Some Never Say Much

 

 

Artists made musicology, so natural to sing it. Centuries begging fate: I fell in line. To presume innocence; to die one first breath. I treasured forests, conversing with leopards. It was not easy. As it turns out, every human habit faces addiction. (Over turquoise-fuchsia, to become hebetated, to expect a bulb to fail—such wattage—uncertain voltage—loving was always easy.) By solution we mean to invert behavior, to remove option, by flooding sensing: no greater gift than to resist in Love’s honor. (Everything comes that it may end: such endings can be terrific. With souls seduced by science, enchanted by religion, to have adored while received. Sunshine passion; to have cherished city, country, and jungle. To know for dance (her ache), to know for sacredity (her cadence, or to know for wildness (her inclination). Such demarcation, boundaries, expectation, to have pledged years. Some will be late. Traffic with be gridlocked. Many will believe it is morning. In actuality, night is with us, night has been with us. I was displeased with technology. I learned to live with it. I would say, I learned to accept it. Nevertheless, it never required my acceptance. It came. It saw. It took and conquered. My acceptance meant nothing. Indeed, it sounds harsh. Truth tends to sting. And Love was powerful, blended into elements, such treacherous happiness. To live for reflection, palms grieving, wrestling with conscienceness. Dreams are similar. They come around in literature. A child says things adults have heard.   

 

Anything Said Is Incomplete

 

 

So much was given. So many rituals. We quietly dispel spells.

It felt its part the resurrection the inversion. 

Familiar traumas. To notice silence therein—to seize loud glitter. 

Mind coils. Intellect rivers. Acrobatic tremors.

And loving was not a challenge. Losing felt romantic. Reality

shivered.

To glide aloft—to phantom midair, to adore despite trepidation.

So cloud fallen, some art made radiant.

Each time mind discredited a soul; each magnificent ribbon.

In living the expansion, reaching for ether, gripping exosphere. 

To spread so thinly; to capture so short lived; to have always

the precocious.

The tenderest excellence, accustomed to one last dream. By inking

empires, to envision paradise, one first encounter.

Sodden Marrow

 

So chaste, Love. So muddy the diamond. Such contradiction. One life, one phantom. By working harder, by art the tangle, by baptism. 

Too much shame the oracles. Too much of what life prevents. Sweet galvanization: to gallop all evening, motion forbidding movement. 

I was with pash and displeasure. I was ever low in those highs. 

If the cadent lights, how far we go. In pointing to wealth, such excellent embrace. It neither makes it, nor fails it. 

Somewhere between extremes. The message for one in a dream.

In making sense, angelizing habits, one portal for a man, thrice perfected in woman. Tugging at gusts, falling into elements, a melting crown, a rising thorn.

Wisdom seems lonely: what use is solitary excellence? In this season, to imagine womanhood, the best of seductive shadows, mirrors made foggy. 

Assorted feelings. Perfected self-loathing. To hear a gentle, raspy voice. 

One more approach, one trembling cadence.  

California

 

California, alike to no other. The sunshine state. 

So amazed by shrubberies, spirit-winds, upon an experience. 

To move with graces, to make excellence. 

Sheer scientific, sheer religiosity, sheer agnostic; not exhaustive, blue jays, red scorpions, magnetic measures;

to endear aesthetics, to whisper, passing museums, to absorb abeyance. 

A neat glass, or cosmopolitan, such mango margaritas, make it on the rocks. 

Songbirds. Plush gardens. Heat infested oceans. 

Such precious nostalgia, intense de ja vu. 

If close, upon a ribbon, beyond scars, to embrace eternal—studying astrology, speaking assertively, claiming absolutes. 

Elaborate emoting. Off the cuff speeches. Magnetic chi.

Most touched by politics. Seeing and sensing unreality. 

To regroup. To remeasure. The world in awe of California.    

One Endearment

 

 

Though the sun fails,

exultation will prevail.

 

We’ve measured expectancy; we’ve mortified souls.  In semblance of love, left one chasing for love.  Some element in traumas; some station in glee. 

