The Psychology of Love

 

I remeasure a fact, love must always be rekindled. Such a simple assertion, enwoven with time. Most prominent brow. Neither sad nor happy. Everything just is. Not too excited about man’s rules, nor overly emotional. I speak of a breeze—a phantom. Or, and this is paradox, Love is concerned about maxims, sort of deep in feelings, a tad bit somber. We say—it doesn’t matter, rejuvenate love. With life tugging, motion abusive, pause for us. A legitimate demand. Both are dispassionate souls, animals in part (what separates us?), what makes our sanctum? Love could be well-read, a thoroughbred, in getting to a point where uncertainty doesn’t register. I might impassion us, with Love reciprocating, what is it, where it desires more of the beloved? I would sense a tale of two islands. “It’s just what you wanted,” the one said. “And it’s just what you crafted,” the other barked back. I see poetry as both emotional and unromantic. Poetry is rigorous when aroused, a needle with thread when in love, a powerful sadness when depressed. How do we feel it to keep it alive? Souls get to a perspective—simplicity is accepted, complex ideas run within us. Love is reading like crazy. Love is in converse with friends. Love is prominent in her field. The poet absorbs her. Opens up at turns. Probes all those apostolic remnants. In adoring one takes life for granted. In discarding feelings, silence slips in, one has to start over. Love must always be rekindled—over arts, aside literature, probing psychology.    

Still with Motion

 

 

Too much to speak to content, too great the lose of innocence. I was admiring an opponent, I was chuckling at myself, it seemed incredible to assert a lack of sensation. The explosive gut; those diamonds in sage-work. Such treasured polemic—never to undermine the reader, it’s just certain sensations, wild wars, adversaries carrying certain rules—the ghosts of the matter. It can’t always go into depth, with Love gathering facts, to adjudge a man based in his convictions. To rely on self, turning away, moving to something else—permeated in spirit. I see a day, watching cartoons, for life to come rushing in. In saying post-material, we sense souls and spirts, we sense an unselfish universe. Such need for deconstruction, at a root level, while I wonder how natural certain rudiments are; it isn’t there, it’s distracted, this is a writer’s life. In what it requires, utter honesty, in a way nearly perceptible. With pushing, one might stumble upon a gem, all others then fail in comparison. This is absence. It speaks loudly. Full fledged in, or suffering in the margins, or reversing with fierceness, these say something emphatically. It means me nothing to know. It’s just more to carry. I carry enough. And yes, to have arcane insights seems like cadence, if unaware of what one must endure.

Colored Ships

 

 

Sails are for seas, numen sights, an ancient albatross; about the neck, carrying memories, sudden into sullen holiness. To a distant thought, intense desperation, bleeding culture—by character of its injustice. It was anxiety identifying—hearing heritage, the backboard always facing horrors. The mathematics of being in Passion, the legacy of tragedy, to feel what drifts, what goes its way, what returns, what dies, and what lives. Ever a game, rare into a soul, to have a need to control. So personal to ask: but are souls with joy? Sails are for seas, numen sights, an ancient albatross; a man was a poet, he became intimate with dying, he favored using, he sung an extensive song—blue atmosphere, a dear friend, a rift, sails are made for seas. Why must is be resistant? So many unvetted, sour candy, dismissing all things; a woman was a teacher, fraught by existence, most intimate with her existential; another was into writing, into feeling as unfelt, seizing and seething, most impaired, agonizing over a slippery slope; to have overseen clouds, to have channeled ghosts, torn between intentions, to have found peace, some grand piano, affixed to chi.   

