The Way Souls Seduce

 

The sound of thy voice. The beginning of sins. In measure to perish, love was never sweeter. We changed through silence, the greater phantoms. With depth the plumb design; with angst the sum of feeling good. Thy scent; thy soul. To enter paradise, so cursed to live. It was a memory the pain of arts, the grace of hells—so dear the dungeon, the faces. Accursed with violets, tender purple rain, chosen to die. The grandest promise. I looked upon contour. I craved with anxiety. To search eyes, language betraying lusts. Such an escape—so trained, back to enthralled. Holy slavery, the tongue above all things, such a delicate, bereft heart. Just the key points—surrendering to personality, so indecent the pride, so enchanting the fey. Warm colors. Timely glances. To seduce with challenge. Staying. So late into night. Loving as it cures by its curse. A season for blurry eyes, water dripping, so emotional. Talk to us. Soul agendas. Bled with sunrise. The ontology of love, the cosmology of hurting. To need forever, trying to maintain the promise. I must in reasons. I desire in body. Flesh killing us. As reborn creatures. Afire in passion, aching in treasury, everyone watching us. The fields full of sugarcane. The sky laughing in agony. Those walls melting, sulfuric acid, to stop in mid orgasm. Trying to learn tables, multiplied in innocence, to become so sensual. In nature, wilder loses, doing as we please—safe in arms, to know havens. Such paradox, screaming by lungs, collapsing, head into pillows. 

 

II

 

The pride of calling it love. The grave chasing. Mesmerized by seduction. 

I’m close enough. You keep screaming. You need me closer, like face to bone, flesh to curse. I appear at times. You congratulate me. The rough roads. Surreal emptiness; teleological nothingness; life proving worthy of allegiance. The ink in their patterns—trying to make cognizance, too close to fully live, eggshells, souls made sensitive. You make it look easy. Terrible homes, adolescent chills, abused, nearly abandoned, trying hands at function, needing love’s arts. Saving by language, life as we asked. 

What Have You Created?

 

What Have You Created?

 

It’s been unlike a feeling, uncured silence. Pure churning. Put angst into tenor. Place grace upon a platter. To have lived was forbidden; to have died was proffered. Courage of lions; covert motion; becoming all things to all persons. To locate You – some emotion – in chant – to phone You early in saga. There’s majesty; supplemental spirits. The soul of Joseph; such excellence. To leapfrog, lured by holy need, a Nazarite was given. The world will flourish where they suffer. 

 

Terrycloth. A soul is cloth. A soul is condemned to eternal life. To return. To awaken. To repeat itself. When it was said, it was heard, it was carried off into a message, it travelled by verbiage—sullen consecration. (Wonder appears; macabre adventure; a man always believes it would be beautiful, faced by travesty, a man ignores his pace.) What have You done? What have You unveiled? Soul of Your Spirit; art of Your Chambers. With arriving in sphere, one tragic, glorious 

 

level; or becoming holy indifference, all of carnality losing texture; sheer pandemonium. Trying to understand David; it’s beyond reach: a soul found favor—endured strife. There’s love of Christ, undefiled. There’s saturation disputing spiritual boundaries. In all debates, something holy is shared. Those mystic fruitages, to crave by nature, certain paradox. In kneeling by spirit, humble when possible, trying to forget a treasured conundrum. What have You created?  

I must become more of a ghost.

 

I must become more of a ghost.

