Loss

 

 

The devastation of it; tears never rise enough. A strong gaze; olden souls. So much taking. I drift through behaviors; I shift into a seaquake. Too damaged at points. Too optimistic against solace. So many genuine startups; to have adored like sinning; relieved to receive; as it lives, one trillion prayers, or forsook and chased. Eager contradiction; in seeing one will exist further, probing gut-phones, phantom identity. In learning to release passions, in swimming in skies, so low when it first hit. Seeking reasons to reclaim happiness, raptured by depressions. Those reaching waves, what by reflection? At points, two sad souls make beauty; at some degree, they must cherish that. If not, others will see radiance, to seduce pegs, unveiling vulnerability. Such reason to perish again. I ever to believe in some part of earth. Such rabid chi, flickering, fluctuating, taking what’s needed until chimes ring. The curse; to watch while forbidden from participating—as a first cause. It never mattered, they say. To be of assistance, they say. Bullshit! I hit the gas, smoke free, retrospection upon gestures, infuriated resistance became segue. Most radical condition—fretting present ghosts—addicted to good times. Such double troubles, over a billion in repentance, close to a miracle in midst of dying.  

“I’m Going To Regroup”

 

 

It gets dreary; feeling life losing luster, told it’s all perception. Giving the best one can offer! Over a five-week argument, sheer devastated, asking for old minutes, those before time. I was thinking—of why you love him, I was at a loss; not out of disaster, just unlearned, why do we 

 

love? And no remorse, fully trusting, to approach an altar like a child. I never fathom each message, fueled by each lesson. Such a wrecking ball; such to devour disputation. To feel that feeling. It remains unnamed. Love falls under misnomers. To see again. As never to lose that 

 

feeling. This is heaven’s work. In seizing opportunity, an indoor rider; going through life, never a warning, arms reaching, offering security. To see vulnerability, entrusted with innocence. In preservation of love, palming ashes, intimate rituals. If let down, the world stops moving. I 

 

appear in her eyes; she implodes in my veins. Everything I do! I seek an ideal. She seeks a last name. Like science in my feelings. Like religion in her arts. In knowing God. In keeping her secret. Hoping against the universal. I used to hit the gas, staring into skies, moving gracefully—

 

those words, seeping into the gut-phone, knowing—it’s true to sanity, trying to have what many lost. Reminiscing. Aching self-government. Listening to faiths, kneeling in spirit. Living by codes. Getting up in age. I keep saying that old time thing, “I’m going to regroup.” 

Appraising Beauty: Aging Through Groves

 

 

I’m running out of time. Life is short. It feels like a diagonal curse. I was with desire those years, filled with lust those years, as it was intended. Concupiscence died; with life most critical. Too many bullshit ass games. Too many categorical wounds. Museum minded; lasciviousness became aesthetics; appreciating rareness, even energies, standing accused of ascetism. Walking by—devastated by elitism, wondering how Love might exist, so incautious with her, probing idiosyncrasies … craving to win unconditional affection, deft at moments, wild at seconds, asking that others disappear, indeed, a caveman. Those intuitive gazes, incredible astuteness, to seem passé, if a man desires more than sex. Accustomed to feeling displaced, needing something barely treasured, those lines as we grow, those tears for Labradors. So many paw prints, skyscraping, returning nightly, seriously underrated. I might wax poetic in seeing her. I might say all things, and never mention love. We might presume adoration, laugh at the Simpsons, eating a bag of Doritos. In human need; in vanishing to a moment; to assume all currents—flippant in spirit, angry as hell—if it goes sour. Years to become privileged. Disputing politics. Knowing what freedom sounds like. Honestly, semi-crazed, adoring with passions, alive to feel Love.     

Loving Seems Fatidic

 

The magic becomes sunny. The privilege is prideful. To have adored some measure, if dying meant reliving. One last chance to perish; one last dream to chase. Love is in bone structure: shoulders, ribs, hips. If to mention legs, if to esteem buttocks. I know Love has kissed unto orgasm; in asking for more; realizing we may never become first experience—so bad a scream, encouraged to die for it, begging and groveling to Infinity. Categorical sunshine, sweaty nape, a neck by what it desires. I know Love has given all in her pursuits, to live for passions, chided by an inner ghost, pleading it comes but once in a life time. If not, souls are flabbergasted, resistant to freshets inside—yearning for freedoms, if to adore once more. (I would like to get closer to actuality, to unveil what it looks like, (I believe two people are experiencing two different realities)—the sun is witness, a thousand years getting it right.) The problem is biblic, such nebulosity, to feel Love is painful. Days growing stronger, destroying the best of jazz, unsealed and released to spirits. How offal it could become? How beautiful the chase inside? Love in essence—to muse upon incompleteness, soaring powers, such queenship, prowess of madness.     

