Two Become Connected

 

When I venture to believe, I’m haunted by humanism. When I adore—I see hurdles. Nothing but everything—to singsong reality; and hell was familiar, with Love re-advertising Songs of Solomon—astrological chaos, suffering refutation … if different of a ghost, if furious by cadence, to have weaved those tales of dynamics. I was hampered and low. I was on cloudberries and casting fiats. It seems it could be … a soul to cosmos; deep complications, complexed spirits, upon new lives—arguing subtle points. I drift upon a poet’s stream. Those radical seconds, to burst into laughter—such courageous beginnings. Fire of its kiln. Furnace of its flame. To put aside the raptures, to sit in vulnerability. I mean nothing by it. In opening a portal, in seeing a soul, in realizing a woman—the fields flushed with sugarcane, the berry patches, the winepresses, such sweet peaches, such tangy apricots. So sacred a day—symbolizing kinetics, so much wisdom, those eyes convicting or redeeming us. I mean little in waxing sentimental. A poet crucifies self—unallowed to sing, so detached, soft tears that never fall. The walls speaking to roses, longing for gallicas, so far in the past eating loquats. I mean to strike motion. I mean to unlock something wounded. Such heavy thoughts; to imagine how one dances, so secure with self, core acrobatics, looking left, selecting righteousness, pulled, nonetheless.       

 

 

Channels

 

Vulnerability

 

The miracle you represent. The famed heart chakra. Those pangs in spirit—to die plainly, still breathing. The future you promise. The webs you yield. The hatred, the vengeance, the hope, succession is detached. I was sick for it. I saw it moving. It meant motion. What shall a soul give? a battered reality, more ghetto strife, stepping onto Rodeo Dr. The miracle as it lives. To purchase nothing. To mingle purely in mentality. To find, it doesn’t give enough. So convenient by graces, nothing outwits hebetation. So thin a fragment, so seducing a smile, to have knit with ink, to have nurtured by smokestack, such a koan, trying in turn, filled with life. A compartment shielded, shared with few—those dreams, those hidden barriers, seduction doesn’t denote love, passion doesn’t mean rapture …. I spoke to a thin line, so divorced from itself, so free to live, so much freedom to fret anguish. I was a child watching. I noticed a countenance. It was broken laughter. It was sorrow with happiness, a whiff of liquor. I never imagined it. It was right afore me: vocal walls, chilly ceilings, wafting Chinese food, deep and damaged beliefs, angered, refused a second glance, beliefs. Years would test genetics. Circumstance would induce sadness. A soul is resilient before it inverts. Love vetted her name, conversed with mirrors, has known rooms, has dug self out of darkness, such to un-favor me, to become ever weary, just soaring into a sky capsule. The suffering one undergoes: it becomes difficult to mention. Such truth in the following: most are going through miseries, having a time with listening to miseries. one says, “We don’t say that.” Another retorts, “Why not, it’s partly true.”     

 

II

 

What in hell they do to me? the only one, right? It’s what we sing, a palm nailed by songs. Some never thaw out. Some roses last longer. A man needs what he can’t sustain; a woman is filled by God. A deep meaning there. It requires reading an entire bible. I was reading Dead Sea Scrolls when it struck. I committed a sin: I was rewriting scripture. I was connecting those dots in the Scrolls. It was heavy into a storm, a blizzard. A decent reason; an innocent coffin; a lasting casket. It seemed appropriate. Nonetheless, love as it appears, ripples as they waver, billows as they hit a shore—drastic elements, realizing something keen: mingling is to tamper with a slant—everything becomes as if cymbals, life is one tragic cartoon. To go in, to stay in there, with nay, a breath, is assured deaths. Nevertheless, we might need something, we might need entanglement, inveiglements—the curse of knowing too much to explain. With rosaries seeming apropos; with orison seeming to have functionality; with haughtiness seeming to come with pains. Wishing to move into revelation, realizing in parts, such deliverance, such a quantum need. The leap of heart oceans.  

