eyed, fighting against great envy. I would drift through cities, so animated, if to escape pillows, falling apart come sunrise. It might destroy us, this course we face, such wantonness, to have lived through it. Many miles through mudslides; more phantoms inside; sheer excellence confronting deaths—a first breath explores kef. A world filled with religions, self-confusions, separated by self-deception: prison of unreachable ambition—dragging through sludge, humble relics, to have adored in minds adverse to change. With adoring life as foreseen, to suppose living, sheer strategies for further deception. Lessons learned, feathers plucked, to have seen one as a gift, to have been sheer naïve. Hearing it from within—troubles, neat indifference, still going through cycles. As under-flourishing, still surviving, an indecent legacy, to have felt proud nonetheless. To have loved unbeknownst to science, in imagining how change looks, by ultimate sacrifice. If debating art, looking into cryptic eyes, disputing what tomorrow looks like. 

Tomorrow Is Similar

 

Never could make asphalt-meaning. An octave lower than many. Raising hope at times, filled with discernment—radical understanding, country values, always hungering for city life. To catch a vibe, alike to being on stage. (It amazes how spirit will languish, right at the forefront, radiant slumber, latent beginnings.) Lucky participation. Uncanny remnants.

Fierceness of the foregone conclusion—baffled by it all, a daily ritual, this is a great war. Process requires patience, silent disputation, unspoken volume.  Feeling like orbit, outer space, nearing familiarity, some type of uncertain comfort; sheer debatable, despite experience, one looking inside—moving faster, keeping pace, until it all slows down. 

Another peculiar creature is listlessness. There until it isn’t there. Feeling it rise, as given permission, entrance into the gates. Made to adore, kneeling for prayer, fumbling through underbrush. A long mile, fraught by pit holes; too many snares, each element a game of chess—if to listen to life—fretting the great storms. 

It sounds amazing, when goodness strikes, one is looking for its omega, the art of beginnings. Making for passions, to piano charms, trying to be calm, longing for what’s reactive. 

Generational

 

 

I spend time disrupting self—battles from within, so curious about it all. Those gusts flurry through caves, uphill deserts, ever concentrated. And steep canyons separate chambers, quivering quintessence, fighting something feral. Collar storms; wiccan wilderness. Some live Tibet, others pride religiosity, so much randomness, proud to have trained. At moments, one struggles for oxygen, mining through blackdamp, wondering of how lights dim. A palm of sweetgrass, a back 

 

fraught by pressures, Love was unexpected. I kept waiting on it. When it struck, I was overpowered. Centuries speaking about freedom; selfsame time trying to conquer breath. Such crossed hospitality; loving seemed instantaneous, thus, irrational, while others indulged—to live at a million mph—those tarsier eyes, pure possessiveness, to claim — “Ain’t no love in the city.” And we live for riches, thoughtless, scraping knucklebones. In a nutshell, no promises, screaming, 

 

yelling, at passions forbidden—souls and spirits! Bagging goose grass. Upon a spell. Asking for my pardon: how many distress signals must we witness? By sin to see salvation, a deep secret—I might visit scripture for a checkup, I might invest in a ninety-minute prayer. I might rest while the surface is scrambled. I might fret through dreams wrestling to touch clouds—such nothingness, such nausea—wondering how in hell we kept faith.  

Always In Between

 

 

Mind-straw reins—it never died: I keep seeing chairs. Restitching seams, begging big ass questions. What in life was painted? And how horribly Nietzsche died. We never mention Camus. So fervidly contrite—living like elasticity, facing plastic morals. And Love, I can feel it, too metaphysical, so we ignore our guts. December comes with an upsurge of charity. We love Jesus! Each tree is decorated. (I’m pointing at something.) Daymares. Nightsong(s). Nothing like koan love, hands trembling, songbirds, inner lockets, why can’t we win? I was unorganized. I never saw a human being. Indeed, to unveil Love was to have disappointed myself. [but]—days in limbo, to see a stranger in his mirror, to notice features, to tread a thin ass line. With pain becoming a legacy, depression an empire, malaise like tangling our guts: some are experiencing redemption, the end hast to be ascension. So jazzy in beliefs, sheer blues through drums, tender to meet the beginning. Such a primal aching, to have seen glory, too special to claim it: (when we might doubt experience!) I grip a lectionary. I lean into faith. I’m not adverse to logic, preferring reason, at times, they seem to disappoint. Souls tried to fortify standards—creating maxims, seething with searching for absolute truth, to make arts into axioms, so inadequate, only parts stuck with us.   