 

 

I must become more of you. Trying to live. Aglet skies. To sip serum, to feel differently, to muse upon goodness. The past—was it all bad? The future—is there a guarantee? Such hectic alcoholics—to measure quietude. So much of life has been depersonalized. I see it in souls, how we nest behind intelligence. We specialize at detaching from what makes us human. Such plumb depth, such brilliant souls, to have felt suffocated. What else could we do? More sipping. It affects us. Some separate the liquor from the behavior. Upon a drum, careful across terrors, attuned to a gut-phone. It was unwealthy, gutter ambition, we sit back and come apart. Either strength of its weakness, or weakness of its strength. To have thought some bizarre reality, lower on the cross of understanding—disputing against commonsense. Such inner wailing, or upon a good heartbeat, to adore, to love, to know kindness. Soul-quakes, such power, so removed from actions of the spirit-beats. Everything becomes commodity. Everything becomes for survival. Such outweighing enjoyments. To ask why one disbelieves. Indeed. Too much sermon. We enjoy liquor, ransom exploits, at points to adore, falling in and out of existence. Some fall head over heels, desperate to avoid folly; flogging injustice, rising into spheres, to cherish mind-prints.

I Said Nothing

 

The keys belong to someone else. The lamp flickers for its torch. I grow bitter. Such boxy jingling. Manna was temporary; faith seems to last for centuries. A man looked at a woman’s contour. Such repute of a woman. Like a sponge to absorb separateness; like holding a heart on stage. Brooks. Curdling algae. Never such silence. To esteem beauty; to contemn with irony. So superconscious. So beyond mortals. So sad at moments. Too much foresight, determined in it, life has shot us. By zealot ecstasies; by unclarity; the motive is radical, a soul forfeited many beliefs. Hear acute music, thresh a spirit, bleed until sunrise. The flux; treacherous pant; to gash and gnaw ignoring love. Just a set agenda. So, I negate self, I vanish by winds, I return a locomotive. One latchet. One serum. One opportunity to claim positions—all within a flogging to souls. Such edible emotions. Such up for downs. To keep a soul teetering. By dreams—sure redemption, to outwit literature, to become more than filthy garments. Indeed, believe nothing, live a short time, die lonely. Never submit to nothing, cherish kids, everything else can see hell. Seeking symmetry. Living out levity. Sublime stressors. Poisons of an excellent soul, for not all listen. So languid at points, eating perseverance, wondering what in hell is this. Dancing out firebrand. Returning to find emptiness. Those lavender scars, marooned eyes, turquoise pains, topaz wounds. I said nothing. 

Theater Tapdancing

 

Gathering paw prints. Such soreness: devastated islands. To cringe and make passion. (It was an uneasy plateau, disputable kindness.) Anything to breathe again, such uneven charity. With Love ever closer, facing a wounded response. Life and dungeons: not to mention new critics. Humans must repent the future. Nothing is at rest. Everything is to be won. Give us grace, Father! You must know the plight of souls! I can never un-feel it, never deflate it, knit by many ruins. I was filled with rivets—life made ripples; seas are unstill. With a beating heart, a craved spirit, she might learn depth value. Upon a whisper, most accountable, sensing something askew; like needing one to assess, so easily forgetful, life is ever by repercussion. If to know thyself, much more begins to matter. Ask us about those points in life where desperation availed a great debate; too much to fathom it, as to ask, what is the grand fight about: have we not analyzed humans? The few make it seem incredible. Gathering paw prints. Devastated by depth admiration. To cringe and make passion. So dear in a short time. So wise in a hidden veil. So much behind a curtain. Too tremendous the arts—to know a man’s psyche, in dungeon deep reigns, presuming completeness. Take us home!        

Just Writing

Born with a destination, all must pass through. Such was an appetite. And saw a spirit, alike to a vampire. To suckle by lights, to surrender to pash, so gray the nights. Was it enough? Sheer excellence, wondering what changed. To pillage a soul, to furnish a spirit, to endure. More walls, describing existence, needing one in essence—lesson of earth, feelings wafting into tears. Too much to ignore; too great to war; too much to unveil. And saw a spirit, alike to a fairytale. In desire as it breathes; in life as it dances; accultured as it blossoms. So tender the anxiety, so tremendous the angst. In trying words, to bend a few, they never explain core endeavor. (Go ahead and chime a smile—thieves in glory, while a soul waits to fly. Never alone in experience, maybe by interpretation.) Made medieval spirits, gothic arts, wilderness and mysteries of dark ages. Years in search, to arrive face to heart, and sense misdirection. To abandon oneself to emotion, to feel terrific, faced by a morning moon. With saying so little, needing to suggest much more, privacy is so limited. Spirit of a cosmic soul—legend of the great claim, immortal mind-waves. Gathering berries, indulging in wildness, disputing altruism. Seeking closure; with depth obedience, to see a fine line.     

