If it weren’t for Communion

 

 

A soul has an ache, an incurable dilemma. We call it Condition. The soul still soars, made fearless. Those stars shine, they tell a story. In examining the existential, a soul stands resilient, arguing each premise; such otiose pleasures, made temporary, such measure in a phantom. Secerning begins to unveil life; discerning winter, celebrating summer, examining autumn. Certain beautiful rain, to feel thunder; sweet enlightenment. To have noticed an inner sound, looking into a dim room, to suddenly know existence. Loving when it’s impossible; anguished in the midst of joy; mended and set free to wolves. The courage of tigers, 7 lions, and 5 meerkats. We sense a tale, as departing from tradition, with everything to tell; much outstanding malaise—coupled with happiness, a sort of sullen bliss; such mixture with waves, an undercurrent of untraditional improvisation; in adoring texture, to dispute observation, filled with lightning, whet to understand by flicker, by flame. We notice in midst of sorrow comes a visitor: Lord blesses alertness, wandering as souls, entering the temple, seeing with open spirit—those eyes have poured out in pneuma. The excellence of many years, aging towards closure. By existence gives entrance into Condition: if to master waves, to envelope chi, still with sweet tyranny.  

Spirit Sunrise

 

It was emphatic and it was sewn into spirit and it longed for closure. It started in what we call, freedom, it debuted in a cave. Such axioms for beginning spirits; such depth of pain for established souls. To love Father is to worship in agony to resist recrimination—as intractable persons, nay, to dig deeper, to feel maelstrom, as joying pain, as at an impasse. The study is an art—a greater accomplishment: sullen by holy hands, angelic by misery’s paintings—a cluster of emotions, a ruby in spirit, a countenance belying what traipses beneath the surface. As an absorbent soul, mystic onus of mind, to have met in utter surprise—aloft and with motion, soaring into spheres, etching at reality. It was eagerness, concentration, others were elongating meaning. The word is so tainted now, but it was “cultic”—as in hidden, disputing and debating with itself … borrowing. It became mystic in weaving the enwoven elements given to contradiction, Word found purpose in us. Such would rival for redemption—bereft of absolution, fraught by interior hunches; nothing in assertion, everything in what’s written, across a lasting spectrum, notwithstanding, all has come through humankind … we lean into the fatidic understanding—by ocean, land and seas. We depend upon excellence—of presentation, artistic exposé, cadence and faith. By lived expression—to fall short of indomitability—to feel granted redemption, upon souls and hierarchy. We profess 100% of both divinity and humanhood; we sense what is said; we deny humanhood. In seeking, a spirit will come across phenomena—in seeing, a soul will need to confess—such clear nebulosity—pure disclosure, peppered by some ethereal strain … in deeper accuracies … in magnitude, finding reason to believe in community, tenets and faith.   

To See Goodness in an Adversary

 

 

In feeling you—the memory is embedded. In waring against a feeling, resistance became a shrine.  To have ached in sunrise, to have fallen while galloping, a coarse course, a casual sacrifice. With denying elements, to fret over grayness, to deal with being human, in all perfections, in all hells; a dance as it makes its impression, indelible ink, spectrum spirit. In not broaching the topic, in not acknowledging the aftermath, as it was for that purpose, to announce a sort of living and dying; crumbled and discarded, trampled and forgotten, or affected and watched, read and felt, balanced and chaotic. We call it, balanced chaos. (Never as it would soar into orbits; to deign to by its majesty, to provoke elements, such terrific, terrifying fey: inside flickers, lanterns on high, fitted for a nun, wafting in spirit, certain unspoken crafts.) While it manifested—one ignored exhaustion, one withstood whispering, one was fierce to the fields. Such holiness; in its reigns. As galloping all night—remaining night-less. Such was never without meaning, pushed by affections, thrown into lakes. A man to his folly. A woman to her awareness. And never a second to not foreshadow; and never a second left unguessed; to buckle down, to dig deeper, to loathe the one she haunted. Filled by logic, concerned by emotion, an effusion into the universe—tugged by wars, framed in high esteem, to exact vengeance upon one found wanting. In daring not to speak of webbing, such crucible, to invest in hatred and see goodness. To become paradox, to desire Father, to pour out an oblation—to paint with spirits, to have died in soul, a life one must keep sacred.    