Ancestry Folks

 

We box in frustration until we crack. Love spins webs like spiderwoman. We stir like fire looking for love. We season skies and water earth, sweet soil in clouds. A tree right there, in the middle of nothingness. It used to be so easy in its drilling, it has become like a mirror in hell. One will say, “We decide to be sad.” I’d say, it hasn’t hurt yet. (We play blues, worship B.B. King, drink Brandy on rocks, speak like primitive folks, eat ham hocks with rice, argue over recipes, die softly, and enjoy each other’s company.) I keep rereading souls the flame as it begs to be devoured. Our lonely aches in full crowds. We never perish as we do come realization. Seven days and it was with the sabbath. We hear it inside. It comes with years. It was once easier. We commandeered religion, hid in woods, made crosses from coppice symbols—man of a dozen dreams, a thousand aches the fury of its Passion. If worship is wrong—we harass science, some element hast to measure justice. Still in parts, pieces lost—those scars they made Jesus. A doubting disciple the grave made a foolish entity, the sting snatched; let goodness endure! Something against me; to imagine a dearth of laughter, a belly of thunder, so seasoned for realization, so divested of pure clarity. I noticed a countenance claiming certainty, sunk into itself, feigning gentility, the saddest elixir.        

Mining

 

 

 

It matters more, torn asunder, it becomes normality—notions are opposed. We try our lungs at love, our arteries at rituals. (Energy does something. Never presumed a given space!) Standing closer, more questions, teased and destroyed by perception. Needed more time, I suppose—souls spend essence getting it right, to a subtle and overt detriment to love. (It was torture to undergo it. In hindsight, it gave life. So great an illusion; so potent a river, to pour into baptism.) Been working at a mind’s wharf, so eloquent, too succinct, we unstable one another. Such a smile, years in its perfection, therapy driven, never fully fathomed it; measured in silence, perfected by whetstones, hated and loved, we might laugh it off. Beautiful bright begonias, if to adorn absolute roses—over a cold sandwich and pomegranate juice, glaring, giggling, eyes watering with joy. Sometimes banter stings. To show little remorse, to push further, unto a solemn moment. Buried in features. Making preparations for the existential. Too much is never enough. Furled brows. A reptilian stare. Asking specific questions. Love is ever under scrutiny, sincere and durable doubts. So hard on one point. So easy to believe. (Despite human activity.)  Lord be witness between us; let the myrtle tree sign the declaration. (It was ocean blues when it struck. I suppose a woman smiles to feel irresistible. Maybe a tear for the fallen. If to hold with fever those sheets aside longer life.)     

Feelings or Emotions

 

 

It’s a longer breath-filled wake. To need one, to die in the need. Most try not to emote, this is difficult. A poet needs to feel each emotion, so as not to perish. I was with feelings, not emotion. I studied aura, I sunk into meaning, I lost largely. If to adore—in its ache, if to love, defined inside, based in intensities. If to live! 

I sense an understanding in souls to cherish based in words, a person’s breath is a soul’s witness. One goes in desiring to believe. If disappointed, it comes with environment, territory. I want to say, I’ve never felt in extremes those natural feelings: this is untrue. 

I felt it to know when it’s missing. I’ve souls in us, to visit each other. So succinct a claim. So radiant a belief. I notice most of what we assert comes from internality: a torturing type of gift. Until coming to reality! Life can prove a cruel mistress. Reality is not in search of balance. Even when in reality, it remains elusive. I’ve loved the sky for eternity. That sounds strange. In seeing it bubble up, with flare and devastation, such mediocrity to some, a deeper execution of senses. A dearness to it supposes all see as we see. What undermines seems to win. We seem to desire working harder for Love. I admire our resilience. I favor our arts. I don’t understand our logic. And Love is reasonable; such relatable scars; silent existentialism, and most are aware.