 

III

  

It wasn’t too difficult to follow a set agenda. They imagine havocs, heathens; they side with subtraction, too many to count. I never said for completeness; I never laid claim beyond my circumference. Can an angel pass out? Can a demon become exhausted by heat? I hear lyrics: I’m left to marvel. I see women, I fret the riddles. Such existence, such reality, asking: What is my life? So philosophic. So unending. Negotiating with nihilism. Supported by existentialism. The feeling of texture, a ghostly excellence, to have a foundation for a few beliefs. So experiential. So emphatic. With seeds trying to breathe. They would speak to it—the poetic maze took a change. Bred to give life; so great the misnomer; if one knew, they’d try so desperately. It might be true, if not for dichotomy; it might be ashes to ashes, dirt to dirt. I don’t side that way—evidence seems to remain in carnality, unless, the experiential, to put God on trial, to ask Jesus a few questions. So nauseated by it all. This is life by it all. Thrust through, mesmerized by faith. Remembering each story, taking to its design, seeing how we can’t ask, chastised for the sin of inquiry. Such a paradox. I speak to it daily—wondering of the grand scar, if to approach a consensus. We pick our sides; we learn to argue their points. Each belief is a sign to a vulnerability.   

Curious for Absolute Clarity

 

 

Preferred to say, “Love,” trying to define it. A life story of wails, fulfillments, times lost, enjoying atmosphere. So philosophic: dark clouds, gray adventures, holding it together—those reaching arms. To see a culture; in feeling cultures; to sense giving immortality … amazed by how detached it can all be … I willed a feeling. It voiced its touch. I pulled away—focused on trepidation. With each wish, each glance, I sense it’s dependent—at some point, a given. Preferred to say, “Adoration,” trying to live it. A partial understanding, a spatial sunbeam—affected by the idyllic.  

 

Alignment

 

I’m unfocused, so distinctively. I reevaluated a situation; I keep hearing my soul. It’s amazing what one will give you to carry. I fathom why holiness is trekking a sword. And I sense a need to take action. Love was reading, an audience’s prerogative. To feel temperament; to enter the storehouse, to realize, one must heal self. And a gentleman tries harder; he plays pretend well; he doesn’t plague too many facts: he’s pleasant. He churns for that. Some truths are velvet: a man knows to remain balanced. I wasn’t a gentleman. To inherit chaos; regardless of deeds. I wonder about strongholds. I, too, debate the fear of change. Classical conundrums. 

 

II

 

I stand at an impasse. I stand near a precipice. Something to it is eerie. And Love has repeated her agenda. Classical angst; facing it. It’s beyond; it’s what it looks like. And Love is spirit-sullen, reading at moments, writing from time to time. So great the pseudepigrapha; so necessarily against rudiments. We’ve surpassed anthropology—picking up mind-artifacts. I’ve a feeling this is what souls mistaken for love. As if, one can define love. And many were grandfathered in—a different type of entitlement. I sat in dialogue—years ago. I know it’s texture, tactile laugh-prints. I sealed parts of me. I adopted unique universals. I sense, I haven’t a complete understanding. Behavior seems by instinct and held hostage by awareness. 

Sharing Pieces

 

 

We share differences, eager for solace. Life is complex, rubies are simplistic. It took some time to relax a little. So gelid, thawing out, made raw. I asked myself, so wildly, a curse in sunrise. To sense intimacy, whatever channel, threshed by beliefs—such a courteous soul. I wouldn’t say life is complete. It seems business is quite esoteric. I think bad thoughts, dreamy at times, trying to keep composure—a drifting spirit, such courageous jealousy. I awoke in a mood. I understood origin. Someone was meditating. Someone was pondering life. So many miles apart, such training. Some go to heaven. Some live out hells. So grand, such ontology—we outgrew doubts. Such a debt—so parched, listening, brave ontic winds. Either intense or diluted—piecemealing feathers, a man is always trying, some make it look difficult. I met many in life. I was unclean. For many, they make into koans, such tentative dispositions … much love to the fallen. And Love could be insane, keeping it balanced, at it, wrestling, threshed to bone, grit tired. To imagine good times, souls knowing variances, across a room, one glance, one meaning. I was roaring about a phantom, let it be said, it’s human, and it’s mental. I ask that I always be responsive—by pressure zones, by aesthetic, by spirit chemical; sullen goodbyes. I know it weeds itself out—it knits intimate visions—it dies to itself.   