Human Prime

 

 

You surprise me when you stand inside. I know it’s a message; it seems vague; it feels uncertain. I was with desert when you rained in. Trees were planted in that soil. The garden is filled with petals. We keep palming sky—becoming weather. Nothing has unsilenced the contempt, aside for elements and motion. You were with ice—a blackhole. I measure how it appears—fraught by confusion, refusing what comes, for it feels askew. The mind and its universes; the allegory of a cave. Plainly opposite of what’s expected. Rough patches. Railroad trains. Pools neglected and filled with algae. Old plastic tubes filled with part air. To move a snail. To pick it up. To look at it as an entity. Many are dreaming about closure. Many more are creating satisfaction, as it drifts. I haven’t changed my mind—in saying, redundance can come with nuance. A man to his hobbies. A woman to her masteries. It means so much to be addressed with kindness, if paying attention. With music in waves, causes art and distraction; with terrors come appreciation—with love comes motivation. I’ve let some ideals whisper away, others have vanished. It’s not in my horizon—a soul blessed and cursed. We’ve read it. We can see it. Prophecy is multivalent. 

 

I never understood you until you became vocal: times with tears. I never unsilenced you. Such a humble paradox. To watch as days became fragmented, where wraiths roam. I never sounded out a syllable until we met. I never read that way. I do not hear what I see. And the world is pregnant with pash, born reluctantly, needing more than what we give. Bless the givers!  I read only one poem. I saw how phantoms shift. It is so much to walk away from, when given an option. If a person knew the whole story, that soul would be surprised. Poems are complex simplicity, nothing more, nothing less. To speak about a river, its flow and flux, its rhythm and cadence. To till a garden, or palm a sword, to ask if said sword is at the gate.  I needed breath. Albeit, it ached, it brought me life.  I remember guffaw, rumbling, intention upon what is now upon us. Many will decide. Many more will become eschewed. Those circles will tighten. Indeed, I compliment a person, by becoming that person.  I’ll let that truism remain dormant.  It was easy to feel for a soul in distress.  It was painful to imagine it could have been others.  A person is by design a particular makeup. The conglomerate personality can become united with myriad souls. 

There Isn’t Time Left

 

 

I become weary, gracefully disagreeable.

Never as it could be; never as it was.

Maybe better; maybe worse.  I ran the good

Fight; I tired short of the goal line.

And you have uncertainty; and you have 

Certainty.  I could hear it. It dances where

It rivers: sunlit promises, war-bound

Innocence.  Maybe more than a glint, a 

Glowing heart, a midocean casualty.  In 

Seeing it was writhing, made existence 

Difficult. In sensing it ballet, made for 

Lucky absence.  I was fraught by dice, edged

By memories, to have unlikely dreams. I 

Sit at an impasse; life is chasing swiftly.        

Deeper The Visions

 

 

I go from intimate rain—to secluded in a whim; jewelry roses, battled feelings, looking at loss too often. Like God reincarnated Job. Many dismiss the gamble. Who was really winning? I get to praying, it feels cathartic, if to persuade another to try it. I keep catching visions. And others are oblivious. 

So cross-cultural, no one wishes to face it; cages keep chasing. This is the reality: souls carry infinite glitches.  

And over around a dungeon, under an inner prison, to debate over how love will die; such a lost art, so many trying harder, if to reach what never reaches itself. 

Free the spirits. Unbox the fallen souls. Possess the carcass!

Daily at thoughts. So tired of what I can’t fathom. Knowing something is askew. 

I was introduced early; never was an adolescent; too grown to listen. (Ain’t been there, I respect that.)

Love was sullen, still business, still performing, standing stalwart: Love was filled by debates, caring for her soul, trying to maintain faith. 

Tell him, I was going through it. Tell him, he made the right decision. And visions keep coming.        

Features

 

 

They often pretend not to be nearby. They’re right there. Acute awareness. Interior negotiation. I was long into an ache, created by souls, to have arrived at your compass. The damages done; the future on hiatus. And Love listens, more skilled than some, forbidding the darkness. I was ignoring feelings, a deeply held strategy, where you arose in a cloud. I had it incorrect, the face of time, making waves, manipulating motion. You just came to mind. I swept it away. It came back. All I’ve suspended, is all I have. The laws are daunting. Who can measure? Grace is uneasy, most are unwarranted. I imagine less and less; boxed into reality, if I’ve uncovered with accuracy. By devilish deed: what a soul never fathoms: hoping for eternal interest. I no longer debate it. Plainly put, most dreams never see fruition. It was never my space, those charms, exhausted and passing forward. One tacit possession: hearts beating with legends: so fluffed, so billowy. To walk in mind, captured by fancy, threshed by violins. To praise vocality, as one raves over religion—sore hearted, disputed gusts, forbidden winds. As casual opposites, thrown into devastation, abased, resurrecting, finding excellence. And more to debate, terror to focus—chaste in a vision, thwart by cultures, framed by a musing, ever and anon.         