Companionship

 

 

—some mysteries, as in people one desires to meet, to interact with, if the interaction is measured. A soul will love by mystery, adore certain feelings, until, the measurement becomes imbalanced.

 

One will undergo inner aggravation. 

One will try to mitigate intensity by seeking out the beloved. If unrequited, one is left to fight for clarity. We speak of normalcy. 

 

One bounces back with remoras cleaving to one’s consciousness. This is fair in its occurrence; it’s unusual and one must adjust. While adjusting, one has entered a realm. One becomes susceptible to frequencies: to wrestle nothing free, to adjust more—as this becomes part of life. 

 

I see someone in the audience watching as it unfolds, aware of forces.  —it shall dawn upon the writer what has remained hidden. 

 

I realize it may feel like essence, one loves more than the other, self-reflection and all—to be with a soul throughout one’s journey—more adjusting. —in demanding pure freedom to cherish life while void of indifference, soul of my problem, spirit of my angst. 

 

In ridding parts of self and divested of majesty thus destroying understanding, one last sunrise—as if life began there. —so easy to see it. Progress takes years of struggle. And life was accepted on that end: deep-burgundy infatuation, submission infatuation, despite the grays.

 

I was quite unprepared, they say. 

 

One will stir a cauldron, reaching for baguettes, silenced upon the great blue seas. To have been with ambition the flame inside facing quenching. 

 

—aside a soul sat irony; aside a soul lived sadness; one can only shadow the aching, refusing to fail, failing to eradicate malaise, forced to witness a level of dying. It destroys perception, it strengthens bonds, it hurts to lack a panacea. 

Writing

 

 

An obsession; searching for splendor. When it isn’t there—deafening silence. Such an examined level, pleats, gold, if ignited. So many miles, watching the manifest, waiting for feelings to rise. Scraping skies or plummeting lows—a slight variance, just here; one could speak to it, part outrageous, part remarkable. It’s too much; going through mazes, looking at shrubberies, upon a rose petal. (Remnants.) An olden spirit, an ancient obsession, seeking splendor, and done unto activation. Over a dozen meanings. To sort through maxims, bitterness acting differently, not much a choice—pitching visions. Into intuition, pyramid eyes, pure determination. So geometric, such beliefs, genius minded, maybe immortalized; at brains, fields of sugarcane, if to see as it is … souls having a time with reality, skating wilderness, falling into dust storms—thrown into deserts. Free us, Lord! It seems intricate. Generational excessiveness: alike to soothsaying: such necromancy. And what souls tolerate drives us into madness. A soul must remedy the impossible—faced by it. So many suppositions. Fraught by jasmine rain. Eating hope. (Nearly. But not yet.) Waiting on features, subtle reminders. So crucial to it all; so exclusive. In all examination, we fret trauma—knowing it’s there. One foot forward. And beauty had a different appeal, all encompassing, never to perish, as nonetheless, wrapped in perception—until the end of time. To fret over rebellion, akin to resistance, some element inside, disputing dreams, affected by usage, each measure, each avalanche, and it remains remarkable.

Fragments

 

 

I’ve parts inside, visual conversations, waterfalls. (A love of literature invites a level of morosity.) Life is seen differently. While perusing a manuscript, earth is rumbling, to have placed art high above reality, a keen ailment searching to transcend us. I remember a person speaking about people becoming privy. I suspect an arsenal of symbols by now. I keep waiting for us to disappear. I feel like a youngster in that regard. It never disappears. Some people are carried inside—sheer dialogue with them, to gaze off, to hear parts of each sentence. I’ve few souls—making entrance into light, I neither condone nor am I terribly adverse to it. I suspect authors are riven asunder, parts are in and out of realities. 

 

At times, we meet good people.

 

Some have a grip on existence. 

 

Often, mirrored reflections. Where do we feel at home? 

 

One has entered the sphere, it’s up and down, makes for temperaments. 

 

Immortalized. 

 

What will life reveal/What will it signify? 

 

Nevertheless, an active spirit webbing sounds, in omission, neither here nor there, expecting nonetheless. 