 

In the years, facing dreams, learning realism. It disturbs chaos, it causes debris. Many habits, seductive whims, never settled into identity (not as determined by destination). Love would sing of independence. Love would find currents, sacrifice. Those first sixteen years—filled with promise, overloaded with absolutes. (I might drift in chant—aware of mechanisms—still fond of structure, community.) The beast of those delicate wildfires; the calmness of beauty; days feeling in between. An echo from a voice—striking holy images. Maybe cherubs, seraphs, maybe a piece of self never altered. A soul trying to get to that first breath, trying to connect to a feeling before the womb; seeking a source, struggling through the journey, needing aboriginal emotion; leaning into valleys, traipsing the countryside—tales of beatitudes, days filled with orison, becoming part split, part whole, such interchangeability. At a crucial point, it no longer tastes like juice (a most controversial pillar); nevertheless, it tastes like ritual, pointing at sunrise, a dear participation. To have become more of the Beloved, to have partaken of a sacred kiss, to have bathed in Spirit—finder of the Great Sky, Deliverer of the pits, Bulwark of all searching. Sound melody. Holy irritability. Flitting into moments, fraught by acceptance, to have lived for One Endearment.    

The Last few Whispers

 

 

 

I sit and watch. Cadence or tsunami. Both it would appear.

So great the power of a tear: God’s violin.

Such an onslaught. 

Dealing with rupture—those months waiting upon concentration.

Literature as arcane, eyes kneading nouns. 

I’d tell a tale, so unbelievable: a few are succinct. 

I was unspoken, plus, I spoke, life is subjective: 

living by sprouts, berries, with weather impending.

I was remembering you: education and caliber; presence and neatness. I was with sunlight, befuddled by rain, over 90 degrees of radiance.

Those faces made by stone: 

often a person is self until it aches. Often wings give in mid-motion. 

The amazement of the umbrella, to stand under fog … to witness a slant, a wheezing smile, gasping for air. 

Too tall to intimidate; too bright to go dim. Such straw and effort. Such mortar and reality. Such years and precision. 

(I would reminisce upon a feeling when sitting and watching.)   

Wishing You would join This War

 

You appear at odd stations. I do not know your miseries, nor motivations, and happiness might be forged in some gray waves. I ponder through a deep scar, to imagine a knitted heart, those channels he made surgery. And holding tightly, releasing loosely—one mended meme, one crooked insulation, and age has continuity to it; you appear with insistence, by mind voltage, a beating chest. Life has been emphatic for seasons,

many moons, those creative goodbyes, holding to one by status—days become self-conscious, those many flickers. 

I would not say “courage,” for she wanes; and those first months, such false perfection. To know it dies what it gives, the incessant bleeding, oxygen deceptive before God. 

You read with fire smoldering. You dream with a feeling boiling. 

The nights with a thought, a silent kiss, put to rest, one scream. 

I sense in going further, welts aside codification, while one simmers, to have become life, to have manifested dreams.

One last feeling, to suggest to self, this is the new life; in emotion, to posses one emerald, asking she enter a set of wars. (Those realities between manifests.) So crocheted, so neatly chaotic, so invested. To adore what becomes personal; to oppose what tears at family fabric.

One last assertion, to damn what pursues beyond measure. One actuality, we can’t fathom each other, nor are days closer, left to self, one more war.  

Reigns

 

 

I have reigns inside. –through depth valley. To have vindicated annunciation, a romantic crescendo. –through disagreement, obedience would quiver. Such sunny instinct: neither aware nor tolerant. I had a picture inside. –she painted brooks, argued life, vetted her paradox. –she had reigns inside. They might lend to sadness. I was with aesthetic, effacing pieces of art. Such a casual dream; never so much beauty—to writhe in sulfur. A spirit of itself; a soul of its mother—by prayer, by fiat, to witness motion, to cuddle up with holiness. I have reigns inside. I obey what causes confusion.  

Uncured

 

The weather would change. The feeling would suffer its transfer. I would like to say, one is going against the inner person. I do not know. With life, trying with a sweet tooth, wilderness is intense. Looking at a thought, amazed by horizons, so unmatched, so extreme. I made a bed. This is life. The art is another’s welding. Such a large matter. Such is existence. So much mathematics; so many algorithms. Keeping a piece. Collecting fragments. The core upset, shaken. To sit and undergo force. The power of the discontent. A long road to go. It just topples over into smokestacks.     

Silent Sound

 

The cathedral is silent. Interior dimness. 