Earth Passion

 

 

It feels uneasy as it chances. It sacrifices itself, its feelings. In seeking closure of spirit, the wound opens wider. Some pains are timeless—they pulsate. And this line of poesy collects unpopular accolades. Indeed. Something is wrong with that acclaim. To possess values, to give all in believing, trampled by ideals, asking for correctness. It reeks of uncaring winds—in total disregard, it seems new aged. Souls demand victory, made possible with cooperation, such anguish between spirits. A soul faced by confrontation, musing upon confusion, marinating in frustration. To see it’s universal; to hear self, mumbling clichés. Love is a relic, a charm, made vulnerable. Thus, love is a field of battles, a river of casualties, a few excellent manifests. A person is made wise through familiarity; a person is made unwise through eagerness. If two cherish similar virtues, facing warfare palm to palm, we imagine they can withstand existence. Such promise, into a vortex, escaping life, as it would seem; availing in time, rough through patches, unending entanglements, restudied forgiveness. In essence, a soul is dim, to feel strained, as days are lengthened by passions.       

Unsung

 

We died early on

            one dangerous kiss

timeless agendas …

fill a soul with praise

            give a person her spirit

such terrible redemption …

            endless grapes, forbidden wines

so close so far apart

aching language          seeking arts

            militant eyed   military pinions …

fill a soul with understanding

            give a man something to believe in

asking for 

                        rapture …

under a thousand winks          in

                        knowing chemistry     in 

collecting value

such a button               newly awakened

making alertness         life was getting empty

what one demises                    has given

                        life ….

Price of The Soul

 

 

Prophetic presumptions. In wilder wanders. With trying to understand you. Sheer knowingness, as never a kindled ember. And across seas a soul would perish, disputing goddesses, and it never lived, so it never hurt. Such a darkened cello—to imagine such strings, one wayward arrow. It seems we suggest—one adjust, for another says, it’s apropos. Nothing assertive; just looking at necessity. Like salve upon a palette—like rain into an Ark, like chi made airborne; twilight remnants, colors in hearts, spaces upon moons. And raised to fathom cries, taught to seek answers, threshed by understandings. Such a flawed man—to feel affected, where it alters realities. “Life shouldn’t feel that way.” I suppose it depends. I imagine each group has its woes. 

Origami clouds, purple ornaments—big bulbous eyes; so arbitrary—so one-sided, if to believe in it, where would it put me? Upon a viola, to qualm over Paradise, headed into a roaring wind, if all were afforded one vision. Forced to balance it out. Too much in either direction might strike a waterfall. It seems stifling, while it restricts, partway—some type healing agent. The price of the soul!      

Accustomed To Concerns

 

Take it to the church.  We’re debating freedoms. 

People seek to understand your laundry—your earth, invested fully.

If to sip your geometry, to see why decency counts.

And how we ride clouds, proud to have lived.

Such a great battle, doing all to survive, life proposing wars, filled by cadence.

I noticed, many are powerful: they know the language, they live the silence.

When it happens, overwhelmingly, I stand, marveling, as if I’m new to it—it’s amazing that way.

I was struck by Epiphany, stomach-hearted, to sense a dungeon, more than self-imposing. 

Some know freedom—if rational.  We went from appeasing gods, to discussing science, to blending elements.

And if love means, it will soon ache, how do we walk away from that?

Take it to psychiatrists, professors, and see, if to listen to answers.

It becomes gray. In knowing what philosophy is—with seeking an absolute answer. 

I envy certainty; it flaunts about; it seems ill-fitted.

Indeed, a sour tinge, a dim coloring, with symbols pointing at positivity.

People are interested in family, children, riches.

Alright! 

Alright!

Nothing But Feelings

 

Three names, by a ghostly art, each breeding Intuition. Such a deficit. Yearning nonetheless. Begging for piety. 

A large ass wall: penetrated by faith. 

Inner inadequacy: rereading classics. 

In need of concentration: only a few are with knowledge, no one knows but those that know.

I try in not trying to speak to you. 

When humans are with moods, we reach out. 

Aside darkness, feeling a torch, I wonder what souls desire. 

The future seems incomprehensible. 

Thank Goodness for each Trance. 

