Sonnet IV

 

 

If I was Pablo in a feeling, I would assert love,

I would cry fever—one begonia, three dreams. 

If I was Neruda in my emotion, I would emote

Until it hurt, I would move through screams. 

 

We borrow topaz to jog memories—such sweet 

Dying, to believe love could never be so intense. 

Growing weaker, akin to some valid curse, to 

Adore like fire, to burn inside, more of one pence.

 

If I were Pablo moving through marsh, unbuilding

Walls, kneading warmth, to have adored at breath.

If I were Neruda in her gaze, blessed in a flower—

With knowing courage, to cling to one kiss at death. 

 

We pay to feel where some dwelt, such rosy pain,

To hear long into winds, a fret, a feeling of flame.

Let The End be Gentle

 

I keep it simple or difficult. I learned to love by experiencing love. I still fret Love. Nevertheless, a ghost at it, a thief at it, feeling remorse, frozen inside, thawing out lately. A bag of gifts, a séance artist, renaissance passion, skating through traffic. I heard it was hard. I stopped analyzing that; instead, I focused on patterns, and God is always rich. To condescend to low ranks, Jesus with those suffering, such captive poverty.  I long to believe, let God be good! I long to cross portals, let Jesus be kind. (“Of course, my son; cleaning up debris, it was in you, to return to what is in you.” I do not recollect. It feels natural. It appears as does commonsense. Let the pain be rewarded.)  We fathom a proposition; such a pictureless viability: let Father hear us. Moving into motion, a little bias, understanding her plight, fighting a fight, trying to impassion rightness, a little filthy, I keep bathing, and lies made us liable. They said in rebuttal: “We had to, to survive.” Over kidney beans and rice, to omit a hammock, onions, peppers, and bouillon—such filled with garlic. It was giving to me—praying for a jet prayer, discouraged at moments, trying to hear psalms on repeat. On a verge of it, feeling heavy, knowing all my wrongs, never too content, realizing, life is a series of small moves—let motion be irresistible.   

Cycles & Reasoning

 

 

Is it words or content or both? One could mourn disposition, put it on flesh, wrapped in pigmentation. One could blame genetics, trying to giggle, knowing in part, it is tragic. Over a gallon of water, flushed burgundy, hacking up souls, living, it would presume. Over a billion pieces, trying to form a puzzle, lost for guidance, like an orphan surrendered to desert life. If loving, he might make it. If taken by anger, he might perish. No complete answer has been given for each cause. And adoring seems painful. We enter with hopes. We dance in skies. We chance with wolves.  Things point to futility, an otiose reality, plus, steep redundancy, except for nuances—a last cigarette, a first sip, a long life at it. A month to history, a sober month, a reflective season, parts seeming to show fruition; or shoebill mentalities, hyena instincts, yelling at scholars. Nothing seems to mean more than depth of intimacy, by an existential—moving into motion, at moments wallowing in pains, if it meant what it should. One will never feel an extent of it, pledged as analytical, notwithstanding, undergoing sadness. Like a big ass monopoly game, each little house filled with obstacles, each square potentially haunted. And realizing demystification has made for divisions; to need ideals, to need holiness, if to adore a little.   

Indicting “If”

 

 

If it meant what it compelled thought to believe. If is a long journey. I walked side by side with If. A tender poison, a deep, abysmal descent, a beautiful dream, courage to believe. And in being lost—the indifference, a soul’s refuge—repeating what Love requires. I could not match nor measure cards, stealing myself from angst. One sees—it is brutal, partway abandoned, through banished woods. Holding hearts in one’s hands. Clever chaos, curious caves. Take my place if it seems easy. And we were agog about Truth. Truth became burdensome. Nevertheless, we chase her essence. we die cleaving to her cause. If one looked hard enough, heaving whispers, to catch a glimpse, a wiser man would have run. If is always nudging us with some promise. If has an agenda. It seems aware of inner gravity. If is always appealing. One facing a storm says, “If I make it, I’ll triumph.” In truth, one might win with If. This is misery and majesty with If. To throw it to chance might not be fair. Being rigid might run spirits off. Most communicate with If. I cannot remember when I was introduced to her. She seemed important, giving options. No matter how disappointing at times, she grants favor at the right moment. If life meant what it compelled thought to believe. Many a soul seduced by word magic. Jutted upon an edge—jazzy jousting, judge, plus, jury—indicting If.    

Ink & Anguish

 

 

 

Not enough ink to drown the octopus. Not enough love to efface all doubts. The mind has a design to it, upon a New York winter. I felt worrisome, and Love agreed. Over grapes made sour, vinegar to cleanse the soul—maybe whiskey diamonds, funeral blessings, to have arrived three quarters into prayer. A neat existence; a soul’s craving; eating cantaloupe and listening to Country pain, so artistic; in agonizing those days, to see life returns to itself, sudden into an elixir. The color is pomegranate. A deep type of numbing. To realize love was never the solution. I debate if there is reach there, finished for Summer, captured in some respects—meditating unbeknownst to consciousness, so grave the connection in me, so aloof I stand, occasioned as it were to faint. We might feel it, an oddity of existence, seeking pleasures, silent in winds, crowding our emotions. We might rebuke flesh, made thereof, trying to explain religion, trying to live religion, fraught by uneasiness, acquiring scarred tissues. And I would be remiss to omit a need becoming anguished—rescued, if to return, asking a vine for freedoms, a fig for arts, an orange for juice. Too much to possess. Too lavish to measure. Filled with sorrows, penance as love, passionate by deaths, fretting an intense need for part anguish. 