Needing Light

 

 

I image a thought, to imagine Kierkegaard’s obsession, or Don Quixote’s delusion. To love beyond reflection; to adore like it was ordained; to feel clean, albeit filthy, to chance life, to pursue inner music. I perceive a miracle, to feel that deeply, as for another soul; to love and win, to win and lose, to be filled with illusion. By Love received, as was it given, or never to touch a palm so enthralled. I wonder about Wolfe, to have adored in essence, broken by beauty, a slave of composition. To find a Love in prose, or sestina, most charmed to have died, to have lived, never a touch, ever one grin. What was life in love for such souls? Or to live by Anabel, seeming a curse, and to have life as it withers. I can’t fathom a name, or liken a curse, to be found negating self, in honor of myth. I know why the caged bird sings. It’s dying for expression. It’s been silent too long. It must sing, else it will surely perish. I still am with need—to fathom love, to know with suspicion the fire sustaining the life. A lady to a man. A man to a lady. To have croaked without her; to have drowned without him; such flame in its casket, sudden resurrection, to love with dangers around, to beg like dying is easy without Love.

Unknitted Mittens

 

 

The stream is unlikely—to locate fevers, to catch eternity. Oh’ weeping willow, charmed we may presume, alive before it ruined; by southern winds, by hallow valleys, some with flutes, others with violins. I could sing to skies, sullen at a distance, aware time never sits—as moving, as instrumental, as a caveat to humanity. I feel like remedies, akin to destruction, such mellifluous silence—disputed dialing, to remeasure perception, the keys we piano inside. A daily checking in, a melic beat, perfected over a hundred years; sound seeming tyrannical, lights churning, to stand in Awe. Those soundless seconds, awakened by susurrous sounding, a little perturbed by insistence; if to adore observation, as it merged with sacredness, to imagine sages before incrementation. Fretting incarnation, fretting the deep sleep, amazed by consciousness; dreams we may sell, enchantments we may dial, brains keep messages. To have power over a thought, to walk into a room, so great the insentience. A numbing to life, a conviction in turn, playing drums with one’s brains. Such dear accountability, the dreaded nap, silence can’t last forever. Dearest murmuring, long distance inducements, California uncertainty; to ride a camel, by needle of skies, by walls higher inside—those strumming doctors, pace of a machine, instincts of wildness; a captured feeling, fret & farm, trying to meet life where it began—attempting to become incipience, running into justice, found weaving by the gates.

Once Adorable

 

We take life for granted, it isn’t abnormal, nor easy—reaping conditioned crops.

Shapeless furniture, hardcore philosophic, anarchy.

Sweet wreckage.     Out to seas, eating kelp, swimming aside whale bone.

Ebbing in & out of dynasties, closing screams, isolating.     I peer out to see a daymare, too tremendous to negotiate.

Raven goth. Intrusive eyes. To a degree, & we knew life. 

Like palming a pinecone, significance is perceptional.

Attaching it to life, unzipped inside, to imagine what life becomes.     Hearts unmasked. Squalor rinsed. With days seeming uncomfortable.

Looking at wallpaper, I try to ignore life.

Bridled confessions: Are they viable?

We tarried at gates. We climbed a fence. We want entrance—to demand a hearing, to becoming instrumental.

On a collar, a bishop inside, speaking to priests: 

rites & water.

The Beginning

 

 

More than before, mortality of its entrance—waving at summer, ecstatic at moments, slaughtered by spirit. A blackout, a black diamond, eating parts of a blackhole. 

 

Daisies speak gently, crescendo skies, ink indecision—to value life, trying at intimacy, at a last road, hairs in guts, flowers in bloom, it might be spring.

 

A rumbling mind, a little slower than some, grappling with sunrise, eyes closed, rain dropping, rinsing one last baptism.

 

Gadflies inside, so much swatting, if to locate presence—if to clean a storehouse, furious beliefs, at some part of immortality: Does it mean meaning? 

 

Fumbling often, agazed by moon-keepers, moving with trepidation; old sensory upon a sensorium, needed pieces, maybe parts, working out self-sabotage.  

 

To let go, to straddle a horse, to leap a gate, to get in—one way or another: “the kingdom suffers violence!” 

 

Noetic numen, poignant pangs, growing into a storm; used to be life, moving in winds, silence took hemispheres.

 

To think back on a journey, to claim spirit or nothing, to have taught self, to have met sages, at memories, Alpha kept teaching.  