In seeking the Great Ghost, such doubt attacks, trying to receive love.

Winning in the losing: anxious to laugh again. 

So many secrets to war, an art in seduction, made patient to live deaths. 

Certain self-prophecy, to exhaust a thought, knowing one I ache is in pain. 

Fallen Leaves

 

 

Total disclosure; winter was green. We dance in a way, we envy each other. 

One remora, one crocodile, one dear ransom. 

I went through a spell. It’s amazing how souls crush. 

With all you have, I took it for granted. 

We set demarcations on happiness: riches mean joy. And

partner is gray.

I was with coppice, looking at a frontier, remembering how it opened.

We’ll try, as they say; we’ll forfeit at a precise second. 

It feels awkward; to have offended so much—while it meant wines, berries, apricots.

Haven’t flickered a candle in months: haven’t longed into feeling human in weeks. Parts croaked. To realize it means existentialism. 

So rabid for it, so subdued by it; so estranged from it. 

To sit and gather roots, to find something is wrong inside.

Most enjoy on a different level. If finding this is life, we have chimneys to clean.

Partial disclosure; summer was cold. 

Unborn Is Different

 

I was a kid inside. With looking at footprints. Ink bleeding. Such becomes abominable. Keeping secrets from self. One appeared today. In all my understanding, I missed understanding. Over watermelon with lemonade, watching identity, aware of influence. A man wishes to live. He knows he lacks ultimate control. He thus acts as if. I saw a sightless soul. I walked deeper into my mirror. It rarely carries correlation. Many ignore that. What if all of it is for naught? So bleak. Such murky skies. While knowing all of it means life, inching towards liberty, imposed upon by Nature’s Will. And I like her essence, with much refuting our cries, in these days, feeling linked. 

Most are paying attention. I never fathomed the tyranny—wondering why souls tremble. Instead of opening to infinity, one might have a time with finitude. —for times are gray, made transient, to invest in life with utter exhaustion. I just guess, I suppose. Wondering what makes a soul live—to enjoy essentials—to feel satiated—to adore relentlessly. The disappointment of souls—asking for concrete, wrestling over contrast, abstracts, too many froward memories. BUT—watching is life, participating is existence, aching becomes depth, such frightening reality. Someone taught a soul. 

            (We will both fail.)

And Love had excellence, where anxiety is in fears, such salacious undertones, surefire appetites. Gazing as men do, said a fraction of her emotions, threshed inside.    

Tomorrow Has Her Own Ghosts

 

Assuredly, it’s a desperate process. Such neat rain, trying to control illusion. I’ve entered an arena, faced by lions, the audience is ecstatic. (Such chaotic intuition.) So close—it whispers; sullen meadows. Rites made alarming. Interior walls; sky captivity. (There’s nothing left to be said: most activities seem wrong.) The argument sounds morose. In listening to it, it sounds damning. (The way souls are couth: such became ideal.) So edged about it, like good cactus, leaking water. Those ferric departures, holding bronze faith—decent enough to see patterns. (Loving has been an adventure; amazed by what souls demand; disputing darkness, waves, glass slippers.) I was wondering where connections go. I was sailing through thoughts, cogitating about love, glamourizing her excellence. For many, it was time until a dear chase took precedence. Raindrops upon mind-chatter, listening to Al Green; days looking into nights, benighted at points, tired of it. I see now. It becomes tussling forever, in claiming love. It wills to make souls sour. It sees itself differently. It has lost touch, as they say. (What was it for me to suggest it, it was a mirror at breath.) To sense holding one’s on head; carrying one’s on cross; learning to love one’s on self. (Or) something quite gray: a troubled man, living his nightmares, nothing without his darkness, caught in some convenient web, as truth would have it, one has nothing else to do. Told to lay burdens to Christ, (I will keep him at peace that keeps his mind on me)—nearly impossible, nearly incomplete. I can’t find it in me. I’ve lost gusto. Indeed, tomorrow has her own ghosts.