Life is more than repeats. More than 

Redundancy. What is it? a dream in a 

Dream? Moving like snails, eager 

To make motion. Greeted by 

Mayflies. Wrestling Descartes. Tugging horns.

By gray terrain, soreness and storm,

Making illusion. Surely, it wasn’t by 

Verdant earth, tolerant of absence. They 

Could have given hell—more color. 

Never as it became. Never as it whispers. 

The room is loud. Exterior spirits. To 

Wish for it—alike to a child; to arrive at

Parts of a classical film.  

Sunday Bells

 

 

It’s by science and intuition. A soul 

To his mystery.  Holy song wafts 

Softly. Life comes by travels—roaming

Arcane terrain, most thoughts affixed.

Unknown names, making motion.

Echo of her voice—thwarted at times,

Singsong existence. Sacred of arts, 

Each rune an affectation—

Apostleship. Such life is bewildered,

Unmeasured, soundness of deserts.

Bells, solemn morning, kilns. One 

Born to debt, awhirl by grace. 

A cosmic ritual, a trumpet echoes;

Priests and bishops, belief and rain. 

Silent Breeze

 

 

Maybe the beat is sweet sin. Maybe the affliction is a beautiful curse, made unto fruition. Maybe Viola knows triumph; sour candy, salty souls, vatic appetites. The bleeding of the skies—the water in the fire, the flame flickering throughout eternity. An infinite affair, weeping intuition, to know neither quite care for the other. Like tribal circuits—reverberating quickly, the ghost of its mirror. All those years put to change, as it meant so much, reduced to ash. Let life be its passions. To each in a zone. The perception wars. Baffled by realities, possibilities. Such angst—to side and swiftly. Afloat a trombone. Traipsing between hemispheres. So tender the absolute horror, so fragile the soul, deep light, withering into sharpness. In moving hills, in rapture the stars, to realizing motion is tacit.       

Signs & Symbols

 

 

One day—the music blaring, everything is symbolic. You know for imposition. With the oath in place, I wonder why paranoia is so vital. In life, souls meet and dislike each other. it’s one of those observations. 

More those vibrations.  Each soul, it’s been heavy, I never mention much. Private warfare.  I keep a hand to God. On borrowed time. Pavement prayers. 

I do get it. I see us.  It may be community, indeed, but something feels like its yearning, part incomplete, defensive, so what! 

Many, the whole lot, same situation. 

I watched one, the whole life … disputing her existence. 

I say, we flood seas, we hit blocks, we focus on youth—proud to give little souls knowledge—pavement prayers, concrete orison … and God was giggling, just watching, blessing all involved. 

The biggest fear is reincarnation—at this same motion, under this same telescope. 

I’m opting out. And I can hear Father. It’s not up to me.

Give it to God. 

Deal with his children by his will. 

Love Mastered Energy

 

 

It never explains itself. It exhausts itself. It drains the earth. Beguiling, ceramic hearts. Nothing to its tyranny. A soul is with science. And many will test …. (It arrives.) It refuses to be forgotten. Not just because. It considers forgiveness to its weakness. In all the knowing, know surrounding lakes. Despite what we believe, the rivers are not inconsequential. And we never see ourselves. We wander mire, eat sackcloth, a guffaw in the horizon. Life is part beauty. Her aesthetics are rich. Such a systemic fuse. Pain beyond color. Who can make the crooked things straight? And we try to appease the existential, bled of humanity, to hear it in the winds—a muffled guffaw. Surefire motion; a man wonders about it. This is it, until a catastrophe, if not, this is the measure of life. One sees the effort, bent on something tragic, refusing to let life take its measure. There is a concern, where humans refuse it, God is willing to forgive. So, the beginning contains its ending, and vice versa. The madness of schematics. The markings are there. One will volunteer others; and nothing encapsulates it all. I wish that small group knew. In seeing what they call reality. Nevertheless, it is by measure its own excellence. By design, it builds, one must meet it at each increment, let nothing pass by.      