A Conscious Stream

 

 

The time is evident where hell forms into heaven—an ache in charms, a requiem for the living. While voices open in chant—some delicate feature might appear; to have loved a petal, to have danced by chance of arts, such waves over serenity. With adoring some creature of the dice, to wonder of trancelike ascension, accused for a time near its base—curving into self, apologetic, measured by endurance, such a casual way of asking by graces. A cursed element, a holy type of curse, rinsed one score and two-million times. To have loved unbeknownst to souls, raving as it happens, such Mesopotamia mystics. A man to his infatuations, uncured through existence, infused for other reasons, so great the first inclination. By arts to lust for freedom. By caricature to sense the tragedy. Each life akin to something in motion, realizing as we do, in love with epiphanies. Those feelings suffering from atrophy, to harm its reflection, where a woman will prune her mirror. Days in meditation. Years in hindsight. Each world carrying over nine lives, each one trying to fix the latter. Such mistakes, debating texture, cured in one final leap. Soul of my soul: spirit of my spirit: pure rhapsodic contradiction, fallen to rise, rising to fall—certain liberties, facing repercussions, at some calamity, such warming pash.  

Feeling Like Lone Wolves

 

 

None of this makes sense. Abandoned to naturality. To sit shyly; to ache in silence; to make life worthy of its claims. 

I hear when you say, “No!” I feel with a tinge of acceptance. Point in case is this, in crowded quarters—one feels like the lone wolf. 

Months morph into years. Years are left to castling. I imagine not saying much, maybe a jot here and there. 

In all things, strength seems important—to move pawns—up a steep hill, to hear an arcane instinct. I was negotiating inside, more like letting go, an instant later, filled with essence, vibration, a thump, cadence, something hard to explain. 

I would conjure up some desperate plea, wondering what life feels like, as uncaged swans—soaring, hydroplaning, so thetic by chance, emotion seeming like conduits. 

I have said nothing, naught exactly, feeling it—a sign that it feels itself. Curious penchants, a soul to penance, to have flogged the philosophic.

Mind physics: they thought it out: it seems to make its debut, such presentation, to have communion—unable to commute outside of divine humanism. 

I have loved in passing, wiggling an anchor, understanding more in this phase of life. Without ever its reach, rebuking physicality, no longer pictureless. 

Breathing by Fate

 

 

You keep dreams awakened. Such memory to sleep. A den with lions. A cure for such lions. To have sung upon harp, to sooth memory shadows. To live for you, to die in patterns—so uncured and pushing diamonds. A field of debated thoughts, an acre of curses, so many landmines. The oceans of time, pour out into deserts, to trek therein, trying to make it home. A man to his ghosts; a woman to her phantoms; such allegiance—certain feelings, as to bond uneven skies. You keep dreams awakened—shadows of evening, leopards of a great loss, in adoring what might adore in return. Many fathoms in, swimming like a madman, sharks nibbling heels. Too much for immaturity; too gray for plaid; walking through a deeper dungeon, minds inverted, filled with tenacity. And coyotes watch, and dance, to encircle prey, to strike at random, certain to face it. By some miracle, sitting and wounded, scents wafting high, must go underground. Such sentiments in humankind, sworn to riddles, tugged by literature, living vicariously. So many miles, unveiling collectively, no understanding of how it would affect religiosity. Tales told, sagas released, such deep and benighted lights, a soul making years, such blackdamp wars. Encouraged against all odds, the dying 300, to perish into a legacy.      

Nameless Thieving

 

 

So far into future habits; so, laced inside; to picture a forming curse: What is awkwardness? The mind might register a feeling, to act as if, despite factuality. Something prenatal—thus, primitive, we never looked hard enough. A lifelong battle, to endure forever, at least until the grave, so justified, so noble, so affective. I was thinking about you, asking for permission, truly fretting an addictive woman; to lie is wrong, make it sincere, something you might overlook. And loving life is mythical, more to tolerate patterns, asking to exist in certain castles—sentient quarters. I must begin a search, despite interference, days are too short for simmering. And Love was younger, so decent, to become wilder, such precision, such active demure. Indeed, so offensive, uncured legends, to ask permission. Never enough! Never even! One is just at it. I wonder if battling at it fills unevenness? To have appeared at it; to have struck a nerve; with life seeming what it entails; to give days over to one pursuit. Either to strike a curse, or to adore, with nothing for one in deep debate. Going left. Going right. Such living paradox. If to argue it out. To walk away with a grudge. Constructing an edifice. Sure to insist upon nothingness—angered the city is silent. Such a rushing weather. To insist eternally. To know for affect. Disgusted one keeps living. We never know our names, familial power, so many preparing for devastation. 