Weaving Purple Night

I would jettison a poem in trying to believe. I must admit, I stand accused. Such ripe feelings; to force a feeling, to face a drought. Mind invasion, such distraction, if it means something compelling. I wouldn’t in such a vein, as needing reality, where anxieties are forged. I awoke one morning, crying in dreams, such moisture from eyes. I fear to assert it: everything is manipulated. I find a pain in effect; to cause one to love, as to feel emotion by such love. Indeed. It makes little sense. A soul worked on from intestines. (I would like to select whom I love.) The fool in me! Something so sacred, so intimate, to awaken one day and know for terrors. Love is an ache. Love is baffling. Love has skies, interior rainfall. As many will cherish, and many will fall, surreal magnetism. I was with a second of privacy, to gaze at a watch—seeing life as maze, as glitter. I opt out. I don’t see it like surety. (And Love is by glamour, certified ecstasy, needing indemnity—those wildflowers, those swamp wars, upon a mayfly, in mimicking a fallen warrior.) Aside a promise, to write for an audience, as opposed to making salt. Watching and building up nerve, to adore with excellence, to need something growing inside; as it gives life, marble texture, caricature & joys.    

Disconnected

 

 

 

I keep ignoring an image popping up. I’m too concentrated. I love how souls reach each other. In whistling to atmosphere, I’ve missed oiling the lantern. I read a scripture, it seemed appropriate, finding you in Songs of Songs. I was born illegitimate. I was first wild. In becoming couth, much vigor was pawned. Nonetheless, I see an image, it pushes daily, it’s part whole, part complete, tugged by deserts, oceans, rivers—those vague objects, where I dwell with feelings, I wrestle emotions, I battle to see clearly. I’ve so much in circuits, receiving in parts, the best of a soul. I’ve been effectual, as in being clear, trying to reach myself. The news says there’s a spirit—such roaring tsunamis, to have in part what can’t be contained. I’m an untethered spirit, tethered nonetheless, fleeing into wilderness, remembering wildness, seeing beauty in a delicate countenance. I was young begging for wisdom. I was wild into a thought. So delicate, drenched in doubts, it was so grand each display, murmuring in spirit. I see an image; it impresses upon a glass ceiling, certain to have received beyond description. Interior B.B. King, outer Prince, to see a face—where it makes an indenture, so related to time. I do make penance—too captured by authenticity, moving with snails, looking for cosmic determination.  

Dawn of Webs

 

 

The extent one is willing to go might suffer a deficit. (One jasper rose. One resurrection.) Existence is by rituals; tender rites, permeated seasons. (The leap might prove displaced.) At moments with comforts, lashing out at self, flogging an inner sanctum. (Neat pangs; repetitive differentials.)  

 

So soothing a voice—angelica lungs, so battled inside, longing for parts and pieces, never complete.

 

Say it plainly. Or say it in Latin. By ecclesia; coming around full circle, always a mile behind.

 

Many persons of stature; many dissatisfied. In needing what releases to wolves. A feeling alike to abeyance. If to carry atmosphere; if to plant a prayer.

 

By meter into solace, each undulation filled with yearning; gray areas, jasmine petals, a melodious scent. 

 

Withering images. Imaginary mirrors. It comes to disbelieving reality, while chasing reality. By treasured substance, aloft essence, aloof breath—those cadent cries, fretting awakening. 

 

With coming back—there’s an admission—made subtly; thrown away, into a universe, rekindled in time, loved beyond comprehension.  

Unexpected Silence

 

You make it look easy. The pain is by glory. Hard won. Hard earned. It sounds so general; thus, unreachable. So tragic in arts—so allergic to flattery. It couldn’t be truism; it couldn’t be life. I was with awe. I was amazed by passions, frequency, deliverance. It seems like science, it carries magic, oh soul of antiquity. I’ve texture with skies—focused, pivotal, driven. If by agony, to stick like nails, thrust through palms, delving into soil. You make it look easy—in knowing to carry life is aching. Just speaking to universality. Most grow accustomed to being used. It makes genuineness a difficult appetizer. And longing hurts, some indecent art, to imagine so much of what is perceived. If that one moment, to feel perfect, making tragedy seem eloquent. So celebrated, so uncelebrated, so much intensity. You make it look easy. No one searches through caves—to see pained petroglyphs. I walk into horizons, measured upon a dial, in some gesture; a man of minimalism—days are monitored by an inner compass, feuding with invisibility, aching in presence, leaving life to itself, an error. Most try to say what enchants—to have forever in a moment, so difficult to reignite. (Passion would be frustrated. Angelizing a potential imp. So, moving every encounter: Why wouldn’t one inflict hardship? To become what one detests, out of a drive to reap terrors; to ask for what another was granted; sheer interior negotiation, for a lifespan.) To make it look like Italy; to become holy as Israel; to look as human a Californians. (I was into a zone, rethinking reality, seeming delicate, realizing roots, sensing abruptness.)   