Warm Icy Rain

 

 

Oh Love, I writhe in hell. There you are, so imaginary. A guileless man, and I lie. I need a particular desolation, gods, goddesses and dreams. Nevertheless, moonshine Wednesdays, somber Fridays, regrouping on Sundays. Too many years between us, too much pain, to watch variations of one person. Thrown to miracles. Climbing ice. I was at a loss of language. It was ruined dice, a gamble, and it never mattered—the fever of intensity, an overarching arc, ontic woes, noetic charms. The particular is what I was told; the abstract is what I know. We frown on metaphysics, such a riddle, and then we use the intangible. I never understand us. A righteous soul, and I lie. Oh Love, the darkness was refuge—demanding of depth, driving the particular. Such coldness, as it departs, to rhythm into sunlight. Such radical pain; such threshing pleasure. Roses. The eye of the needle. I squint at gnats. So many mind dimensions; so many compartments. So much loving, to then leave. Always rushing. I wasn’t certain of the vision, Love. To live Fire & Desire; to make it feel alright, despite something kneading rain, stirring emotion, angelizing imperfection; for we all come apart: we all try to bounce back. And Love is castling, now positioned, becoming quite powerful.   

Learning Instruments

 

that type of music, unique acoustics. A dream on its last leg: the way it alters a wave. So many years wasted. Intimacy made impersonal. I sense each bat, as it suckles. Spinning by degrees. It was so clever. Full of hubris. It was easy, thwart by too much thinking. Each to galloping, at the foot of seas, early evening pasta with tomatoes. 

 

In unfeeling what makes a poet. It was glorious in our eyes. Years to come to this space, aging, a certain maturity to it. 

 

It wasn’t what we suspected. It refused to be forgotten. I imagine private discussion; those with assertions. The fiat is souls shall fly. It’s been some time between facts: incipient love, marooning eyes, cyan ink. 

 

It’s a vision killing him. An unopened sky. That type of music.

 

If rising wasn’t drastic; if rain wasn’t scarce … one final dream, such interruption, a man harasses himself. He digs his grave. When he desires liberty, he’s met by karma. 

 

By a great polemic; while Love is most astute: the poet must travel alone, all gadgets forsook. With a miracle sprouting stems, they connect, such tragic understanding.    

Holiness as Central Experience

 

 

 

A certain expression of itself. To come as spirit wills. A dungeon to it. Moving immaterial logs, pushing through sludge, trying to enter holiness. Father of totality. Mother of Logos. Spirit made of its substance. I was a child when I heard the Good News. It was life infusing. Those days supernal exercise was natural. What would Logos be without miracles and resurrection? I would look for more, rereading eschatology. Apocalypse seemed soteriology. Scripture became spiritual. Revelation seemed symbolic. Wisdom of its soul; rites of its passage. To know by root those branches exist, with a caveat: All souls are of one rank. Off putting for some. Relief for others. Contradiction for secular souls. At baseline, devoid of mire, holiness is good. To build a rapport inside, to go as far back as a tribal self—pure consciousness. To feel holy irritability—saturated at moments. Each will have identifiers for similar phenomena … in its identification represents its reception. To believe is a gift. In belief comes faith. When paired, a wonderful experience comes forth. By holy we insist upon some arcane force, self, or community. One may reason concerning nature. In argument, each experience is deepened by perception. In giving life utterance, certain power in annunciation, without dispute, a well of chi in each soul.

I Step in Mire, Told to Hold my Tongue

 

 

The soil is muddy. I step in mire. I trail mud for half a block. I have many objections. Told to hold my tongue. I return to said soil daily. I step in mire. I trail mud for half a block. I have many objections. Told to hold my tongue. I enter a garden. I prune flowers. Amazed by petals. To remove one too many ruins the flower. One too many petals were removed. I was collecting petals, no one understood. I wanted to put them back. 

Some rollercoaster. A long ride. Many curves. 

I was trailing dried mud. I was washing my soles. I thought to being right. The mind—couldn’t forget it, plus, life is on repeat. 

Deep through darkness. The sunlight is marvelous. Those petals dried. A breeze came in, they drift.

Life has a feel to it. At its core, the blade of its grass, it’s neither yes nor no. It just sits—wandering itself—nudging us to motion.

I bathed before baptism. I showered after baptism. The soil is muddy. I step in mire. I trail mud while reading scripture. 