 

Impressed against the sensorium, wrapped in nerves, to know with certainty, something I’m void of—

should be at peace, 

language upon waterfalls.

 

II

 

Alike to vulnerable souls, holding it together, laughing with rain seeping out. I admire a few. In wondering, in the accusation, I try to fathom those lakes, those mountains, sheer defined by insecurities. In rushing—it never happened, on a tender foot, it wouldn’t blossom, in taking pace, it’s a hit and miss. I’m at a place where it’s neither affection, love nor disregard. 

 

A hardened shell is confusion. As it needs acceptance, furious trust, to give neither. 

 

We fraught ourselves. 

 

I’m losing appetite. Part ruined; part angelic. 

 

I would find us in the baseline jumping wildly, and a plucked violin, the pangs we’ve paved. 

 

It keeps growing stronger. It has to curtail its countenance. 

 

If it’s possible. 

 

I keep looking at a ruler. I noticed a split: one is adored, the other is loathed. Such sophisticated attacks, I wonder about things unsaid. 

 

III

 

I seldom capture what seizes interior. (Not quite seeing what an audience sees.) I do more remembering, as opposed to writing it out. Maybe verse is different. And art tells a story, even when absent of a saga. Maybe overt at times. No need in being every author; no need in intriguing every instinct. Being of age and algae, in seeing patterns, tragic innocence, and no one is accounted for it, this has ruined some of us. The hand he worshiped, those dungeons, to reminisce in a rush, to shiver a little, with fury raising her child. I couldn’t when it was needed, to pour out existence, it was my place to participate more than take the lead. I keep asking myself: Is it meant to impress or transcend boundaries? Another reason not to speak utter situation is, no one is mitigating it, rather in a surge with chaos, pleased when it churns spirit. (The author, at least.) In the moment, it neither lives nor dies, it’s just a series of symbols. Love was behind on pieces, ahead in attributes, never quite pleased with affairs and events. Another desired sophistication, furious beauty, to be sheer devastation—with a third vying to be an artist, fraught by humanhood, looking into remedy in a substance; we might have crossed spirits, in crossing paths. And Love feels what I feel, stressing frequencies, in seeing the author had some valley, to have understood said valley, to concentrate on that valley. Maybe the valley is dangerous. Maybe a soul is a soul—to long because we long, neither me nor her, just because it feels estranged—and we say, this is redemption, I need nothing, you this, and you that, soul of my soul, life of my spirit.

Mind Wave

 

 

Freedom through its nervousness—an internal clock, known to operate subliminally; alike to sentences and strange islands the gift was imperceptible; an audience knew and they paraded leakage the parable of beauty, an ache in paradoxes, flushed with obsessions—an author to his mind. So familiar, at 70 mph, an intimate freeway, too actual, too determined, so, one might call fey for a favor, wondering to self some type of ownership. In shifting by imperfection, knowing it isn’t enough, we see waterfalls, we admire Picasso, we even visit a temple—walking through memories, taking a glance, stepping into malaise, somber upon a blessing, chuckling with a friend. Pure resistance draws frequencies near; in desiring by essence, fragile into debates, sensing futility. It can’t all be tragic—we make magic, right? An existential glitch; seeing change in beliefs, lost souls, temperaments, genetic designs; life of my life, with much waning. Such a rebel. And so offended by politics. It can’t be all horrible, and it defies being all goodness. Freedom through its unevenness—some type of riddle, in exercising it, one loses it—an unfair exchange of vines. Most radical tangibility inside, sore metaphysical, mind shadows, glimpses, it seemed important. In racing back and forth, alike to gothic forces, to have felt inclined to utter confusions.  