Effervescent Waters

 

The maze of an interior thought. The gown upon emotion. Sun signs; moonlit. Feeling aged. With something looming. I wonder if aches are weathered. Symbols are jutting; the cliff is silky. So many grays. In a state of affairs, critical of reflection. It all sounds said, until it sounds new. We’ll die in seams, unattached, longing for closure. I keep looking at it, wandering an ending light. Although, as it seems, such tiring souls—immortal chi, destroyed parts—arts by silence. Ink of this land; future memories. We neither say it, nor avoid it—to rain upon crops, to sing in spaces, averted from self.       

Cactus Water

 

Grave or ashes. Burgundy blood blue. 

Like a dream to us, making proofs of love. So near, too close to act out sanity. 

Rebel rites; a castle of bishops—nothing I could give—as ever enough. Noetic wiles; ignoring self—unto an ulcer. 

To no avail, uttering potent words, it shall continue—vines upon wilderness, so close to it; and it was shaped, it couldn’t live wildly, it had to be tamed: we rarely wish it for others: as it generated awakening—tyranny inside. Slower decomposition; immortal vacuums; unthawing—a gift in veil, difficult transparency, future graves. 

Chi has Tentacles

 

Like a rushing river—to baptize a heart, never knowing full intention. One presumes good thoughts, seraphic arts, cherub reigns. One is wondering about pain; others are sensing healing. By magnitude of deserts, by rhythmic skies, such serenading volcanoes. It came to me, some notion, at some degree, souls are searching for a compatible friend. Such are immutable laws. To feel understood—to know one is alive in union. One grabs a marker, the mind is a landmark, Love is scribbling frantically, most of us see deaths coming. If but a voice, by far a hand, if carried into the storm. To come apart, cultic, gracefully, trying to get youth back. With might; divested of transgression; thoughts cleaving to orientation—such as man is confused. Like a rushing river—to rinse bodies, still fretting filth, looking sad, defeating inclination, baffled by violet roses. If to know for times, to stand accused, such foot prints in tears. Upon raindrops; upon a glacier; we reminisce often on good times. Some measure of it, to find souls chasing, some measure of it is good. Through valleys, appalled by fears, to have awakened by flower to some soul. Treasured wilderness, a final bedding, to obtain in spirit, one last measure. To lay heads upon cellos, one thin line, giving to fever, falling into memories.  

Cultural Transcript

 

 

It's written for us to see it. There’re stark differences. I saw something upon a breeze. And factors must be analyzed: it’s never what we desire it to be; and it’s something of what we think it is. I’d like to serenade the skies, but they might not answer. I’d love to rain down compassion, but understanding everything is hazardous. I see a spirit in me. It might be old, or seeming as such. 

 

Many days heavier than most: clips and visions: internal warfare.  It’s not hard to do goodness. I was concerned about that. Nevertheless, and it’s elusive to say it, however, follow one’s soul. This is what others are watching. Something I sense: it can’t be an utter paradox. Nothing makes connection. Not here. A soul pointed that out. On occasion, all pieces are present. 

 

One for those chambers, those remnants, product of scars. Knowing against all evidence—grappling with human appointment, battling to grasp something in an endless room. Many will look for symbols, to rationalize through it all, start with heart-chakra, move to soul-culture, make way to spiritual inrush. Better, start with parents, old lives. On another land, in a distant city, sits 

 

a semi-hermit. She’s analyzing. She’s weighing truths. She’s discussing facts. We met those years, in that dream, fraught by life, wrestling shadows. Ghost of my ghost! Tenor of invisibility. Indeed. Never we mind over details, anomalies, dates and demands. Such was a delicate soul, as a woman dreams, moreover, as a woman envisions—those sighted crowns, Venetian garbs. Or

 

parts of Egypt, a dearer land, congruent to motion, threshed and thrown, alive and vanishing—the curse of roses, blessing of literature, home to immortality—a troubled soul, a baffled ax, hacking for years, unveiling an ingredient, dusting an artifact, becoming a spirit violin. Those days I witnessed a soul with slight tremors: I’ve seen it in others: I noticed it in self. I keep 

 

arriving at what souls do, as in drilling the nervous system—many magnets, longing for closure, to open an unending saga, fraught by fruits. With casualness seeming important, as following a balloon in a dream, so emphatic, such determination, it must remain casual. I sense the great wall. I sense one galloping further into the city. Science must prevail.  I examined some 

 

region in thoughts refusing closure. At points, a soul will come across an interior haunting, alike to a sort of phantom. In having all properties of a given phenomenon, denied emphatically, refusing to uplift. It gives one irritability. It demands to write upon one’s spirit. By reality, it feels like unreality, indicative of mind mysticism. Tender aesthetic, made into something corporeal.   