Dear Ink

 

Thrown into mirrors, seeing plurality—intense mud. Maybe at an incapacity. Defeated. Pushing an iron rock. The face of damages, a rhythm to it. It’s all a contradiction, it makes little sense, at best, it’s paradox. Trying to divest us, trying to outwit us, with such little respect for us. A haunting thought. It leaks out. The greatness by disdain. The chase of the battle. Those off catnip; those off something kinder. Losing again. Like life wasn’t abstruse enough. Indeed. Smarter than me. Wiser, even. The prudence of arduous hours. I become indebted to time, warring against time.   

Countenance

 

 

Ask about her. Speak the language. Go deeper into nightfall. Balletic cries. Aesthetics, right? Nothing means what it did. Nothing outlives criticism. And we live to appease each other. I was near the gates, upchucking guts, smelling vomit. I don’t have to tell us. We’ve knitted afore the brains of miseries. Everyone is screaming, our shared quintessence. On a sunny day, palming feelings, mind-terrors into persistence. Russet petals; midday resolutions. I sit and gaze at an emotion—everyone is listening. And wanton for happiness, captured by countenance.  

Gray Clouds

 

 

I don’t know what to reveal, holding breath, fretting alienation. I was close to one, a phantom of the many. It’s just a guess, sometimes it feels righteous. I keep repeating a name, sensing a wraith, rethinking blessings. A person must Houdini his mind, every moment refurnishing perceptions. Love was flustered. It seems to be a bigger part of life. I need to expect humanity, as opposed to struggling over ideals. Life requires more time. Its not meant for us at this juncture. Life requires more time. I was smitten, debating with self, too exhausted to numerate facts. 

It begins with a Cave

 

 

So much to muster up a feeling; immortalized oceans. Such verboten thrills,

a man faces deserts. He remains smelted. We don’t fathom one another. This is easy to reveal. There’ll always be coals floating by excellence. At moments, a man tires of it, lured further into it. In fact, there’re participants: by omens in us. Over yonder, we see stars, symbols, exactitude. (Never understood it: false correlations.) Home of doves, parks and canines: if it only meant happiness: in spite of activity. So great the imbalance; it requires simplicity, it demands depth of negotiation.  

Nothing is Enough

 

 

 

She would listen to oldies and spark a cigarette. I would age, framed in a similar portrait. Nothing is enough. She would dance. I rarely see it anymore, complete saturation, head moving side to side, hair flowing, as sadness seeps out, accompanied by a big blazing smile. Nothing is enough. Souls are realistic, if manicured. I see images, silhouettes, walls are turning beige. The feeling is in the drums. I hear the greats wailing about going home. I saw, and I see—a room filled with spirits. I hear her saying: “You wanted it.” And with a smirk. At the gates, the tribunal, a grand waltz, orators, and golden lions. “You wanted it.” Let it be swift. And the room was watching us—an old drab couch was listening; kids poke fun, adults rule communities. Nothing is enough. “Don’t let your left hand know what your right hand is doing.” They’d quote scripture, tugging at each other. “Girl, look a here.” “You asked for it.” A silent understanding—something to our cultures. Everyone looking for that feeling. I saw a universe glued to each syllable, so animated, needing that feeling—knowing when it arrives, helping it get there. Spirits at their performances: “It’s what you make it. Stop whining about dumb stuff.” To ask is a serious gesture. It denotes eagerness. It’s a commitment to an answer. Nothing is enough! 

The Will

 

We dispute it and dispel it. We select it and secure it. I speak of passion. And I was with a feeling, while it sails my synaptic gap. Life builds, and life destroys. Said of all elements, I suppose. With souls getting closer. With spirits provoking one another. I imagine self-preservation, too many mishaps. A soul says: “I’m not nearly what I could become.” Some feelings are full of futility; some stick without rationale; and others feel right on time. A mind will languish, it will become somber, yearning in its nature. I find a person is seeking happiness, concerned about its definition. I see it shifting—an image is forming—we put too much on each other. In desire, one needs to feel desired; in giving love, one needs to receive love. One is willing to soar, another is willing to sing, both are firebirds. And a soul will pine for mystery, long for esoteria, with signs seeming confusing. The night falls, the sun rises, souls are tugged, fraught by necessities. In those days, I’d cleave to the moon, ride the stars, asking and negotiating; something gives up resilience, something blocks out the mystery. To sense a sort of heaviness, to chase to alleviate it, or settled into it, a sort of need for it. Life will unravel at points, and life will close up shop at times. Surely, the writer has said familiar things.   