Secular Collars

 

 

Keep daylight in soul, in spite of muddy regions. A man to his determinants, while he lives. And Love is a keepsake, so undermined. Through valleys, ravines, looking at skies, conversing with ravens. I saw a scarecrow get up and drink water. I heard a voiceless man scream in his desert. So deserted, so curious, most of us are concerned, too many reasons to resist. A drawer of moths, a polished cross, an old letter from war days—sewing as we do, peppered with disbeliefs, wondering 

 

why it’s so natural—such dispossession, certain disquietude, facing ups and downs. It all seems organic, making it lethal, if generic, one could offset it—mesmerizing malaise, disheartened, declawed at times—to need with utter fierceness, to fight like dying, at its all—realizing, it’s a gamble. Trekking marshweed, traipsing upon a tightrope, holding principles, so steep in souls, to imagine living and finding life in unsaid principles. Never go lazy on one’s maxims; many will 

 

utter resistance through turbidity, looking for something static, charged by pursuits, last of a tender beginning. By orangeness of it all, at a yellow light, taking in a deep gulp of existence, understanding humans are addictive. Upon high are starlings; low in fields are meerkats; afar are drongos. Nature takes her course, so unrelenting, never questioned, we apply our thoughts. So, accepting, so passive, thwart at moments, kneeling near garden departure.          

Just

 

 

Just needing to break free—of patterns—of repetition; just needing to believe as fledglings, just keeping company. Just because life is uneven, horns and music, pulpits and dreams, if to conquer existence. Just for a moment; just because it feels right; just blues, jazz, devastation, trying to recharge. Just a few remarks, just on one occasion. Fireplace passions, not so fair, a slightness to it all, to welcome it just because. Fierce beginnings. Partway sacrificed. They never knew it would hurt us. They tried. To have one engaging just because. Tragic comforts. Such burning embers—to pull a soul out of self, each scent a scenery. Just in case it never envisions, left to travels with hopes; trying to work it out, trying to make it right, so involved with what let’s go—just because—in making armor, in knitting excellence, just enough to pine forever. Prose as travesty. Adulthood as unmeasured. Childhood as traumatic. Just the music. Just angst. Just meeting for the first time. Just hope. Just healing. Just a vision in a dream. Just partly bypassed. If holding or flirting with flame; if believing against reality; if mind closure is of issue—such cadence, eventual chaos, just seeking credence. So indirect; a soul left to wish as he chooses. And life is so short—finding reason to disregard flickers; soul of spirits, just in case, getting exhaustion mixed with pash. Just because pains are insistent, to sense if it makes rhythm, occasioned to perish—if one paw print.  More to independent loneliness, to accept certain rites, to live unfulfilled, chasing one art, such wonderful and pained laughter—just because the winds are swarming, those cages are opening, and thieves have left the temple—just in case souls were musing, just in case it might resonate.  

Walking Horizon

 

 

With needing ink, with weeping ink, ever encompassing, ever enchanting. I was lost in a time warp. It never seems polite. Too many decisions to make: either subsumed or strategic. One will travel where you’ve been; one will feel estranged, convoluted, unenthused. Life will take on a texture: it could go sour. So much limited time. Once upon creation, neat joys, uniformed happiness, a pleasure to life.  We learned disquietude; private internality, discomfort and winds; so much tends to weigh in the balance, attempting to decode behavior, knowing in part, souls are disenchanted. Indeed. How to gauge accountability?  Longer roads. Pavement stepping.  That trail I took. I warn the unsuspecting soul—a deal of bad nerves.  Colder moments, nonetheless. To glance into a person, to catch a glimpse. If to see in parts, forming a puzzle, missing key pieces. The fire you bring, dungeon equipped, managing a genuine smile; flame of its flicker, courage to adore, never ending endeavors.  I was lost in a fantasy, aging with lights, eager to make life of a situation.  I see by moon-arts, feeling earthquakes, a sickle to interior, solace still arriving. And loving is steep, trying to become all one desires, the insecurity of the fact. Many say—we worry too much, go with the flow, well—the flow is constructed, it doesn’t just make for perfection.   