The Holy Craft

 

 

It requires more time to chase flame. Slightness might encourage wolves. Deeper into mid-brains, such effusion, pouring into hemispheres. I measured letters, holy upon its curse, blessed in its surrendering. At core such tender essence, substance into existence, charmed it provoked you. Those nights between poems, one still in effect, motion of one’s fusion. It requires slowness of gestures, each symbol to its chamber, proud to have behaved neatly. I can’t pursue favor. It’s not an option. What we find is Spirit is rare in humans. What we believe in—is best in Spirit. Penalized for infallibility. Terrorized for faith. I sit in a daze, carved out of a curtain, playing an insouciant game. Such classical arms, legs touching fears, running to a deficit—most will debate it in passing. Those future days, reading skies, affected by innocent sails. If to summons eternity, by chance through fate, kismet chasing, closing in. To say Spirit, a private language, becomes universal adherence. Radical fiats, dreams in incognito, feelings made cyan. Last as made first, lost then discovery, out of Adullam upon freedoms. Endearing moments—anxiety of coyotes, if one vision, if one perfection. Three mist, one substance, while oneness probes humanity. Certainty of faith, uncertainty of cloudberries, a soul will strive through non-existence.      

The Spectrum Is Wanting

 

 

One might assert—there ain’t no love … in a world yearning for love. Some version of it, left to one’s orientation. The days are warm, so are the nights. I don’t will on you what you will on me. It gets to a point where rationality nudges us. We make a conscious effort to ignore it. Time is borrowed. Stars seem immortal. Preference has destroyed kingdoms. In knowing rightness, despite losing sunshine. A distant soul, losing pieces of belief, and it seems inordinate—but it must have hurt: not all will cherish maxims. In losing self—to see firebrand, kicking into underbrush—rethinking, still hungry. And it has garnered efforts, too much to put to sleep, why be apart from one you’re carrying. I don’t sense much. I’ve a certain slant on the matter. In showing what one will miss, drove one to asking, that it cease. Seven footprints; seven paw prints; five universes. I should be more emphatic—such longing over twenty-four-hour blues. To give something sacred, to manipulate chi, to need something in return. I imagine a world where souls are conscious, I picture they satiate each other. Somehow—a soul has repudiated it. There’s darkness there. It can’t be what it becomes, with ease of soaring, to reside forever.  

Sunshine Happiness

 

 

Some prose requires a glass of wine. I hope this is not now the case. If so, it falls upon the writer. Souls must understand what’s written, chasing memories in self. I no longer agree with myself, those islands I pursue. It seems to hurt—with each missing part. Many times, searching for wholeness—of dynasty, package, reality—tasting thunder, or welkin lightning, feeling a stranger through mutual intensity, the wilderness of emotion. It might require a glass, sort of early though … the rules we follow to evade awkwardness. The shadow of my ghosts; the forests in chi eyes. Or seeing pieces of a human—to put them together—to then try to define the wholeness of the package. Let spirit translate itself. Let riddles unveil themselves. Let two meet and fall deeper into treasuries. I hope this is now the case. Breathing, as it were—trekking miles to the city gates. Minds are chafe with trying to decode happiness. To give existence to reap joys, listening to self, as a laugh erupts; such niceties, such cordial sunshine, to walk away—looking back. I was wrong to hamper that. Life is challenging. If to find joy, enjoy joy. I would save self from parting ways. Neither true nor false: the motivating nugget: what defines it? It seems unfair to deny souls the duration. It just happens often. The wilderness is the journey. 

First Experiences

 

One wish. Two feuding polemics. In all spheres, through wooded meadows, leaning into confusion. Perplexing roads; palms of faith; each step shifts its focus. One life; three spirits. It addles a little, fiending for immortality, rushing into deaths. A sudden sentence, so close it aches, mourning graves, whispering to dusk, motion as it breeds. Walking miles, carrying problems, misidentified by self; uncured philosophic—unhealed exhibition, mythical liaisons. Mystic water, steeped in baptisms—unending lamps, waning ambition. One existential, fraught by postmodernity, unveiled by deconstruction—a soul to its desires, left to perish a horrible sacrifice. Becoming pieces of ecstasy, too much destroys, a season for all things, balance most essential. Something inside holds to good times, blame it on neurotransmitters—spirit memory, chasing first experiences, becoming lethal characters.          