 

Each Prophet

 

 

In perpetuity, the crows on high; in reality, a man shall become a firebird. Asking for leniency, as understood, to mean God requires a great deal. So clean, such lockes, giving life to being sound. Tugged by a thought, mourning innocence, I knew as she died. Battling inner walls, said to just write, plainly absurd. Such vulgarity—by its design—to have souls forever kneeling in grayness. A man will defeat himself; he shall uprise in those terrors. Certain otiose scars, to find meaning, to have loved with honor. What’s better: to have one’s pride, or to have her favor? Ask me to slowdown, try it, watch science come unglued. Nothing can compare to it, like Satan begged forgiveness, like demons taking communion. A man is given his capacities, fraught by determination, never able to completely change. Ask me about it, those years, as facing mental abuse; ask me was it indelicate, was it righteous, were feelings being ruined. I was—or is it—what was to be—was altered? This is the reign of injustice—one event, a perpetual battle—or was it three events, to utter something profound—No weapon formed against me—shall prosper? Realizing it’s a thought war. Such gravid circumstance; such hectic lights. A man must earn his freedoms. They aren’t given. Like a man must earn his wife, long after coitus.        

We Ignore Black & White

 

We might mistake myriad loses. We shall try harder. What can we show you? Such to witness by hearts. What art requires! Soul of my spirit, song of my ache, history hearted,

 

listening to jazz. In parts; too sanctimonious, too neat. To be reckless, seemed like irony; to obey seemed like paradox. So great in measurement, sullen beauty, gallicas mid-

 

mornings—broken with hopes, language ghosts, status zero, a soul is ruled by empty pots. With passivity comes acceptance, which fosters a certain death—in either 

 

direction, there’ll be deaths.  Loving was innocence, why so angry at others, their living animation; it doesn’t matter—length of days, phoenix weather, fireballs with few 

 

horizons.  It was meant to be trespassed—what means privacy?  So, a soul carves bark, nurtures dissonance, as it’s intended. This is normal. Any net would agree.  One will pass 

 

a weeping bench, eat a bag of apricots, longing into what’s absent; it never mattered; it was meant to be as it is; so, why a touch of discontent? It’s meant to be 

 

eternal. At least to a grave. Why else would it be?  Loving was innocent. It had depth. It grew. It became a labyrinth. A long maze. It has to be normal. It has to be ordained. Such 

 

spirits, mind-gregarious, time keeps giving way to reality. To have mystery—dwelling in armor, knitting at countenance, a rabidness to it, this is what they seek. A certain bent; why should it be straight plaid.    

Blind Minks

 

 

Been there—mesmerized, thrust through with knives, gusts wilderness, and Love was chiseled. Trying to ignore science, such coarse funny bones. First at it, speaking to ghosts, lost his sanity, came back, alone in the forests. Souls don’t desire truths, needing carnivals, drinking with harlequins. I gave a mad one, kept pushing my truths, a countenance grew, a diamond shun—a cigar for the overachievers. And Love was fantasizing, would never those roads, to hold a spirit’s life in limbo. I’ll say it forwardly: it hurts like hell—in doing rightly. Off the burners, water purified, nothing gives like rain. So great the fury, black magic, black inheritance—to adore the black courage.   