Spoiled Rain

 

 

Love was genius; weeping low, trespassing, I wonder what God adheres to. Rawness. Back at it, thrown into it, the laws emote. The empire, Jesus, threshed in tender rain, taking portions of the soul. To partake of pains, to watch something you love, to see it killing life. (Too understanding.) It becomes nightfall, during bright and desperate skies, a child kept praying, how did he keep faith? In truth, its damaged; and two adore like coyotes, so many crevices on dice—arguing over a fever. They never included me. I was deeper into it. Angered over swag. Knees to carpet; many will seek solace. What if nothing soothes it—just pacification? To find it intensifies; a lowness becoming natural—in its absence, like hell broke loose. Like a pit at it, gila monster angst, laughing in pain. Big smiles, desperate to believe it, a short trip to graves—lost on wings, another hundred, a neat grimace, a wild bottle of sin. I never asked for a monopoly on it. If it’s mine, I need not ask. So many indecent games, I make quickness to congratulate those most important to her. And Love keeps a space for us, to be what I lean into. Beyond a lease. I keep to guts, kneeling at a temple, part of a legacy, proud to have spirit resurrection. It was never as I saw it. It was ever on a different level. So close to religiosity, throttled by spirits, watching how close it gets.     

War Wounds

 

 

War wounds, sky breakage. To work like oxen, rereading Love, nauseated, focused on condition. Something like forces, I suppose. One bet on weather, palming a tsunami, filled with terrible angst, one pill, they say. Needing advice. Fretting the grandness of loses. A little apologetic about it all. It has to be that way for sanity’s sake. 

To get it right, a tremendous feat—it’s what we’re fighting for, excellence, at all costs.

 

            Such pedigree. Seven baguettes. Righteous flame. 

Can’t enjoy for rich worry—skating shivers, dark chills, and life is first beautified. It reasons why disillusion churns a soul. Such upheaval!  Wealthy resistance. Early graves. I position to believe life is different for differing ranks.

 

            Life keeps souls reaching. And Love is an inscrutable property.  It makes little sense. It engulfs souls. It feels with passion.

War wounds, sky breakage. Such a journey for sojourners of chaos.  Life makes for courage, adrift in mountains, trying to touch artifacts, one gift!

            In it to win, stumbling at pit holes, extracting shrapnel from flesh. 

Voiceprinted

 

 

By dear anxiety—launched from within, knowing for presence what’s proven by experience. And loving you was exciting, sheer joy, passion made unescapable, with wilderness nearby. We were fledglings ignited like engines, revving by arts, weeping through bright, glorious laughter. Ever in awe. Longing for progeny. Furious by the absence of engulfment, sentiments and scales.  A man to his bravado; a woman to her pride—to imagine where souls go astray?  In adoring forever, as loving winds, such reaching tentacles.  Fire by a welkin flame; tender remorse; encouraged to breathe once more.  Tears made into lakes; same water used for baptism; with time slipping into darkness.  To cherish parts unseen, meshing with uncertainty, put to rest—such cadent eyes.  By recognition to have sung by grace. In loving features, souls connected like seas.  And a man will either lose or win himself, stirred into ecstasy, lavish into his wounds. With surging into you, reminiscent of attraction—exonerated through falsehood.  While craving you, a soul couldn’t see lights, on autopilot—mesmerized, enchanted by mythos. Such a delicate mixture, unreality + concrete fever. To unsee rapturous darkness—sung sweetly. Voiceprinted. Steep pressures. In never quite balanced, treasuring romance, spoiled by first experiences.  

Fighting Realities

 

 

Running out of time, a lonely grind, some may visit, however. Trying to seize life, agitated by life, threshed inside, fields. I received pieces of self; I listen to her laughter; it makes a woman aesthetic. Nevertheless, falling into a vacuum, source of endings, thrown into faith. Some needed it. Some selected it. Many begged for it. So morose. So fortunate. Holding against sandpaper, passive enough to be aggressive. I heard a sentence. I kept it to heart. It starts to matter. When saying otherwise. It was this month. I took to silly water. I reminisce on us. Most of us are keeping forward, holding memories. Such prudence; treating dreams like investments. It was intense; ever the measure of ghosts. (I’ll tell a tale of spirit entering muscles, and everyone says, “The poet has gone mad.”) I wish Love wellness, a gift in skies. And Love was quick-witted; we looked, we courted winds, we tended to our lives. It’s amazing how one can testify, hampered by pillows, holding life for her worth. Such twisting inside, so existential, to love more than most, to attest to waning at points. And Love will never know such value, top three, upon a lasting message, and adoring came with time. They remember many savants, gifted, lacking, reaching. It must first make sense. Too many daydreams. Many poets are wrestling, nay, fighting realities.      