  

Shifting Through It All

 

 

The lowness, the emptiness, filled by hopes, dreams, and faith. In seeing your face, those bulbous eyes, remembering eternity. And unable to channel, neither asking nor pleading, just a river flowing into its nature. They, us, we tell stories of others in triumph, we glean from their journeys—as casual observers; we read into silence, rewriting messages, connecting with an inside space; and when it was reached, when a hand was provided, we sat in unspoken harmony. The saddening requiem—in all of its glory, flooded by thoughts of redemption. Ever mindful of a chasm—between the servant and the Well-Beloved; ever mindful of an infinite chase. We make sense of the greatest emphases, we approach like children, to believe as all of these. The lowness is made complicated by holiness, to wonder if others call it by a different name; such manipulation, soldering our cisterns, something made of gold. We must be somewhere in midst of finishing; as humans made susceptible to shifts, as creatures raising our hands, to praise something holy, to become filled with awe, accustomed to writhing in sincerity. The first to have stumbled into it, to have shared an understanding; the second to have gone deeper, to have touched essence; and the third to have manifest the great sunlight, an aging calmness.             

Zephyrs

 

Souls conflict with selves. In adoring You, I witnessed You; in loving You, I couldn’t see You. I try to remeasure an implant, absent of meaning, nothing dearer to heart aside for a memory, mismatched with reality. Spirits are crocheting imprints. I was hearing self, and called Your name. I was undergoing fever, and longed for Your presence. I was witnessing the best of behaviors in a stranger. It’s radical how the mind will garden a soul; neither to live in symbiosis, nor ever sit alone, nor voice anything found delicate for each other; just there, and aware of it. I was reading the word of apostles, and communion set loose, I kept looking around in those days. I was in trance, listening, if but one syllable, if but one request. I dare not call it by measures of an appearance. I dare not ask for what no other has received. Such opalescent agonies; a soul desires the Beloved, after the kiss, before departure. Likeness of my passions, arts of my spirit, to know what devastates existence. The few in the many; the Meriam in the few. It becomes challenging. It watches. It shifts. 

Realization Prints

 

In a world of distraction, focus is precious. O Mother of owls, kneading concentration, tales have run ramped—through tundra(s), islands, and shadows. In feeling essence, a soul’s smirks, occasioned to smile, sweet vinegar. One frets expatiation, a one-to-one correlation, baffled by God’s Guitar.  To adore exospheric lights, enchanted by a vision, making too much of distress, aged to have loved, indebted to one miracle; and one was peeved, jasper oils, to have made much ado over nothing. Such gracious identity—a soul excavating its spirit, if telling bones to live.  He wasn’t allowed to rant, nor rave, finding excellence in silence. She ached his syndrome, made of ribbons, to cross wires in one attempt to let go.  She was half of it back when. She must become all of it by now. Another is keen, a blazing wit, he unties the seams.   

I’d Save The Reader Years

 

 

The beat becomes sickness. A long crucible—a drilling ecstasy. I was losing focus, feeling forbidden, if to self, if to mirrors. So cursed it seemed, aloud to perish, seeking everlasting life: immortalized in scripture, as someone read it, a spirit leapt in; a terrible beauty, a fantastic frenzy, by grace, by knees, by ink; with rivers flowing as witnesses, with skies opening, with deer leaping—so casual unending deaths. The beat becomes sickness. The goodness in us—an ability to change; the illusion in us—an inability to change. There’s one universal dream, in becoming renowned. Such furious beginnings, mid the anger, such rapturous spirits. I turned left, saw a sight, need more the confession. I was born to a religion, absent on understanding, needless to assert, it's communal. I’d save readers years in battle, to spread the news, but the chase is amazing. Last of a flock; seeking where wolves dance; compelled—and negotiating each fleece aside goatskin. 