Afloat Upon a Tear

 

 

I drift into a faint cave. I see petroglyphs. I hear myself breathing. It was sly on parts. It was anguished in soul. In understanding; in ignoring facts. A soul was elated to feel selected, still with a Lean on Me feeling. I was taken by crafts, looking at physicality, a bit deficit inside. Pain is a locomotive. Joy is a privilege. I might have an issue, running into my regions, guts wheezing, mind threshed; such a loss—no body realized it, one of those things, where one knows with certainty. I keep pushing myself. It will manifest in its breeze. I’m still walking this cave. It has become like answers. The cave-mind, the phantom core, floating into emotion. I saw a life given to hopes. Granny was up against a brick wall. Just a glimpse: years in a room, wailing at mental matter, trembling, shifting through various realities. I drift into a faint cave. I see portraits. Each line is universe. The shadow of colors. Eyes coming to life. With some of what we’ve been through, it’s a wonder, more to undergo, life would have it no other direction. Like Outlaws trading war stories; like heroes of the slums: I can’t imagine what souls suffer. To witness is different than to experience. Thank goodness for pillars. Thank goodness for strength. So many wounds. No one speaks to how they change us. They speak to survival.  

Is Unreality a Certain Type of Reality?

 

 

I know what it feels like to suppose existence. I know what it feels like to conclude a poem.  I call out to leopards and lions searching out revelation—such long-distance reach; rain augmenting life, salt to cause pain, sugar to cause a smile.  In resistance, a nugget is discovered. It causes

 

confusion. Blame it on suffering souls. (The opposite of what’s mandated.)  Life means much or little or it vacillates; storm in, storm out, torches into dynamite, seated in confusion—to wonder, surprised by answers, fumbling in disguise, grounded like neat pepper. A bag of melancholy—

 

wild voltage, having an experience; to exert a conclusion, to know, it all churns.  Whet to begin, years later, eager to give it back.  On to praising what I can’t fathom—a wild admission—sewing skies, surmising with fervor—rose of the living, daisy of the dead, getting just enough to know 

 

there’s more.  I never saw it before, so close to feeling it, to know suffering is veiled by power. A song beneath a chimney. A leaf gaining meaning. Turquoise thunder. Marooned exposition; such courage to existence, to dig in daily, some more revealing than others.  I thought is showed 

 

confusion. Life shows uncanny disconnection, while remaining sequential. In all the loving, souls forget each other. To need certain, disqualifiable affectation; to expect unconditional acceptance … an intense love, made mutual love, else, love is with disqualifiers.  On to what I 

 

fathom—the murky lakes, the gracefulness of swans, the aesthetic of changeability. An artistic slant, crossing into touches of madness, to adore a certain feeling, to hebetate parts of sensations, confused over its introduction, if meant to evaporate.  It seems life offers various addictions. One 

 

adores x, one adores y, another adores x and y.  Such mesmerization. Such reality to think about; to imagine life as one great pressure; to do good or bad, affected by goodness, damaged by badness.  Immeasurable cogitation. No one could get so close! A deep illusion. To nudge self. To 

 

look into a mirror. To presume mind, reality, are unreal. Some grand artificer inside—as playing piano, pausing to blast a trumpet, full of reality—as misperceived, belonging to its nature.  

 

With each reality comes misperception. So grand a conclusion; asserting—no one knows full-on reality. No one exists like that. If I touch my arm, that’s real. If I gain a perception of life, it’s real as it appears to senses. Such terrifying philosophies. How am I not real? Indeed, something is perceived, in the back of what is said, that might be reality. The argument is asking: How do we know reality, so often wrong about perception? We continue to let self … off the hook.  

Tribal Science

 

 

The senses die. They become hebetated. I would dance afore you, laughing off grayness, feuding with glee. The pain is a river; the happiness is a shadow. (What haven’t we given?) A soul with a focus, trying to outwit solutions – they seem to outwit us. So simple it appeared. Militant faith. 

 

Dedicated to protecting faith. Filled with feathers, electric like lights, a bulb flickering as a sign. The passion would soar, sparrows would signal, a new psalm was recited. If to adore again, like a young lad, free of despair, free of doubts; most miserable, most elated, tugged in direction—a 

 

slave to memories. Such wild pleasures, such cherry blossoms, to pause and rewind a cassette tape. Thrown into pressures. Winnowed and released. A cryptic creature, love appears in foresight, unhinged, such instincts—asked for destiny. I would try to keep captures; demon-eyed, 

 

submitting to faith: Love is a rebel. To stand accused: NY to California; Jerusalem to Africa. Losing pieces. Gaining clarity. Coyote to foxes, serpents to angels. If off the grid, I was made this light, fault the family. Those months watching you, the torment of admiration—such heart 

 

motion, so close to what it feels like, so determined not to leave. I would chance the fury, becoming intimate, with hell unleashed. 