Dusty Rivers

 

 

I must have lost something; hoping wildly. I must have gained something; drag racing hertz. I have not an inkling of thoughts. Life appears to be radical—as upon a pendulum, 

 

enough stress to invest more. A first reprint, seeking sunshine, it was destined to be. Nothing would have detoured it. I suppose—we find freedom, if not delusional, to 

 

unlatch something from our souls. To ask for honesty, to retrieve lies, no one is rectitude anymore. “How do you assume?” Life appears in grays, opaque wiles, 

 

presuming as opposed to assuming. I need to go to a place, hearing dead souls, loving how we knew victories. It was mental wings, this is what we wanted, everything else just came. 

 

It’s amazing how we must respond, such a thin line, to imagine a world filled by imposition. Trying to please walls, to decide against it, forced to participate. It seemed 

 

easier; tetherball, soccer, kick ball, etc. It seemed easier; kissing games, chasing spirits, writing cute letters. It seemed easier. Asking what it means to Save Me. Through tyrannies, 

 

each soul to chambers, many saying, “It’s not that serious.” I ask he look in a mirror. Life is on repeat. One reason we have children. To see something different. Each day growing, 

 

until it becomes familiar.  I fell in love with sunlight, needlessly addicted to darkness, meshed in sequences, threshed by faith, asking for clarity. It was never more than that; 

 

incessant prayers, skipping full-on wisdom—for clarity of thought.  I practiced it, many picking and selecting fields of thought—each line by ruler, each curse by celebration, each 

 

penalty by reflection. I find a clue to it all, despite a level of hatred, an adversary fears being forgotten—passing into sunsets, sailing across seas, passing through palms.  You 

 

would if it were permissible; and you would hit the button when you locate it; years to bandits, wolves chasing prey, coyotes part insane. Over yonder there’s a woman, she 

 

knows men’s psyches. So much invested in parsimony. A curious creature. Everything is both impersonal while personal.  (So much lost on dice rolls; such courage to live. I was 

 

pondering, trying at excellence, for fair problems. It’s amazing what one will give in celebrating an abrasion.) It sounds harsh: How have we loved? What have we given? Life is a reflective mirror, aimed at itself.     

 

Feathers

 

 

It would be strange—the fire of the engine. Tried. Aloft a spell. Courage of the kingdoms. To breathe is slight suffocation, the blood boils, the halls are filled with banshees. So great a thin line: rooting for the best in us. Ask me about scripture, I go vagueness, this is the great arts. If I told you plainly, you’d label me. if I remained ambivalent, you might chase the mystery. (You look like power, neatly moving, encouraged to make motion. Intentional glances.) And the animosity we share, the loathing, the uncured wound. Three parts—to make Jesus. The One is the One, losing nothing, acquiring additions, as all come from the root, here in this space—when was the Sun born?  In loving as it aches, rules by glossaries—to promise in affliction, to vow with humanity, the curse of the bold and blue skies. (Into the baseline, feeling tribal, knowing it was hell); like a child hoping upon a miracle, if Jesus might come, it would all be right. I’d never say it, so disappointed, to have learned about reality too early-on. Nevertheless, to hope with Jeremiah, to prophesy with Malachi, lost and never understood. The goodness of a neighbor—to see a child, elders doing Christianity goodness. And love seems an ideal, unrated by itself, cherished and magnified—the cure by faith, the long jeopardy, forever feathering wings.     

Heart Map

 

 

At the end of the journey, we might not find certainty. Is it fair? We only adjust because we must. We don’t speak to those spirits. They opted out. One must be sturdy, ulcers and all. We might adore aesthetics, praising beauty, seeing it in all quarters—the gift of the remedy, the solace of the aged, the soft and tender voice of the nun. Some might weather the storm, seeking comforts, giving life over to the souls of flesh. We say it matters, because we see the results. In watching the Grand Guitarist, we dream, for it seems soothing, it possesses therapy. To find existence in a stranger, such uncured rules, to need a push over the hump. One says, “It’s nearby.” The one is by faith, by decision, by insistence—rather than evidence: we’re not asking for certainty, just reasonable correlation. Where principles contradict each other, one is right to step back and look closely. But life is filled by wishes, dreams, love by flight, memories of both triumphs and mistakes. At the end of the voyage, we might arrive at it, we might find her—some mysterious grayness, some concrete abstract, some blatant paradox. It might feel like a mirror, looking at ourselves, indulging in reflection, and feeling familiar. The god-self, filled by sunlight—measured by intuition—vetted by heart emotion.