All are Braving the Future

 

 

If I may tell it, sore disquieted, greeting memories. Such soul-iniquity, grinding through havens, begging those last three dimensions.  Lord! Enough said.  They extracted what they could, upon sickbeds. And Love is too wise to deceive. We wonder if such is deliberate. Giving it all! They ask if souls are living, as opposed to existing.  Mango cigars. Strawberry gins.  If to ask a deeper question, unrelated to sensuality, to wonder—will I see heaven?  Such a monopoly in dungeons; unseen tears; walking, writhing, maybe a fork splits literature.  (It’s an oddity of feelings; one intends intentions; each moment pushes its presence, itching nearby, if one word to sooth it, I’ve lost all my words.)  Sunshine in a gifted miracle, one smile to see completion, one sin against all I lived for, bled of spirit, dining on what would be; never as it is, while it still appears, losing sight, thrust through by a spear.  What has been done, as it shivers, each kiss is a lance, never realized she hated us.  Moonlit. To live out some fantasy, to never divulge understanding, and I can’t ignore it.  We’ve come to a point where God must be defined, if to speak godspeed. Where adoring is qualified by aching, upon an unredeemed island, such wild calmness, and in reality, the poet lost the war.  I wouldn’t utter a word, wandering bridges, a thousand years out, and God was found to be nonfiction. Losing stability, walking up-straight, only a few made privy, only one knew.      

Worn Senses

 

 

Let the gift be faith. Many at war. We emphasize it. Many ask, why? How it feels to own promise. A man chides his understanding, realizing where he stands, each shift is a celebration of sanity. (With watching comes questions, ease of Love’s rain, one last trace trying its future.) In knowing grief, one knows joy, comparing and contrasting the two. 

 

I might put every suggestion in a hat, so unfair to assess us, full on over there, such sullen silence. I expected misfires, with creatures wafting afar, accustomed to eternal chastisement. Some can’t change—be it goodness or badness. Personality is static. 

 

Pulled into orbit, negotiating with motivation, they call us ambitious. 

 

When it feels like coal, resonates with soot, and grinds one into fiberglass, we call it love. Such aspiration. Damn near irrational. I leave alone those cisterns. I come back to where they dropped me off at. If to lose breath, to flicker into flame, to surrender to imperfection. Such testimony. Healing for the big show. Too disappointed or too infatuated or destined for ambivalence. The pain is this: one loses years, and gets pieces of wisdom. Time is delicate, souls are wasting increments of existence.

 

By graces—faced by faith, for many it’s Moses, for many it’s Yeshua. Vouchsafing. Many mistakes. Holding the torch, running through a storm, trying to warn the community.   

Empty Space

 

 

I’ve been in this space before—it seems natural, the affection of energies. Such interwoven moods, a series of underpinnings. A different type of reality, another form of guessing. So much earth, required participants, principles discussed, certainty in an uncertain land. Part censored to begin with, winnowed like wheat, much held in vibrations. So spatial, incomplete pieces, placing fragments in order, alike to puzzles. One says: “It’s untimely.” Indeed. We work the parts, piecemealing horizons, offering the best one has to suggest. 

Alike to academia: the best one can offer.

We debate secular matters. We build off of exegetical regions.  (In goodness, one will greet us. In response, something will register, as best as reflected.) A soul of its persistence, gathered by its understanding, days of an inner kayak, mind of its covenants. As radical creatures, discerning through fragments, part plumbed in paradox, trying to vet components—in making maxims. 

            I’ve been in this space before—it seems natural, the affection of being human. Many souls, differing temperaments—running a risk of one perspective: we speak to groups; it becomes polemic. We might entertain truths, held sacred to hearts: spirit of his mind, soul of his cave. To gaze off into components, to have gifts, to wrestle with critical spaces.       