Childhood (Celestial) Agreement

 

 

We entered into agreement, we’d survive or perish.  Life is meant for decrees, canons, precepts.  

I fret the magic of it all.  I imagine having an understanding of heaven—not goodness, nor badness, just pure activity. Something etching at its surface; something corporeal-incorporeal; 

 

something (humanly) celestial.  If needing an invitation, go inside the inner comedian: forgive the cliché.  In seeing a glimpse, it removes naivety, it leads some into waging wars; an appetite for Invisibility, nor an understanding of full-on nonexistence, with shadows inverting, light 

 

sprouting meadows, a slant into its forests, an art for making errors. We entered into agreement, if to perish at life, we’d go together. What a parent will do to rescue a child; to joke over harsh weather, to decree a miracle, to make with existence a reason to persevere. While drums are 

 

beating, I see her image, I tap into her anger, her voice. As a composition into the universe the art of tribes the ghosts of antiquity; such an old spirit, so familiar, searching for certain remembrance, looking for family, delving deeper into disbelief.  (To chide a wraith!)  I was eager 

 

to enter into agreement—too young to fathom agreement, too innocent to see emptiness. What would happen if agreement was shattered and one was left to live without faith? The agreement was predicated on understanding the agreement. Such mileage and devastation—so many disputes, living life according to pledge and nightmare.  While growing swiftly, quicker into a 

 

person, a conglomerate of many influences—trees and bark, branches and leaves, passion and dynasty.  Fresh winds, gusts into atmosphere, seeing reflection, knowing it comes back around.  Wildness. Such penalty seeking closure. To have saw it clearly until clarity departed. One should 

 

pride an agreement, not envy its freedom. To have received it and walked into it. To have loved it until it deteriorated. Those close vibes dying in false exercise. The repercussion of first encounter—by its dream of perfection, to need a belief made solid in skies. To face excellence, in 

 

its behavior, a feeling most inappropriate. To let it go—to stop here—to have said little on the matter.    

Perspective

 

 

It often returns to the past, making its way to the present. Skating upon dogwood, leaping in spirit, or seated silently trying to feel the universe—some without mentions, seated there in essence, if to speak it—it might be true. You were awakened early. Everyone had expectations. 

 

Angelica! Spent time evading destiny. Spent time rebelling against holiness: Shakes erupted. I knew not, had no reference to it, just presumed, based on instinct. Such simmering. Stew brewing. Just enough at times to gain insights. The present sees life with subjugation at heart: No 

 

need in submitting to speculation. She might trance out, eyes rolling, scudding through spheres—celestial connectivity—pushy, marinating in chi. I do at times project; nevertheless, the future is mystery and anti-promise. At a point in life, it appears to happen with difficulties. The past and 

 

present appear superconscious, engaged with life, notwithstanding the existential. To know for turns, heaven alleys, hells and chi corners. While in focus, I might see cloudberries, I might see faces. Life is racing and in stillness—greater charms, of course, ageless needs, maturing 

 

requirements: similar laughs, disputable happiness, the cup is half full: perceptive, a necessity to guide thoughts, challenge negativity, to demand of life its fruits and delicacies. 

Some Ink Sticks

 

Emotion is bred from titillation.

Going into fire, irrational souls, burning under sea,

A boiling brick of ice.

In loving you, I defied myself, I 

Erased ink paws. In the flame, as it dies, never 

Quenched, ever damaged. Ontic 

Whispers, trying harder, always determined: ease

Of a tale, difficulty of the earnest. 

Unclear. To live vagueness. To displease 

Vulgarity. If to make justice, if to crave Logic,

If to remain with emotion.

Yogic depth. Mystic sensitivity.

Something a man tells a woman; something a 

Woman receives.

(for) Emotion is bred of stimuli, imperceptible 

Particles, ever relating to neurons. I 

Adored talents, ever in depth, losing pieces of 

Loneliness. Such 

Accuracy; certainly, false correlations. Loving you 

Was step climbing—a high building, slipping at

Points, seeing scenery. Every mile is an edifice;

Every belief nears itself into obsession.

The Middle Song

 

Dynamite. Increased frequency. 

I was younger six minutes ago. 