Unsilence Rising

 

 

In discussion of a dream, certain cosmos, we spoke of nothingness; between spheres, desperate to fathom life, haunted by miscalculation. I was wanting, lacking desire, envying classic poems. The richness of simplicity: grain-clouds, angel-crops, by far, the most significant weather. It was time, I bore witness to it. Remnants seized me; needing an experience, paired with an excuse. Sky tenor. Earth granite. Always between dimensions. Subtle mist, illuminous whisking, to know in tender essence—an irrefutable color. I was a glimpse in a thought, germinating. I was an intense moment, followed by intricate sunshine. If one would, time has dug into reality.  Nothing quite soothes the hunger. Numbness becomes a sort of easing. We all have an understanding, something remaining mysterious. Like wonder in presence of innocence. Like mystic warmth between friends. I was trying to figure it out, why it stuck. Deep scarring, misty vibrations, intense energy, and mental antiquity. It becomes sound, immortalization, in two destined to metamorphosize. 

Eons of Footage

 

 

To capture visuals in words. To write a tome.

The mysterious wire between parallels.

Care training. 

Life as irony. Any given craft will induce suffering. 

To thaw out emotion is a rougher ride. 

Progress has been motion; we still conjure up schisms. 

We debate what love looks like: this might be a triumph. 

We spend time—soul weaponizing; we adore until we clutch our guts. Deeper ambition, mesmerized by religiosity.  

 

II

 

The human quest is ikigai. We long amid myriad stimuli. 

Such mystery; captured prayers, drifting towards cosmic ears. 

Softer soil; a sort of everything in nothingness; a sullen celebration. 

I wonder if God has a shadow. The sweetness of systematic mathematics; native arts, or reminiscent of gaslighting. 

Either allow greatness, or step on greatness. Tender falsities. A mind must move. This is how it finds life. 

Existence is ironic wisdom. To select artistry demands endurance.

Horns in The Fields

 

I wonder will tides ebb and flow—such dear vapors, according to deeds … souls in midair, trying as we live.

Amazed by it. (It doesn’t matter much.)

Wisdom becomes ineffectual; years become driven. (As the Invisibility ushers.)

One is according to tragedy: one included the other.

In resounding in silence, brooding with season, smiling, nonetheless.

I wonder will tides ebb and flow, will billows profess truths? Such between souls, such becomes souls. 

In earnest, we seduce ourselves.    

Across all Fields

 

 

An artist is suppressed by his art—the pursuit, by inner scrolls. An artist is chastised by the beauty she creates. We never mention the trembles—the confusion; into a careful nature, with existence seeming revealing, pardon what we fail to fathom. I have read a woman’s work, still extant, and I met said woman. I will not surmise much: I saw writing becomes her. I met a writer with depth and conviction, a resounding soul, a gentleman at wilderness—spreading sunshine. A writer might be between regrets, or threshed by adventure, or brooding in holy terrors. I met a person’s work, filled with flowing sentences, compelling nouns, fluid connectivity: it made for a second and third review. The writer is going through something. Each are brought closer by the unspoken truths seeping out of their works—the implications. Something familiar gets into readers. We are taken upon a journey—some experience healing, and some writers are going in further—with many undergoing something foreign to them. The arts are religious activities, reaching through all sciences, making life in spirits. Each sect has its jargon, its tenets, its beliefs and assertions. Each person, every writer, every mind is floating, reaching for wires, barely linked, sensing something perishing and growing notwithstanding.  

