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.