As if lovebirds heaving from damages; too wild to heal, caged by disruption. 

I was not first specimen; in life, determined chaos.

Crumbling aside a prayer: if one measured what moves spirit: pulling everything from within, pouring self until becoming fluidity. 

Life was feelers, wondering by driven force, silence making it worse. 

To sense doubletalk in souls: only out of need to imagine an immortal song.

Correlation Is Shadowy

 

Life contains so little—to express so much. Old and complicated souls, easing passed a breeze, uncured spirits. Loving to see her dance, albeit, too painful to sustain. Resting upon a pillow, counting ceiling cracks, breathing deep and shallow breaths. Is life ever enough? Finding passions as we do; measured in thoughts. We could never be so distant, easing into apathy, teasing our minds to believe some fantasy. Young and complicated souls, carving oaken wood, disputing each koan. It wasn’t what it seemed like. Trees filled with leaves, having a time seeing small branches. An achy soul, quantum sensation, leaping into silence. If days weren’t foggy—it wouldn’t seem like what it isn’t … hectic arsenal, complicating horizons, secerning many myths. All out ashes, palming parts, disbelieving it wasn’t sunrise.  

Feeling Askew

 

 

curious to see it, feeling askew, miracle eyes. 

meadow shores, upon a beating heart, harpoon motion. 

it was easier to believe than to disbelieve, such fragile creatures.

it was segue into crucifixion—everything we should receive. 

i watched. she

noticed rebellion, it struck a nerve. 

if to adore by science’s type, would it be sufficient? 

if to cherish by religiosity, would love be cultic? 

we place candles upon squares. we surround them with flowers. with flame flippant throughout cosmos: what has died—that charisma may blossom, to arise? 

so many stars, to kneel and talk to ants, hearing wisdom 

in manifest.

it feels like privilege. it seems it would be difficult. what are cultures demanding? it appears painful, with want to give, with need to cull approval. 

a soul pushed passed pardon. a spirit exceeded spatial spheres. 

many colors. working with ease, sore promise, to die so early, to breathe through excruciation.

to realize why a soul would cherish a drumbeat.    

It’s Not Esoteric

 

 

I came naked to baptism. A public testimony. It holds something sacred—sent out into the world. Coils & serpents. Fireflies & deception. 

 

Any other day, it would seem personal, dealing with Socrates. The repetition of it all. It seems opposite of what it feels like. Frankly, it seems impossible upon a dream. Such salacious arts. I suppose a husband is with monopoly, rather, another feels monopolized. That seems to be its 

 

point, total interruption, placing a spotlight on itself. So many prose to debate. It was: I haven’t a clue. It seems to persist into a meaning. Leaving that alone, the phoenix is soaring, aside a fire hawk, falling from skies into an orbit—the firebird. It may feel like darkness, overwhelmingness, 

 

to picture a calling. It seems to vitiate its point, for it dies to weaken breath, never revealing essence, with soul in need of a parachute; else, life is terrific. So much alike to aesthetics, such symmetry, cadence carries a dialogue. I thought I would search forever, moderately alone,

 

writing my findings. Never thought one built for chaos would appear. Spirit is tricky, it will get its point across, manipulating weather, inducing tsunamis. How many others? I was in shadow, sinking, learning to swim—such fire ice, teal syrup, dripping into a familiar well. To wonder 

 

about Love, to sense too much, as shutting down—upon a fisher’s pole. How did one wiggle free? Is the world an oyster? So terrible the compassion, something wakes up, mimicking arts.     

One Sea to Greece

 

 

Let the tides be gentle. Mind magic. Such cryptic dice. All we might imagine. Red blooded blues. Love most delicate diamonds. An appetite for roses, mentioned upon ribbons, some 

 

alchemic curse. Those poignant eyes, trespassing lips, brows dire to sin. The sun keeps sinning, such dear complexes, those few missives—certain charms, incessant woes, pausing to enjoy romance—the curse of its song, sheer anxiety, one compelling step. By association, bending 

 

curvatures, akin to a gorgeous frame—such aesthetics, poolside bikinis, while mourning imperceptibility. When love is over, love begins, giggling, nudging, feeling gentle sorrows. Nocturn delights. Gracious remembrance. To mention it—is to die a smidgen, and no one knows this experience. Like open mind-caves, like furious rivers, so much closer to Egypt. If living 

 

weren’t jazz, like kindling firebrand, it must hurt some. Love was staccato, one grand creek, surrounded by beautiful swans. The closing of seas, iced as cold, trying to warm its heart. By those far oceanic fires, such undulations, filled by inexplicability. More underbrush, more tulips, a soul sipped flaming water. Warring to dream clearly. Wildly into a vision. To tell a flippant saga, to tease with remorse, so satisfied to be on edge.   