Creative Flow

 

 

The aesthetic of the curse. The moon conscious of its sun. The chase, as it isn’t. The faith in one, as a religious. So lost in hemispheres, alluring neurotransmitters, so many clogs—a few whispers, stepping away from one’s mirror. 

I saw her as death was heaving. I approached; a spirit creeped. I touched her hand, it bounced. The fever to speak, the legacy of the punishment, so great the flippancy. 

Indeed, I make it about love. It has roots in chaos. The pain the glory the misery—to launch into orbit. To travel each comet, mad they counted us in.

I was unsure of the dynamics, the inner chase, the ultimate need. 

It means much: as meaning becomes distorted by intentionality. 

I would be a grave of a man, falling by one’s honor, to have one proud to have magic. Too much reading; too tremendous the yearning—where a man must fabricate existence. 

Does it become anything I imagine it to be; nay, one would label me swiftly. A little fun, to imagine souls infusing each other, dwelling in each other, the great discrepancy.

The two becoming one might have connotations attached to it. 

Colored by Waves

 

 

The hue is in the bone. The color is purple. In the far distance—sounds a teakettle, a jackhammer, all imaginary. Such surreal properties, neither left nor right, near a narrow road, face down, missing opalescence. By resplendent charms, terrific gestures, arcane weather. To have, is to hold; to cherish is to manifest. It’s ever in chorus. It towers in choir.      He was never wise. She gave him his name.     Another derides him, chides him.     The love of the scar; the torch between opposites.     To have loved in absence of itself.     Ethereal embodiment.     If to soar, to become rockets, so many dreams, between caricatures.     The focal points are enticing.     The bishops still repent. The nuns still mourn. To pour oneself into spheres, pure liquidity.     To have won fair heart. To have learned fair weather. To have loved despite the volcano.      Neat, tidy innocence; or it matters not; if one is willing—it takes a great tugging. 

     Such wayward beginnings. 

In the search, upon a trampoline, one last leap—sensing halos, if to fathom, born to become intuition. 

Such California oxygen, paradoxical winds.     To see what’s sensed; such inner webbing, reknitting latchets. It always seems closer to going home; born to that degree. Deep sable eyes; blue oceans; hazel sunbeams, and green lanterns.  

Summer Taste

 

 

I was penciled in, eraser nearby, occupying the dearth. It moved her. To explain this life, sinking deeper into the fantasy. To imagine what’s required, to give until drained. We might use strong personas, part weakened, advanced creatures. 

When one is priority, it’s hard to ignore; the secret is in motive, to give what others can’t supply, a shooting star, one wish. 

Pulled out of a novella, talking love, acting as if—filled with decision. 

Stressing appetites; deteriorating. 

So much in a moment, as stated, as feeling fruitful—one needing to believe her inner dialogue, either a blessing or a curse. 

Chipping at ice, melting glaciers, to see her eyes, to see her composure, to wonder what caused it, a dark shadow. To see him live, void of one’s soul, somewhat addicted, with nothing meaning much, the taste of her aura. 

One inked me in, ever at a distance, a certain type of semblance; sheer irksome, upon a greeting, currents into prose. As immortalized. Carrying her magic. 

I look to it, as a mystery, listening to a deeper gripe, a needed closure, remembering a long and flowing dress, all white, all deliberate. 

It’s just a haunting. Some fall into gossamer, claim confusion, wrestling with eroticism. I think one is accustomed to certain fruits, measuring imposition, believing in kismet. The very nature, if one could keep clarity, to pinpoint the paradise, so afflicted, needing life to give one blessing—part allergic to the cadence.

                        I’ll be honest. I must efface my thoughts, it’s a wild ass toast to give. In truth, made apparent, a different breed, the worlds are eclectic, the woes are in essence, to see reflection, to sense certain souls, as present, the ups, the downs, part clear with life. 