Let Nature be Witness

 

 

I haven’t a clue. I’ve motivation; something eager to try. I sense one has life, a leaflet, neat penmanship, peaking at sadness. Literature is riddled with absence. Those dreams, right? I never know what to say—a little awkward that way. I still contend happiness is a brief reprieve, to notice sadness has dissipated, both seeming related to chemicals—or an Al Green feeling. So much is left unsaid—many outspoken souls, visiting serenity, or fraught in spirit—trying to correlate life with creativity. To know parts of your life, makes for strength; trying for whatever its worth, leaving well enough alone, in using a trite cliché. It wasn’t what I supposed it would be, rereading it was moving. Each soul is speaking to an audience. Each spirit is trying to relate to part invisibility. I haven’t a clue. I know it isn’t easy. I know I endorse a little naivety. You would appreciate dialogue. It was intended in a moment. It was part off—I haven’t a clue. You make it look easy. You paint with mastery in focus. I wouldn’t mind visiting a certain feeling. I wouldn’t mind becoming a protegee. It seems the audience sees something I missed. By moral of its ink, by jazz with blues, by another resurrection.   

Cheetah Dreams

 

 

I thought about you, like a man humbled—those terrific prisms, tiger life. The payment is a soul, wondering how much pain is in there. It generates energy; in finding a spirit—through mind channels. I shouldn’t say it. I get penalized for speaking of esoteria. It was hell. I try to understand lights, even darkness, everything is cloudy. Such nebulosity. I can’t this wave. And I must this cave. We never know when it will strike: cadence inside, to dissipate, and suddenly—hell breaks silence. Or sitting still, lost in a dazing, and suddenly—a compelling name repeats itself. I’m far from normal, likewise, far from off. Some mysteries are deliberate. I don’t claim love. I do imagine this circumstance is what poets were undergoing. The fair maiden; a gifted modesty; a rabid lover; so close to never finalizing infinity. Someone has hell to greet; someone has answers to give. Such a mantic device—certainty for living in anguish, one forced to manipulate his mind. I can’t picture it: everything she desired, to have it, and still churn the poets. Psychic wavelengths: to wonder if it saw fruition, an internal/external fruitage. A man would be sick. In a situation—where nothing matters, agaze by wonder, addicted to nightmarish skies. Such immortality—sanctified in craniums, clearly defined by noetic science. 

 

Incautious Causality

 

 

Sometimes the feeling is good. At turnpikes, the feeling is painful. 

In crossing paths, feeling certain—such tender astrology—fraught by omens, so alone with a gentle palm.

I renege on a feeling, harassed by phantasm, listening to an inner prankster.

Souls permeate anxieties, spellbound over love, knitted to angst—so 

psychological

…

lost over cadence, with dissent so close

—broken ranks. 

Nobody knows when love is creative—slow paced, over sand dunes, meshed into mind mazes, pampering a sandcastle. 

Holy Sunday

 

 

When the rain fell, it was a religious day. Kids were in their Sunday clothes. I don’t remember seeing her. We were mired by scars. She said my eyes were filled with adulthood. Years would pass. There’s an indoctrination around Sundays. I dare not assert it, but we see Sunday as the sabbath. A major controversy. However, Easter came and went: dyed eggs, too much candy, rooms filled with confetti. Early morning listening to Gospel, rushing to finish homework, compelled and feeling a certain type of participation. Adults in their Sunday best: hats, shawls, heels, ankle high dresses, men in suits, neatly shaven. Kids ruining their garments. Mothers swearing. And years pass; sameness of activity, suffused by Sunday—charm-keeper of holiness—reason to take inventory—listening to the day’s message. Community at communion. A particular insistence. Hot in such garments. Fanning faces. Sweating. Jumping. Dancing. So much into the gifts. Church time. Then back to the condition. Years pass by, fumbling through life, affirmed in the winds. Participants. Nothing less. Kids still excited. As to partake of holiness: asking questions, quite profound questions, mother noticing. Father looking. The two nod in agreement. Such vocalization in church: “Amen, God knew!” Kids mimic: “Feel the fire, Alleluia!” After service, souls are filled, eyes are rinsed, life is rekindled.   

As a Soul Desires

 

Silence was shattered. Something in the background. Nearly inaudible. I felt awakened. I felt spoken to; the screams of silence returned. A small miracle, despite motivation. A man died again; a woman kept with churning. So great the road—so long the tunnels, miles and miles again. The journey never ends, is ever new, and never started. A soul to itself, trained, losing footing. To hold a heart, responsible for life, angelizing to avoid it—steep darkness, such pulsating rain. To give a gift with a smile. To feel facetious inside. To give what was given. To know it will disrupt silence. To wrestle with its weight. Such beauty in Truth, as a soul desires—it is given.