Human Motive

 

 

The goal seems charged by the concept of happiness. To have goodness. To dream of flying. The greatest victory—left determined by souls. Raking spirits. Churning chi. The clock just ticks. Tender happiness. It seems cyclical. It seems to be right there at points; one too low to grasp it. 

 

One lost in beauty, another in intellect, another in yoga. The world seeming principled, somewhat following a form of religiosity. To each is their ritual. How to stop the rain when it’s pouring? To mend a broken mirror? One might share in a circle; each has a rare talent; it seems 

 

highs are sought—balance of the kingdom. The sun was shining for him—he knew it would be hellish, (The come down), he kept warding it off, it finally kicked in. He would share a message with spirit, he would understand offshoots, a feeling to desire living. For the good times, an allegiance to arts, if to give a human love—to imbue said human with glory. To have indicted the 

 

love—to sense a mixed perception—some offshoots remain to chance (the core purpose, only the artist knows.) It brings an insight; the reason souls tie the knot: yoked equally. Indeed, many more reasons. The ideal is equality of powers; quite possibly, pure love. The goal seems charged by the concept of happiness. To have goodness. The dream of flying.

Spatial

 

 

 

The spaces feel like fields. I trek carefully. I see scorpions, adders, aardvarks. It seems a dance, an aching. (A storm is featured in the horizon.) The beige desert is unfriendly. I keep rereading it. I awaken, yawning heavily. Those mythical days passed swiftly. They say—never romanticize it. Such deeper wisdom. I imagine I did this to self, moving quickly—uncelebrated habits. I keep 

 

distracting self, nearly ascetic, seeing in self a creature rising. I would doubt asceticism; it would come naturally. I see a sky spigot. I desire to partake of it. I approach the nozzle. I open widely. I was filled for a time. New heights, new woes, new ponderings, indeed, new demons. I must return to the nozzle. I must remain full. It doesn’t mean clarity, nor freedom from woes. It means 

 

a feeling, as right there, in an intimate space, those vast fields. I lie down to visualize joys, a measure in souls. I compose a portrait filled with colors—hibiscus, wild berries, barns, farm animals. An indebted memory; each to have met. To fall into a lighter slumber, slightly abashed. In debating what’s necessary; in distinguishing between images—inconvenient darkness.

Out of Water

 

 

In thinking about origins, fever of skies. I would sense some article, never fully aware of sky drops. Everything seems to reveal too much. Alike to reading scripture, eyes must be opened. Such a sullen and silent discussion. I see in thoughts a mystery in grays. Such have 

 

arête; such deal in virtues. So cursed in its blessing: just endure. The battle was within. It leaked out. A simple apology is insufficient. The fever; that’s indicative of shamans, and/or, a condition. Upon a great battle, partway consumed, realizing humans have something delicate guiding us—

 

needing excellence, needing courage, requiring passions. (Not much will be affirmed, buried in a grave, all before me, if lucky, will become archives.) And a soul is privy, he concerns self with thoughts, proud or for classifications? In thinking about origins, flame as in blueness, fire 

 

as in redness—to exist one’s exegetical, most religious cries, imperceptible eyes. No matter an island, through works, to place a fleece upon a heart; marble tablets, fleshly ordinances, mystic acoustics. To stumble into a spell, to fly in spirit, such ancestors as Ezekiel—and Dear Elijah the 

 

gates flung open, the child was healed, the mother believed. So much closer to epiphany, so much further from clarity, moving as soul dictates—I imagine something impish, laughing and carrying on, placing souls in life wailing situations. And I kneel, threshed, remaining still.      

Fate Inquiry

 

 

Trying the weather. Waiting for it to strike. To have love as a saturated topic. To need a message, as it stands, perceived through whim. Not fair. Some elements seem apparent. They might glisten to senses—might seem palpable. I needn’t speak to fair oceans, benthic seas, petroglyphs and caves. In respects to irony, a soul sits in silence, calculating, trying to bypass injury, looking at what she loves—a deeper confliction, trying to outwit inclination, trying to ignore rupturing. I needn’t speak to spatial challenges, familiar spirits, spritely acrobatics. Deepness of arts, a slew of debris, such displays of mastery—it comes by cultivation, not by a given soul. If I stutter in her presence, the overwhelmed element inside was affected by her presence. If I stutter deliberately, it wasn’t moved by the other soul. It’s not fair—one acquires a skillset, one utilizes those tools, and one says, it comes naturally, how do I put faith in it, when does it petter out? Another unfair question; essentially, one is asking for what humans cannot give: certainty.