Some Capture Life

 

Carrying cargo. A blank glare. Never to dredge too much up. Somewhat a boxy feeling, radiant chaos. The skies are in pigtails. I’m still a child. I was late in life and developed an occasional stutter. The data is overwhelming. I’ll find time to sort through it. In part, it belongs to The Condition. I no longer see just trees. This is a triumph. And I still enter a blizzard for a kind soul. So much laboring, an interior anti-lounge, atomic mesmerism. 

In those woodsheds, buried inside, one prominent face, one interjection, one ghost. Such Parousia, by no greater effort, while filled with works. 

Carrying cargo. It seems to be a mission. With intention made negotiated. 

Looking at self, akin to an allegory. So tender the final catharsis. Those country personas. Those city swamis. Trying to sit closer to closure. By greater efforts. Putting soul to plough. Taught to look back regardless. At once, disqualified. 

Such voltaic flickering—many more pages—a Cajun diary. I never located totality of existence. Some are enjoying splendor, winged, chiseling sculptures. Explicit in texture, by pith of passions, fabric flame, wrapped in subtle magnetics. 

Signature

 

Breakfast was silent; watching self, eyes garden into a future. To need what comes, to erase what was, to believe in souls. A different type of dying. To see patterns. To dye reality. Only a best friend will forgive you. And if I were captain, I’d pick you in first draft. Brooding has been pivotal: no need in confiding in iron. To have loved, as it presumes itself, while behaviors are automatic. Taught to receive. Taught to aggrandize. Tortured by beauty. 

Loving you is a project. It shouldn’t be tetras. Adoring is adrenaline pains, a portal, Love, like begging ten minutes before earth implodes. Our days alike to gods, akin to goddesses. Such Greek tragedies. 

I was sicker. I asked for it; a silent ruby, those tan eyes, assailing hips, accustomed smiles, a deeper consciousness—so alert, measuring each second, and I never confessed much. Just a hint to it—an inner world, filled with beliefs, never vetted, never unsolicited. I met an unbelief—diamonds in stars, morbid miseries, hugged close, a tear fell.  So smooth at moments, she isn’t trying; certain chemistry, Korean eye gloss, Hollywood pride.  I haven’t forgotten much. I aim to fix much. It requires one tender discussion.  Souls are warm, needing one signature. 

Quizzical

 

 

I truly question souls. I think for many, life is sincere, others take existence for a joke: sheer manipulation—nothing is pure, treasured, deserving indemnity: nothing is holy, God has passed away, fire in hearts belongs to mortals. Such incurs jealousy.

            Life is what we perceive, until reality proves unpuzzling.

            I truly believe in souls—the power found in pains, those pianos, such sullen spirit chimes. 

I was old fashion, passe, faced by the charms of pash. Some wraith attacked consciousness; indeed, so nonsensical—and we seem indeterminate. 

Love is bold. Just to redeem some gesture. Again: it means so little. 

I truly ignore souls. Most aren’t aware of what they desire. 

            What I seek isn’t there. It doesn’t exist. 

            We close with flame flickering.   

A Saga Contains a Life

 

 

One story for a man’s life. The aftermath shall attest to his worth.  

Stain glass reflectors; the world living in spaces, entirely consumed.

Adaptation: with or without participation. 

Relooking at mirrors, same sights. (We would placate each other. People live that way.)

Porcelain sinks: visible darkness. In those shadows sits a ventriloquist: so much an appetite for stressors. 

 

Trying. I’d suppose. Maybe not hard enough. It all looks similar. I do know: “We’re all trying.” 

I see sharks and remoras. I see lions and cheetahs. 

They haven’t been faced by it; they haven’t experienced it: “Maybe they have. Maybe it was overwhelming.” 

 

Most of us took a longer road, followed an inner map, died and returned a little lethal. Interior crucifixion, reaching for an Ideal, needing to believe in something beautiful. 

 

To listen to it is surprising. It always shocks me. I couldn’t do a person that way. This is what’s gorgeous about humans, a compass, looking to do right. To look at a person. To know one would die before hurting the Ideal. It remains an Ideal.

 

One story for a man’s life. What did he accomplish? How many kids? How many wives? How much money? 

 

What did he attribute to the zeitgeist? How many loved him?  

Root Hydrant

 

 

I can’t get close to it. I can’t run away from it. I keep with sins, I thresh islands. So cured for cursed, so found for lost. I was a child, angling for a giant, pushing memories. Love is Art. Art is Music. Blatant cries! 

Those inside, are at war. I 

find life in a bassline. I Found mesmerism in a student. 