Studying Pieces

 

 

I would aim to create; time always moving. I would aim to relate; wisdom hiding gently. In seeking, I must seek myself: Dialogue. I first enjoyed a figment of my imagination; it has become whelming. I spend hours pushing at a phantom. One would try to assist, another implants, weather feels the course. In all the getting, with Love at a cliff, we never relented. I wonder if brains do according to time. Yes. Mindful of it, as imposed upon it, nevertheless, to do according to time. Fantasy seeming timeless. And Love might hurt aside a soul: treasured premonitions. Maybe sequential meditation, if to break what never breeds. Each dimension—sureness of power—to see a poem and sigh. Time isn’t coquettish—it never flirts, it moves in one direction: animation comes to pass. I imagine pressure: so dear a dynamic spirit: intent on movement, subsumed by excellence, to see, to admire, to perish a smidgen. (I was uneven in love. It hit like a storm. I figured it was good for me: rationalizing.)  Maybe Zeus would articulate it. Maybe Artemis would bless fertility, so bad a connection—to have a healing union. (I can’t debate it any longer: mind-matter, lyric-wraiths, a soul granted ignition.) In searching a precipice, ignoring pretention, the weeping willow, discolored at times.   

It's Not Pablo

 

 

 

Claims become emotion the patient observer. I am not ready for the journey. I still pursue fruit, make juiceless nonsense, analyze—as souls do. Near a runoff, within a canyon, close to a raven’s nest, we might do ritual—séance, colorful visions, more claims, rabid emotion. Making feelings, starving for emotion, ripe for affection, those first few memories. We might make way through thickets, antagonize briers. Big mosquitoes. Crows as omens, celebrating the great century. Maybe we are talking about love. Maybe we are talking about nothing. Pablo talked about love. It was clear what he was talking. To unlatch a feeling, to turn it into manifest, to share a piece of the living. By dreams of mastery. By desire to be salt. Safe revelation, or unsafe love—minds painting old sentiments. If to feel fire; if to become swept into a whirlwind. It lives that way. It dies to itself. It mourns the horizon. It asks for love. It pleads. It begs. It lives. Mesmerized by voiceprints, brain impressions, all of a person makes an appearance. To put it in a sonnet. To whisper to insects. To converse with a canine. Many visions. To seduce eternity. Sweet – garden requirements. For any reason, song in my soul. Light in a dark space. Clarity of the shadow. Bears chasing salmon. Wolves pursuing bison. Daylight pining. Endless reaching. 

Dear Wisdom

 

Dear Wisdom,

 

I know to focus on one. I hope she’s well. She seems disgruntled when I muse upon intuition. Again, to have career and family. I recall a feeling, late into morning, where she was bemoaning her lot. I wonder if we all do this. Not to trivialize it—but we may be inclined, by genetic spawn, to find discontent with our stations; but she was crying in spirit, it reached through spheres, such a delicate tap, a shiver, a name. I responded, unaware of the person, moving into the person, suspicious of names. One asks, how to know? —it becomes superconsciousness, to imbue a person with being. I still do not know. I venture on wing, I refocus on prayer—sensing in passing days—some connection in light, such looming sunrise, aside a warming tent, a place at a table, to have understood—it was a moment, heavy in its departure. To gaze into a mirror, to see beyond appearance, to move through horizon, to capture cosmos, to soar into one’s eyes. I know to ponder upon one, undivided, beyond schism. If ever a moment, to know what I don’t know, reach with a delicate tap, an ancient craft, a feeling by wings. In a thought, upon a glacier, to indulge a rapping, such courage, such pride, with so much not reaching the stars. To have discussed life—sullen invisibility, deep grace, spatial affectation.  