The Mirror Remains Unclear

 

I looked in a mirror and said, I know you not. At an impasse in development, wondering about diamond ink. And memories linger, forming citadels. A surprised spirit, shocked to see you so ghostly: a permanent imprint, most astute, to plan diligently. Much invested. Most deliberate. Touché: as in point made, point taken. I took a second look, a third in fact, realizing a multitude of contradictions. Never to see you sincerely; never to understand many emotions, triumphant strategist. When will they see you, a chameleon needing to be seen, never asking, silent in trenches—soothing discomfort. To have become powerful, to have unveiled esoteric keys, in it all, to have learned how energy works. A most brilliant ache, a tremendous lance, thrusting through cosmos. (Another is just as astute. I take to sweating infernos, pin-ponged, tacit between extremes; and forgive trespass, so sincere an angelic coffin, flummoxed beyond annunciation.) In life, flying freely, founded by mystery—each mount in winds, waxing eloquently, aloof to coarse existence. And Love was swift, swarming through bees, accustomed to a smartly wit. (In the end, neither will win. I’m proud to see you’ve returned to self, upon an unspoken presence.) I looked into a mirror and said: You do not have a clue. Emotion morphing with intellect; such an offbeat texture; to exist at such a disadvantage.

We Learn Uncertainty

 

We sacrifice love, we measure for work, like dying was illegal. Trying at immortality, each step challenged, most cannot understand us. Those dreams, Love, I needed more, I was lost in asking. Along a line of parish rites, so deep in there, to arise a miracle—to feel something in density. I was war bound, I became humbled, to walk into a situation. And we drift, to speak about a tender indifference, so hurt, so denied, trying to feel excellence. I was sharing naivety; I was a note into a schematic; in running from feelings, in sinning to exist, in listening to become accurate. I was sick, Love, didn’t mean to detach it, nevertheless, until it feels justified. At moments, and it feels vague, to really desire a pillar. To chat on a level, to speak real talk, to adore responses. Like becoming best in life, to eat eternity, in soothing an inferno ache. And we drift, so on point, what in hell was the motive, to secure a soul, to need revenge upon a soul. I need the scoop, I wrestle the streets, so many hidden bosses. Been through crucibles, so rich how you’ve done it, such a brain to need an address. I back away, in dear feathers, such black face, bleeding a slew of ingredients. I hope you know, each word is inscribed, some time a footprint means identity. And we drift, so lost over some element, trying to be straightforward, realizing it aches at times. I drift; tattered at sides, thinking to a liver, unproud to confess it feels in vain.

The Great Mystery

 

 

I couldn’t shake inclination, a dislodging instinct. I remeasure all consisting of us. Such a nudging, sweet humiliation, carved excitement. To tuck away silence; to regift sensation. I was ill-gotten, so innocent about it, craving in mid-sentence. You refused to engage, a sign of cautionaries, thrown, for absorbed. I wouldn’t love, nor adore, so captured by sheer resistance. In refusing you, ever tied to hope, drifting into Europe. We leave circles, chanting rites, softer courage. I was a mind made up, a system by cadence, so graphic, so wrought, as raw indifference would have us. So childish; thwart at a battle line, mentally embattled, thrust through by spirit spears. It was hectic. Years with some magic at me. So sullen the machine. A mind filled with pain. So much strength, mere upon meditation; those charms would inflate an heirloom. I remember another person. You two know each other. In life we gossip a little. I was keen to an earlobe, a stream made terrific, a reality bathing in tragedy. So in love, so enchanted, I wonder concerning the great difficulties. It would continue to grow. I changed inside. Beauty upon a cross is made most astounding. Samuel I and II made most aesthetic. Trying to believe you never would, such a curse in activity. Surefire drumlines. Bodies writhe. Minds convulse. Running was uneasy. Catching up was pure infatuation. In needs. Bled dry of identity.   