 

Have joy in each experience, lean into flying. To bilk in part is to live; to succumb to it might ache in return. One is with sakuras, cherries, another has apricots, water lilies—to have existence, to rhythm gracefully, to know for spirits; as to cause calamity, to break skies, to uproot earth. Such melodramatic charms, such as we never discuss, when life is haywire, a need for kinsman ship. A familiar ground. A child’s eyes. To have closeness with a friend. Such acute radiance. Such tugging feelings. To love out of necessity—to undress insecurities—that dungeon deep second—to release life and passion, seldom to forget trespasses, aloft once again. We speak of a bed neighbor. 

 

It remains unfair, and it always will be. In building a threefold cord, it isn’t easily breakable. Nevertheless, what do souls desire? We might speculate; we might trouble ourselves. To live a certain reality—often compels behavior, often it speaks its language. We speak to mourning and living—to surrendering and taking action; we speak to rationality—or a deficit thereof—those times thrown to chance—

The Poet Is Another Human

 

 

I heard a story once. A creature studied in chi. Life was too unruly; chi became a weapon. In all the winning, rules were lost. Such a neatness to it. Same foot, different story. A gent was an outcast, not first pick, he meditated, going into deepness. He would flame a heart, imbue a spirit, women fancied him; sweet undulations, a spark into emptiness. Life might hebetate its attractions. One might feel cheated. In giving diamonds, receiving rhinestones. It never seems important, until it is all one ponders. To know two will never meet—with one musing upon clouds, to glean life’s fragments, sullen and fretting newness. Creatures come to pass by. Some stick around. Happiness is unique to its agenda. 

 

II

 

I would learn to kneel. It was taught to me. It is a ritual kids undergo. I would learn to feel certain realities. In chasing, I was neat into a storm. (I find a secret in souls, a crest in arcs, souls muse upon the happiness in others.) The future was full of spirits. We fail to assert a given design. To demand an account. (The sun is going down, darkness will envelope us.) Chi will prowl about, a weapon for some. I remember wandering through fantasy, wondering about the signs. We notice differences. One saw happiness. One would cry with the poet. I do know perspective means a great deal. To play guitar, to entertain an audience, overwhelmed by nuances. Mowing sky. Planting aside earth. Life is driven by ink. No one cares too much—until it is personal. We say, “esoteria,” many are more asphalt and roses. So great it matters not: the poet is another human. The psychiatrist is another doctor. In each whisper, I sent a blessing.       

Pieces of Chi

 

 

more than I thought you could be. we fare better at opposition. To imagine an open discussion. It would never happen. I riddle myself and giggle a green death. Such energy skies, to fall in at will. If never to believe, then the walk would feel like psychoses. Nevertheless, let us not possess our wishes, let life remain gray, adding color, opalescent gems. I think of you, not out of lust, wondering what ails so frantically. Such joys in the midst of it all: one cannot be so skilled as not to smile, time and again. And I desire little, wondering why it is not given. I hit a nerve. I wonder if war is sought after. To know for privacy—to sense a monopoly, to give where others are enthused, such fanciness, each drumbeat has a different meaning. It was perceived as pure; it was mis-qualified. Such wise creatures, disputing intentionality, most gestures are bad or good deception. I was nudging self: What is better, pure loyalty or pure excitement? In wanting to call for goodness, I wonder about niceties. (Maybe it is because we will it to be. Maybe we need it. Maybe in limbo until it came about.) Such would be ecstatic (so, it is called love.) I was at a place in mind, thirsty for panacea, ignoring the edification. It might not be its intention; fate has a strange way of using humans. I might be mistaken: it seems effort is invested. Over there, in a hovel, one sits, wrestling against tides. At moments, it feels like a hospice; at moments, it feels like angelica. The sheer disbelief; so intimate to us, like something is wrong with us.     

Mistaking Precision

 

 

The subconscious keeps talking. In reality, esoteria is about its business. So thin the line. So neat her flesh. So radiant her orientation. To possess behaviors, subtle measures, therapeutic identity. 

 

Longing would become difficult. To know less than mercy. Eyes made of miracles. The fields are full of semblance—in one last leaping, many enclaves, one rudiment mistake. 

 

In understanding it, noticing how to maneuver it, learning how to master it—seldom on point, somewhere afar, too precise to detour. 