To Love by Thought

 

I embark upon love, as a portal to existence: the sun glistening upon life, the tales told in classes, the rivalry for fair resistance, to court and court and lose. Such tragic pain, life as gods, souls as goddesses: flame of 

 

coldness, fire of ice, rolling by heart, stern by wrath, affected by fair beauty. A soul living his deaths, chasing partial winds, banshees & wraiths, gusts & spiders, to speak about love—is to perish to love. It 

 

was never intention, it was ever compulsion, measured against unreality, a soul of the Spirit. Like a stroke of good fortune, Love would pluck a flower, gaze on high, and annunciate the poet’s name. Such grayness. 

 

The poet would pursue. The two might wrestle, act flirtatious, or plain show disrepute. Such fluffy doves, beads of sweat, excellence & shadow seduction. The tender greetings, a nimble caress, to have lived 

 

whilst we died. Kingdoms at war. Making lament upon a lute. Staring into something futuristic. Needing to love, if but to remember. So swift, the loss; so unreal the encounter. So fragile the humanity.   

Never Forget The Human

 

The face would be sin. The gospel is prose. I must seduce patience. If to keep order. Going into chambers—mystic channels—the face is darkness. Flickering. Let there be luminosity. Such spasms. Dwelling in terrors. Life keeps coming. Trying to forget happenstance, alike to changing cultures, a neat practice, the self can’t be effaced, despite tenets. Go ahead and give life, this is beautiful. One’s features. One’s brow line. And we leave emotion to stitch a bond. The caress of gentility. The meals at the table. Those tender bedtime stories. And we leave that to feelings. The face was darkness, sternness, until a beaming bulb, a brilliant sun, dreams in motion—the face would still be sin. Such terrible clarity. A man’s disturbance. To have read the most alarming literature. There’s pain there. One needed to wait before becoming concerned. If necessary, how to vet that? If unnecessary, where is the soul of that person? The face is gorgeously benighted. Darkness is raw alure. Needing sensuous titillation; needing the pains that probe us; needing deep felt alienation. The author is off. The audience is clear. We assume such things. Or the author is clear, and the audience is off. Either/or, else both are off at points, and clear at points. The face would sin. The most deplorable behaviors, to see fascination, curiosity, an attraction to what one might detest, pure concupiscence. To imagine a man, raw in his years, at his peak, to shift, as to notice a heart-beating anguish. The latter is better than the former. The former gave life a form. One might tire of turmoil. One might grow weak around old appetites. And a soul was a minister—forgetting his color, the consensus ruled against him, just like King Jr.

 

Marshweed Trekking

 

 

You touched a button. You made a point. 

The temple is full of spirits, seated neatly.

We lean into deception, filled with pride, uncertain, moving with motion. 

A man will change everything, a woman will nurture his change. 

The epitome of silence is passionate neurons, scratching, clawing, if but elation, alike to mania. So 

great

the fission, sweet dolor ecstasy, blood blue diamonds. Sublime doctrine, first courage, before humanism. 

Unphysical alchemy, tangible but unmeasurable—they call us mad, knowing our scars, living supposed lies. So pictureless, tender nectar, chaste and unclean—such prestige. We yearn for you, so screwed in pains, to have ruined what God might ordain. The bowels inside, shapeless, for it would never cross galaxies, never confront mystery, never ache as it does. The chantress 

is

voiceless, appearing in voltage, too much revealed, it was never hidden. 

Such marshweed trekking. 

Bold deliverance. 

Hyenas dream. Cobras dance. It was hellish. I’m weird. As points, it felt good. A lost man, a disenchanted woman, we wonder what in farse they’ve created.

 

Just Streaming

 

 

The depiction of excellence. At times it happens. They might worship rhinestones. They might worship nothing. How to exert love without meaning love? So estranged; eating a zillion dollar emotion. (It’s uphill or nothing.) And it must feel good. 

The room was packed. Free the dead. 

Low hazel eyes. Belly dancing miracles. Amazed by beauty.

What was given? What was received? Years in. Years out. The penalty of truths. 

Examining what we call love. It seems uneven. And many reciting it. 

I was rethinking about it all; when I come through this ….

No degrees on this one. New rules. I’m learning. 

Many writing masterpieces; they know privacy. 

It remains alienated, threshed flesh, winnowed brains, just sold an ox. 

After a while nothing means as much as infatuation. It remains raw—giving life. I reminisce on features: shoulder length roses, aesthetic waists, an antique anklet. 

Taking lies to the grave. I’m not alone. In all the giving, in all the winning.