Consciousness

 

 

A precious decline. Those rooms with pressure. Those emphatic ceilings. Oh’ Dear Lament, value subtracted, persistence withering: I remember long lines. Ever distracted. Intensity has passion chasing it. Each word can hurt; each sentence begs a dear question. At each growth comes a departure. It means less than what a mind will conjure up. At moments, surefire relentless; and you’d watch it passing as it lives; certain grayness, surety of heart, reluctant discourse. The muse would muse in return. So many eons; such beige deserts; over a dozen goodbyes. To float through. To give unclarity. To find an endless obsession with tidiness. In determining to ignore it all, self entertains mysteries. More uncanny delights, numinous rites, by grand illumination. Either lights, darkness, or both; either love, nuance, or aspiration. (So much is in there, unlatch the reservoir; so much has resurrected, light the cannon.) In rereading happenstance, in trying to fathom immaterialism, with such grand metaphysics, we walk into fields, dwell with wolves, sleep in uncertainty. Those cadent arcs, as pillars, by esoteric soundness—to fly or fall, to chance an ache, so confused about it all. Opened portals. Pieces of freedom. To know what can’t be certain. In depth the benthic earthquake; aside a headstorm. 

Why are You Disquieted in Me?

 

Wilder shifts. It belongs to me. The ache of it.  We say, “On everything I believe in.” It makes for truth, those frequencies, to confront sad moments.  To jog it away; to wash the temple; to joust and tussle with it.  The weakness in me, to succumb to it; the strength in me, to endure it. Makes for what we see; or too tired for it all. Ploughing despite the tyranny; painting an abstract image of it; or writing something as it might capture it. At points, lethargic; such pure uneasiness, shifting, restless, uneven. To wonder its medical term: deeper than depression, and that nonetheless; its sway causes for another name. We’ve been together for years. It appeared early-on. It decided to stick around, to make a home—quite genetic in origin, triggered from the outside, nor was it triggered. Such a reality for souls; by condition, such zestful melancholy, such doubtful mystics. Wilder shifts—as upon a cloud, under earth, baptized to make it better. What would a soul believe? It’s not as free as it seems. To have some element in self—demanding attention, flaunting itself in one’s members.  To push too much; to feel heavy; to protrude through one’s being. In needing to bring life to thoughts; a simple reminder at times; deeper cogitation—those foul winds, one would shake Christ, if never again, it’d be too soon.   

Put It On Paper

 

 

The artist is from a different era, vocal, golden exposition. To enjoy rhythm, to enchant by blues, to personify the fairer beauty. We enter an age of dissonance. We need more. We live decadence and intolerance. I can’t grasp what I grapple with; as it’s a place made reachable, by certain combination. It lives freely, until it restricts itself. Such casual weather becomes a storm for another. The artist has memories. I fathom a genre; but to have given it soul, a delicate entity. To know it and feel it. To live it. I see Harleys. I see lowriders. I smell cognac. I hear ice cubes. I see aesthetic glasses. The artist swayed into traffic. So much to give. Each has a compass, fed by inner universe, thwart and moving like motion. Some memories remain with joys, some disappear into winds. The artist is an iconic figure. If one knew the motivation, to sense acceptance, to qualm in silence. I see filled clubs, attire out the 70s, I see long Cadillacs. Up in the hills, along those streets, we see Bentleys, Corvettes, and a few in Royce(s). A youngster had dreams. So thrown into it. Elders run the rooms. So facial, such gesticulation, spirits, I’ve a clue on what we mean by normal behaviors. Such controversial and genuine responses. The artist is a father of blues, a kingdom in soul, an advocate of amore. 

Grays as Wars

 

 

I never quite capture it. I remain distracted. Years to silence. It would be psychological, to war a man’s brains. To talk badly to non-contentment. I suppose all tragedies—made classic, we just ignore those. In exchange for some illusion. Just to pretend in some capacity. I can’t do it. I’m surprised to see fifty years of working it out. I admire all in one, one in all. Notwithstanding,

 

something of importance dances solitary, performing before reality, casual consistencies. It’s quite a mind. It knew. It still went forward. I ask if it’s better to remain naïve, if so, how is it possible? Such humidity, such heat, such helium vices. I was seeing some image; it was a lady. I wonder if she too was affected by the hypocrisy. I couldn’t listen to truth and play pretend: 