Choosing Symbols

 

 

To speak of spirit is speculation, albeit, a symbol, filled with meaning and designation. In my hunger for the symbol, in my thirst for immortality, I die partway, forbidden my greatest craving. (The present warfare has been long. I wonder what I’m telling myself to get through it.) Hitherto, I try to imagine a person’s wound. In realizing my own, I know souls carry existentialism. We leave alone what probes us the most. Such inclusiveness, as opposed to exclusivity, amazed by the horizon. I see an impasse—in rationalizing, I sense it loses its opalescence. I find, at some point, we intentionally do x, or we expectantly do y. We’re often let off the hook. Life is confusing that way. After a while, new titles slip into consciousness—the way each learns to live. (A man ostracized his son. Years later, his son was doing well. The father sought the son out. The son desired a father. And was willing to assist the father financially. The father wasn’t merely pleased by that, he had to deplete the son of his pride. He berated the son. The son tried harder. Neither quite could see what was taking place. This happens, time and again.) In understanding spirit, we see competing end points, a village of acts upon a spectrum, never quite with certainty—a long held dispute. We try to tie knots of clarity. In feeling a certain way. Wondering why it moves this way. To fathom parts and miss chunks. It’s either too much, or it represents life, the norms.  I shift perspectives, listening to gripes, suffocated in parts by philosophy.  Just watched by spirit. Just read by spirit. In what it symbolizes. In pure speculation.  Life is peculiar when freedoms are denied.  I imagine freedom of spirit, independence of spirit, even able to include others by spirit.  (One qualm comes with knowing how spirit entered, a cozen entrance; to then empathize with spirit, a quiet oddity of souls; each observation comes with struggle—it’s quite mysterious how it all operates—one undergoes an analysis of spirits … something suspect … albeit, a form of dialogue.  Each person lives in a box: sharing boxes, trying to break free of boxes: quite possibly—centered in perception … which denies full on accountability in all the negotiations with spirit.)  I go through self-talk, attempting to see exactly as things are, as opposed to listening to my feelings. I fail each time, getting closer, finding a necessity to pardon acts—for the sake of balancing out inside. People, self – included, we’re strict with ourselves, while having a time with holding ourselves accountable. It’s troubling on one hand, we never let up on ourselves, on the other hand, we’re too quick to dismiss our certain faults. Spirit is unique in this sense, some pains are with us, others, by our initiatives, are bypassed.  I try to see, thus, to feel, even when end points are inordinate. This, too, surprises at times.  And we seem to operate off cues. Some induced by others, many seduced by an interior mirror. We also mourn the living. We mourn our thoughts. This is spirit. It gravitates towards mourning. What seems too powerful to carry, the soul attempts to discard, often unaware of the subconscious.  I select mythos, spirit-fire, even though it’s speculation. Spirit gives life.  Last in line. First given to sacrifice. Tales were told. We call fables comfort food. In fact, those rare creatures were destined to think differently. The penultimate distinction is seen in responses. It doesn’t explain why some are mourning their responsibility and others aren’t. The ideal calls deviation a behavioral malfunction. The ideal is often unsubstantiated; it just seems better than other options. Spirit determines its necessities. Spirit lives contrition.                

Immemorial times those feelings affected by lusts.

 

 

It rarely falls as it should. In forcing syntax, one dies. So precedented; one dream those days, and nerves were fretting. Affected by lusts, innocent desire, naïve desire. Light forms in each life. Darkness dissipates at moments, only to return. In seeing like others, it churns. In being self, I realize I’m unfree. Still lascivious, with banshee cravings, disputing a halo, a scar, a tint of falsities. It rarely falls as it should; even then, some part is missing. Love travels a portal, morals are placed neatly, what we ought to do takes precedence, with space to see humanity, as one longs for clarity, one sees into horizons; and it was fire to alarm us, such facial glitter, knowing it all started with flame. Souls kept looking outwardly, probed internally, missing what some kept as a riddle, so casually to announce life. Now souls smoke hookahs, debate what’s written, wearing tunics, asking permission to speak. Prose has a mind of its own. It tells a story. It desires lusts. It dreams of polite silence, to adore—to live by joys, with a somber aftertaste. Through years, watching an inner person, best of oneself, still unclear, failing to try, longing into a breeze. Prose would have a soul confessing love, pleading for orisons, made a mantis, begging for punishment. Sweet charms, deadly spirits, to be with antennas high, defenses low, to believe in others again.