Surreal Hurricane

 

I need to just say—art, love, rivers. Each frequency is hellish, and then you appear. The undercurrent, the stressor, trying to believe in change. Ruined lights. Trespass city. And feeling good. It was romantic to sense Love, threshed, wondering will God hold brains. After years of playing the dam, something gets through. I would ask of you a particular séance, a cryptic science, in believing one was glitter-born. I wonder if it still provokes a feeling—such cautious falcons. I would ask a question: How many years are sufficient? If never, then what are we dealing with? We see confusion, in desiring the child to be free, we feel ambivalent the child is doing it. I need to speak a fantasy. I need to say something. If us, would it die? If so, what are we chasing? Just be free! Nay, to adore like living, to sing to one’s soul. To see the best of what another brings forth. It means so little. It contradicts itself. It belongs where it vows to. Nay, in giving electricity, many avenues, to see it should carry infinity. Such identity in it, so astray at points, while it means essence. I should attest to adoring you, such a fable in time, while some comet is in the horizon. Some type of innocence, a rare trinket, responding by strategy. To need something God is resisting, to argue for justice, akin to Love is in error.   

Centerpiece

 

 

We might grapple, such tall walls. We might play it nameless, absent lovers. So much gray matter, so many banshees. I spend time seducing a phantasm; or watching squirrels. We might knit baskets, nibble strawberries, laugh at the inconsequential. It was never us, radical matches. It was ever an adventure; such value in a curse. A passing belief in wires, tiptoeing galaxies. Ever a breeze. Always a schism. When we might share a wilder notion. If to write a tome; if to defeat a tomb; proud to have sung life, nothing would ever be as it was … such destined stars, neat, tidy scars, to pinch something with value. It could be simple: it would ruin us. By dreams, in recognition, trespassing doubts. Piercing thoughts, motion hearts—livid in essence, such beautiful disquieting noise. If it is not evident by now, lead in directions, a soul grapples with affections; so intense, so insidious, measured by graces, at some point asking angels. In seeing it, a deep dynasty, a love for reflection, certain dark pieces of light. Such a glare, rumored to have pains, with eternity glistening. A casual tryst, a neat betrayal, rumbling, rummaging, almost rescued. In seems it never drew water, going through it, sacrificing the risk. To read self, those recreational eyes, always as if, always detached.  

Orientation was in Church

 

Inclined to feel uncertain the marionette syndrome; acute silence, medicinal assistance. To listen to it all until chatter clarifies itself, souls in meadows. Some region inside, studying environment, often feeling like a newcomer in an ancient body. So many gaps between then, now, and tomorrow, so many interpretations: I am left reading God’s Dashboard. Much depends upon air bags, if safety ever comes, with memories backfiring. Such existential torque, blazing torches—filled with horse power, undergoing what a second feels like. So many mind cylinders; such rapid flippancies; our world, as we claim it, seems detached from its inhabitants—otherwise, likeness of habits, familiar thoughts, human fauna, brute insistence, in gravitating towards reflection; in giving love, receiving myself, proud to have cherished my shadow. Absent to it as it takes form, wrestling strings, musing upon a show of kites; tussling over epistemics, asserting attributes, in a position of influence; rather, low at points, trudging through marshweed, soaked in mire, rinsed, noon is close by. If opera is not life, we have nothing else; such a magic woman, measured against creeds, such a moving soul—in fencing passions, in palming angels, suffused, pouring into a paragraph (we call it prose).  

Mind Stuff & Practicality at Debates

 

 

I find you in an image of a thought, sweet intangibility. Dying was first unsanctioned. If to suffer me a little mythology. I push away a thought. It comes back. It seems beyond physics. So much meta to it. And palming hopes; And skiing faith; knowing this feeling will be there, as it giggles, like a new imp, chuckling over raw liquor. As we tempt our guts, to live to compose, to investigate, to do research, such sabbatical wings. It entertains for a time. It always lingers. Seeing life in its passing. Passing into a situation. Watched closely. To say, “It was exhausted.” You visit often. I think about David. To debate if he knew God with depth of mechanics. To exercise it, to find solace in it, to attribute it to communion. This need for souls. This coming to community. Nonetheless, I see a picture, aside a pin, pegs sprawled upon carpet—in its choice, flooring itself, trying to feel again—those flat forests, at a second, displeased by process, sounds of majesty, veering into moments—it means more to mind than it can sustain practically. So underdeveloped. We say it ironically, “The blessing has a curse to it.” With many going back and forth with the Anchor. I portrait a scene: heart spears, mental absorption, to have a movement in souls: we ask why it captures just to unlatch it, or collect a series of ancient papyrus, sensing souls, kindred souls, feeling close enough to speak it: missing parts at times.