  

Inspired by “Fruitful”

 

Inspired by “Fruitful” 

 

The poet tells a story about her womb, her body, her capacity to give life, while dying life. The poetess has gathered our hearts, shuffled our spirits, made anguish of our minds. In all the getting, I couldn’t fathom what it means to be a woman. The poetess has been affected by the affliction of a miscarriage. The poetess writes from an anguished space—a place we wish to visit, made weary when present.   

 

 

The requiem of a given day; by natural sin. A carcass filled with repentance, and many ignored, her life was neat suffering. If one can contain it—before it leaks out. Too much remeasuring; too much grieving. Suddenly, I was looking at a countenance. Icebergs melting; sentences halting. A certain churn. A misnomer. Why was the poet wincing? 

 

 

We’d think I’m accustomed to the ritual. Blame it on the optimism in eyes, despite the sadness. A soul will hold to dreams, in spite of circumstances. When they perish, pain becomes texture, cartilage. The artist let’s go, just to rekindle, where two suggest to feel life. The things a person tells self, losing while winning, or winning while losing. The artist releases faith, only to reclaim it. Such an Atlantis appetite; mantis mantic; a soul might go up a hill, sit politely, and watch army ants: such diligence. (It wasn’t as it was dreamt. Such predisposition. Each soul with a hypothetical; as to call it Truth. In reality, we know little about other souls; nay, we know too much. I examine self to learn about others. Such grayness. Maybe a flaw. We ignore nuance, environments, and orientations. What I may do, another may loathe. It still has cache. It’s better to think about self, others, than to surrender entirely.) The ants find sequence, unison, activity. I’d be a soul marveling. The dreams of eternity. The evidence in regions. Or an icy glare, at a precise moment, unbeknownst to the seer. To wait to meet other conduits, to channel a tear, to measure again, to locate a reason for perseverance. More of an ancient texture; more ink. When in doubt, they say: Start where it aches. Remain with self through the storm. 

The Great Heirloom

 

 

The weakness is the hunger. A need to feel esoteria. Something tugging one free. (Each time I read good poetry I ask myself what in the hell am I doing?)  Over unripe loquats, with sour lemons—discussing a five-year-old’s dreams. To reminisce through a quarter of a century later; to return to the inner portrait time and again. (What is the artist screaming about?) There’s grayness to it: during dry weather—to create something wet—to hydrate on emotionality. We take a sickle to skies, to unravel diamonds, the mind-earth is raining its existential. (One appeared at a crucial moment. Unconscious writing is addictive. But it’s ever conscious. In seeing the oxymoron, one is appreciative of the process. I thought I was self-conscious. I’m good and self-conscious at this point.) The weakness is the hunger. Made susceptible. The artist is weary. Most need to know with clarity—in order to explain life; in its psychology, it makes a heart cozy, warm. True bravery is facing chaotic motion, adjusting with each wave. There’s a need for esoteria. So much of life is unfree. The artist has been ignoring uneasiness. It seems appropriate to say—life leans in and becomes uncomfortable. One comes back to it. It evaporates during interaction, sudden to reappear. Some are strong. They withstand the great heirloom.    

 

Pacifying Death

 

 

 

Pacifying Death

 

I was asked about death. My culture needed an answer. I removed myself. I felt too grown. Death is an answer to a longer question. Death is crucial, evident in each life. Death is plurality. I dipped it. I tugged it. I looked around at death. Nothing satisfies death. We drew a circle, conjured up a pentagram, determined to sweat, to make motion, to pacify death. I dipped it. the valve was empty. I saw feelings, they drew measures, the Ghost showed up. I was the medium. Nothing is enough for death. It keeps pushing. It has a radical appetite. I tugged it: many dimensions, still floating.   

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.