 

maybe so. I feel like sin. It was engrained. I was wayward. I, thus, take assertions easy. In it all, it truly matters—it truly does.  Over champaign, asking and insinuating, having some unlocked experience—those tiptoeing dreams; (to discover a sentiment in practice, two must admire each other, love is beautiful, lust is universal, admiration must be and it mustn’t die).  There’s 

 

admiration without amore; there’s lust without admiration; there’s love without true amore. There’s passion where it wishes to defile; there’s want of such sentiments. (Are humans too complicated?)  I turned a corner. I walked by a building. I remember follies, errors of behavior. Souls trying to cleanse is incredible. No one lets it die out. Most forgive self, easily enough … 

 

indeed, I lean into preaching.  I set out trying to capture a sentiment, a petal at times, a crane in winds; speaking to one is unusual. And everyone is caring, struggling, needing peace, such an aloof creature. To look at the poet, to chastise the poet, to tell the poet—the tragedies were false. To tell the poet to hold his tongue, indeed, in respects, I shall hold my peace.  Such a menacing 

 

reality, a soul took for courage, boldly falling apart; such laughter in waves, to have a home, to know for impermanence. Such a lonely, crowded, intimate life. A need to be closer. A desire to adore. A wall screaming out frailties. To realize: a soul accepts the best one is able to give, and never imposes more upon the beauty. Thoughts sound normalized. In it all, to have worshipped, 

 

to share intimacies, to see something absolute, to cherish for three decades, not easily unlocked.  (To cherish a feeling, to know a person has it in them, if one would try; the poet is trespassing.) I was at a pond, right there, feeding birds, close enough to pet one.  Someone was right, it feels like a dream. Like an artificer is confusing humanity. Some elements seem blatant, obvious, and 

 

the poet is forced to talk it down. And Love wasn’t what was worshipped, ever adored, challenged to break sociality, made a feud inside. I was younger, upon a vision, entangled in perfections. I believed Love mastered excellence. I walked away in a wheezing frenzy.  Over across from the pond, upon a bench, sat an eighty-year-old couple. I should have been bold, 

 

audacious, as to ask for the magic in its key.  They, we, are angered at all the pillars of Existentialism; some crime to expound upon behavior; in giving life to correlations.  I lost respect for it. It held a standard. It proved to exist in title. I fail to capture it. Something inside is blockage. In saying it plainly, it loses luster; in skipping around it, it loses directness. Making a 

 

riddle, it’s missed. At some point, this isn’t another opportunity. The poet went too far. We preach hope. A fundamental gift. We say essence in Love, a great boon. We ache it out, accept it nearer, plague our souls. In keeping silence, we stand still, we care to adore, we miss the angels.       

The Wellspring

 

Without you, there is wonder. With you, there is indecision. It is wonderful uneasiness, comfortable outrageousness. We ignore rain and tread mud. It was awful. It scarred me. In depth, I grow into distrust. I wonder if one could ever call another normal; especially, when one is not staring at one’s reflection. Each group has jargon, acceptance, and those outcasted. Nevermore, such elitist arts, poets are judgmental. I prefer what seems in part to ruin what has become normal. To hurt in order to love, seems flawed. Of a caliber where it must reign in discomfiting truths. I need to see what aligns with human nature, as opposed to a private delusion. So indeed, the poet will remain scarred. Notwithstanding, cordiality upon tales, to adjudge a soul, it went both ways: Have we ever blessed something foreign to us? To leap upon negativity; to lie to a mirror; to live as if everything is in place.  (I was chasing as a lad. I learned a significant point: Truth negates itself, and it aches in texture: If someone feels terrific, one should look again.)  Life has a code to it. Life is far too ancient to be decoded.  (I know a brilliant woman, a few, wrestling with outwitting Wisdom; they live in the driver’s seat, many believe they own them, they never laugh.). Nevermore the deep enchant. Youth did triumph. I had art and aesthetic, lying to myself. Life is not decoded; we learn her patterns.