 

To enter through diligence; in begging existence. The storm of agility, faith bound, wondering if she frets over loyalties. So much to fruits. 

 

Sitting in design, as it has been, the weight of being human. We would ignore humanness, enjoy our hundred days, walking out on faith alone.

 

Right in instruments. A throaty giggle, a weeping glow. 

Those days became intimate. Those roots seem to impress upon everything. 

A soul to her life. A machine mistaking accuracy.

The language against itself. The weeping made joy. 

To The Aesthetic

 

 

asphalt is suffering from inflexibility. soil means life, growth. i pondered aesthetic, days doodling arts. those elegant graces, years of literature, to impassion resistance, edging into glamour, one has died by solace. plucking strings. such esthetic slumber, length of antiquity. those satchel eyes, a soul to its exultation. and it seems improbable, source of weariness, to try to rest gently. 

 

Ambience of purple. Fraught by grays. Life thwarted by instincts. Those with longevity, to have kept each wave, to have surfed troublesome seas. Rain pelting asphalt. With art convoluting activity, accustomed to a type of kettledrum. Palm to palm. Close to rapture. Cosmic undulation. I pondered aesthetic, endless essence, pensive graces. The discomforts of humanity,

 

awkwardness, such a precious process. Zest becomes contemplative—sweet enthusiasm. Oh, hectic of souls, picturing sunrise, moments mesmerized by dreams. Not what we will, more of what wills itself. A search for kismet. A need for naturality. By zeal it lives, giving reason to persist, whereby, one uttered: “I have finally lived.” So, tender by flesh; so intricate in character;

 

pulling, tugging, making delight, agitating sentiments. Sheer secernment, colored by passions. I pondered aesthetic, musing upon features, unable to break seriousness.

Unknitting Fragments

 

I heard a faint whisper—upon a neat swoosh, the breeze as it lives. In lying to self, believing existence is not abstract. 

Arts are compelling—the notion of returning home, affectively feeling unlatched—the miracle inside.

To have a space for trauma, such was dramatized. 

            The thrill of climbing a mustard tree. The beauty of tasting a petal. 

The world was oblivious to us in the midst of activity. The lie was, we never existed.

            So many colors, so many creations. 

We would for a time, to vanish in an instance, to travel, to revisit the beginning. Sore beliefs; running in place, those days to have felt lively. 

            The raptures—those anxieties. In adoring, it felt ecstatic. 

As one to those moods. As another to those thrills. With others searching for truths.

            Take a soul soaring, free of exhaustion, sung softly—the nature of comforts, grooming as spatial creatures—to cherish in one sweep—those nights we would remember.         

Un-Filmed

 

 

Un-Filmed 

 

I have much to receive, so much more to give. I feel something to gander, I fear an illusion. Any perspective seems viable. I do jest. In going to that place, in speaking about fire, we knead cadence, we crochet emotion. With all those weary reasons, to break through, to give all in the receiving of all. Life as it damages. Love as she parades. Such coquettish creatures. Wanting to sacrifice all, held back by all, a soul to its ideologies. So much hegemony—sighted on love, to give as long as it never aches. Moving passed amour; skating clouds, asking random shamans—looking towards sages, coming to a thread in science—to go deeper. Such swami chi, to have by sword, one reason to adore life. To have approached upon irregular grounds, to have impeded what I chased after, the face becoming witness to its confusion. Nothing short of a miracle—the mystery of skies, so much to make an appeal. And it would be horrible if unvetted: warding off gadflies, souls hating the elixir, with so much weighing on infinitude. Something light feels heavy; something heavy feels unbearable. To know what sunshine feels like, sold to an ideal, searching for one true measure, one artistic woe, such a remarkable archetype. A fresh feeling, as tides shift, through fierce torrents, knitting as we chance—aching joys, an un-filmed feeling.  

Médoc

 

 

To have capacity to adore, certain tears, baffled by gods; tender creators, such human excellence, to connive in sheer distress.   

never completely at balance! crisis of complaisance. 

(I was once younger: to look at you hurts.) 

It vanished in a blinking, and it meant so little. 

Such rubescent pleasures is a curse. So neat by core essence, so nascent by origin, if to die three patent lives. 

And you would be freer, feuding against scripture, a song to its tribunal. 

(I would negate so much in time, thrown to sharks, accursed for being absent.) 

So much remains at a distance, 

remarkable disbelief, 

in a sudden flicker, aflame the arts.

never explore it. it’s fatalistic. and I feel pieces slipping into darkness. 

With force, identity is a lifelong excursion.

In summation, life is rushing by.