It’ll never be; reason to forfeit fancy. 

            It’s a fucked reality, bleeding rubies, most are taking shrooms. 

Such perfect uneasiness, such decent intoxication, to see us refusing joys, hampered in soul, laughing nonetheless. 

Keep it. It wasn’t mine. 

Be proud. It has accomplished its goal. 

I can’t get close to it. I can’t run away from it. 

Try measuring mathematics, a glacial algorithm—

High speed, a late night, puffing a cigarette.

And you would appear. As upon a thought. So sickly powerful. 

It’s better to a thought, albeit, it haunts, something infinitely with discomfort. 

Something was wrong. It was me. I had to listen.   

Dogwood Drifting

 

It shouldn’t be offensive. Frantic, backgammon dreams. Mental hells or havens, asylums. To need what needs; to cure what cures. Souls are haphazard. Pains are heart-born. In affliction something indomitable proved essence. Lost innocence became sincere, impossible facts. So kamikaze, such origami, dying to live, dying nonetheless, a slow pace, hoping in a friend’s arms. Gathering reach. Casual disciplines. At it so long, indeed, it seems natural, without it, life would lose meaning. A woman was mad at me. She used soul earth. She sits affected. She ignores affectation. So presumptuous. So eager. If one taught me love, I’d run. (So great a dangerous soul.) What if a person supplied everything one was infatuated by? In return, a person would be powerful. No one quite gets it. They think the poet a little off. If a person is not challenged, they lose respect. Too much certainty leads to a riff. Better, to have mutuality, demands, needs, an infectious resistance. (So tremendous a treasure-trove, an underestimated keepsake, some person’s love or ache. To adore in return, to seek security, to get fired up. Never naïve, ever naïve, moving through flames, exciting vibration, ruminating in undulations.) Such lyrical frequencies, surefire magical winds, holy gatherings, to sense something as it never would have manifested. Maybe an angle, to peek, to see first letters—dancing with it, loved it, missing it as it gives up the Ghost. Nay, underground wilderness, to see it peak, to claim a new challenge, to drift, Lord! 

Overwhelming But Subjective

 

 

You might appear in a shadow. I might appear in a sentence. Maybe you have a God’s eye view. Maybe you’re sitting in a den, reading Robert Greene, vowing to be a decent soul. I never know anymore, as if I ever knew. Such has been for change. Souls were receptive; it wore out its welcome. Anything written comes back. Anything believed, when shared, is challenged. My hemispheres are aching. I assume your frontal lobes are activated. Trying to shorten messages, maintain some depth, with life seeming uncapturable. They will all come back with a notion for uncanny lights. I found a word. I kept hearing it. It is deplorable. It is significant. I aim to use it in a religious context. I need to read up on it. Nevertheless, if I can push passed the barrier—to that dangerous space—to have in like a color unto Purple Rain. Needing something is different from fancying something. As there is a place in humans, utmost divine; to have been in grayness, to have felt alienation, to return gliding upon an existential. Each word flustered by meaning; each glance frustrated by intention; each study pulling at the human soul. Into rhythm; fraught by cadence, to have communed in delicate forests. So many thousands of years—with little in return, to clarify, evidence is subjective, yet real as wind, breath, overwhelming hertz.  

Taking a Closer Look

 

 

The meaning is change. The future is impatient, made dependent. 

What one looks for—often unrelated to what one seeks.

Tables full of lamps, only one is picked.

            What separates lightbulbs? 

To palm a diamond, needling it, demanding perceptibility, ignoring closure. 

            In essence, substance, to magnify a paragraph.

            You make it look uncanny—easy at directions.

            With seeing it in simplicity—it took hours, some poems take years.

            In seeing accuracy, made for appreciation. 

In feeling distance, made for self-investigation, it ought to be both.

A soul sees goodness in all things.

A soul is different.

Such a soul outwitted disappointment.

Heathy or not?

In praising, it does some unique element.

In pouring it out it purges a soul. 

            To see a gift, to admire it, such a mirror’s inspection.

By The Souls Pondering Love

 

 

I just wrote something about love. I was indifferent to need, as it churns, by reason to have travels, concerns, aches, losses, a portrait inside. A soul is jaded, filled with hope, pleading inside, speaking to ghosts, asking for promise. I was without a notion, rethinking the situation, as to have experienced in like manner, disputing in self the waves of existence. I refuse to quote scripture. That agitates souls. So much has transpired. That seems irrelevant. I was a songbird at love—too immature to know love—too affected to absorb by essence: lakes, roses, wines, grapes, ancient picnic baskets, arcane quilts. To need a soul; this is in quintessence the art of love—such vulnerability, such want. To enter looking for guarantees: “How do I know you mean that.” We don’t. That hampers us. Open seas. Determined gods and goddesses. To have seen it—working against it—to have one incredible experience. Love drives a soul mad. And I was passing out freedoms, so released, a passing fancy—feuding with reality, disputing sentiments, refusing reality. Sort of aberrant, right? I won’t speak to it—it makes no sense—our society entertains the chosen few. It’s amazing how that works. I do thank you—those months digging into human soil, arranging thoughts, having intense feelings, and tasting unreality.   

The Souls of Skies

 

Certain physics build mansions; something meta connects souls. With asking one needs – each famished for mind-ship, while darkness is by infatuation, by soul-maze. I took to grayness, pure imagination, steeped in emotion. An uneven excursion, fraught by exhilaration. Captured in it. It kept with velocity. 

It's just for a time.

Mornings will be warmer. The sun will speak incognito. Maybe a deepness, a realization, as one is with breath. 

Tender arts. Turquoise magic. 

There’s more to life. So warlike, thus, bellicose, felt abstruse to self, so imperceptible. 

To image a feeling; to feel unattended; forgetting origins.

It’s just for a time.

I sense tentacles. I fret its science. 

If never born again, something meta, it lives eternally.

The souls of skies, right?

To Emote

 

Consummate infatuation: I could never emote like you. To feel depth, to imbue with presence. Each moon breeding pash. 

The scents waft; sheer inebriation. Such phantom wings, where souls grow.

To love is to live, as sages insist. 

Such sagacity; such sullen sunshine. 

With dying to meet you, with living to run from you, a soul is confounded. 

The strength of those tresses; by value of broken skies.

Loving a thought of you, hating the death of time. 

Such passionate adventures, macro-prayers, silent annunciation, internal chants.

Tepee visions. Aircraft electricity. Looking unimpressed.

Mesmerized by shimmering eyebrows. Scintillating lips. A dear type of repulsion. 

Life as a paradox: tugged for pushed.

Cashmere clouds. Threshed sunshine. In needing excellence, in desiring perfection, in ruining existence. 

Gritty

 

Too much too little; major pressure, slow progress. Most upmost interior, swerving through fantasies, aloof to myself, eye jumping, still with a hard smile. So won; so bossed out; the 

 

world is just like me. Trying to maintain distance, running into self, so many boulders in skies. To flood a universe, all indebted to a rainbow, like losing was illegal. Loving you

 

was easy. Love picked up game. We at it. I walk away, grinning, it feels good. Made it that way. Juice with gin. Vodka with cranberries. We sat all night. Too much too quickly. 

 

Spoiled on life, unaware of her fury. They would find something, a bad ass Diamond, to kneel at dice in an alley. In getting lost, in fiending for 

freedom, reading a love letter, 

 

crocheting a response, turned up. Suede boots. A white blouse. A black bra. Deep dark denims. A medallion. A scarf. Like winning. To have her—like a gift. She remains cold. We

 

laugh at bullshit. Close enough to know reality. A thousand on a bracelet. Just to look at me and proclaim: “You sentimental.” And bust out laughing. Put to gems, bags 

 

raw, Love a bad ass comrade. We skate into dusk, reasoning over elegance, trying at a fancy life. To look at me, and divulge pains, to ask for something better. 

Losing Ideals

 

Knowing each line is a miracle.

Plucking a ross petal is disqualification. 

Mind-caves in midst of shrubberies (An Angel’s debut). 

Soil absorbs bone. Marrow enters earth.  

We never spoke clearly. You would beg to differ.

It really matters. This shocked me. 

Such sickness in tales; too disconcerted; human nature betrays human morals.

Ethics continue to struggle. We’ve categories for deviation. 

They wonder why some think it falderal.

Wild wilderness. Hibiscus. Old roots.

Old countries. 

I suppose after years, it makes an impression. 

Wounds. Lesions. 

Each compass is different: silence dissipates; time forfeits nothing. 

Each step. Just waiting.

Those sharpened eyes, seizing the day, one is relegated to a shadow. 

Thrown into it, sound & ashes. To listen & think, to realize—it must insist, it can’t relent, it must attain to total annihilation: this is only repayment.

This is life. 

One is pleased to see younger folks—they maintain ideals, abide by ethics, find fault with falderal.