Holy Seduction

 

 

I know you’ve a way around a psyche. I notice you seem differently. In a dance, in double-talk, in pursuit of hidden seduction. One could enchant a wife, she walks away. One could make life, arouse chemistry, and walk away sullen. We speak to existence, such writhing understanding. (A poet holds back more than she conveys.) I feel deprived of lights, besprinkled with woes, looking at sunshine, watered by dearth. O rising arts, to sense some need, albeit, saturated, happening to see prose, neat yoga, tsunami intestines. And I’d give account, eye-bound-ascension, if only a soul was ripe. Lying is often playful, it says something true, we’ve refused to prevaricate. Pain of an ark, desperation of a curse—eyes opened, not much to give, sullen sin, to grin off discomfort. 

 

I know you’ve a way around a psyche. I know you possess innocence. I know parts are hassled. So clandestine; so determined to remain unseen. Maybe a fear of what depth destroys. To leave one filled by effervescence, accused in spirit, wanting so much beyond his station. As does realization, battling in some cocoon, frantic at points, facing gravitation. And everybody adores somebody. I was matched in a dream, harvesting a fantasy, to see you as does a poet. So indirect, an art we seclude, patient to resurrect, at a temple, palming holy cloth.  

What Does Life Picture Itself?

 

 

Life is rhythmic, full of patterns. Life requires measures. Life is often a tad bit uncomfortable, just enough to register on a radar. And love might avert parts: they do return. Those rushing hertz; those with cadence—Lord be good! Our intentions: those are roots. By radiant favor, to imagine sunshine, unclear of a benighted glint. If adoring were concretized; if it was enough; as living aloof from self; not at all an original thought. It comes out of analyzing routine, in asking: “What are we doing?” as in on a daily basis. And Love is every thought, every woman, in sharing wings, in a tender touch, radical alienation, rubies and diamonds, one morning kiss. To give all one might engender; to ask all one might understand, in affection, being close to an estranged state. In keeping good faith, in admiring at face value, in ignoring self-concerns, to acknowledge goodness. A soul to her wedding. A man to his bride. Such unbridled passion. In speaking about dungeons, they were not defined. Those inner thoughts; those vivid visions; occasioned to a white lie, if to keep perception rounded—a rounded ring. If to speak about a dungeon, to censor parts of an aforesaid routine, to truly examine religion … not by critical denouncement, not by credulous acceptance … to find a balance … this is war. To jog through an ethical conundrum, to understand what ought, denotes. Indeed, one greater: What does forgiveness look like? The parents; the husband or wife; the priest. In wrestling with bigger questions. With sensing life, around us. In to participate—to come to an understanding which is inclusive, critical, and decent.  

Major Impasse

  

I assert it: We shouldn’t feel this way. Summer was a whisper. Winter is louder. I was with mind imposition, such widening lenses, motion and movement. Encased in remoteness, thieving from self. There’re islands in those stars. Lord knows by association, history, and language. Over strong feelings, to imagine how it occurs, subtle sketching, internal etching, understanding is challenged. In any other participation, with circumstance afforded, one would assert sickness. We glide over ponds, sitting on atmosphere, bled dry of understanding; we push realms, deeper into fathoms, forcing pictures to take clarity. It was mental, an effusion of emotion, some curtain we peek in autumn; it was hell with roses, some alienated kiss, to look into a mirror, gaze with all one’s might, and utter to self: “I’m alright.” To awaken while reaching; to harp in silence; loving for fondness, tricking one’s cerebral, for sake of garnishing something normality. I spend time analyzing this feeling. No one can claim ownership. And no one quite invests beyond their stoop. One is quick to add to science, to imagine something critical, we keep enduring. Honestly, there’re many factors, beyond a hypothetical, and motion demands movement.  In crossing mind patios, firing up a grill, sipping some designed drink—in looking eye-to-eye, playing pretend, slightly misappropriated. 

Between Properties

 

 

I often mistaken by an assumption. I often die during a feeling. It’s not what it is, as to prove relentless, it’s what it feigns to mimic. It would deceive and leave one bereft. It has some place though, one emotion-thought, tides waving, reflecting upon innocence, so hectic. I sense each 

 

thought beguiles, with all of certainty, indeed, let live. Each portrait tries to surrender to self, tries to feel fantastic, maybe, I’ve cursed self. Meaning seems in a moment, shifting as time travels, as circumstances churn. To have adored in a second, to remember anguish, found excellent and 

 

confusing how souls dance. On a good day, right in place, on a bad day, too much misery. Indeed, two might gasp in place, might release in harmony, might walk away with despair. I wonder what souls say to ourselves, trying to keep it together, so many delicacies, such disharmony, to get into 

 

a space. I knew it was excellence; what defines us is esoteric, sheer remote learning. Many have exposed pieces of a sky walk; many more have sensed indifference. […] of what we expect from each other: Is it fair? And Love is stately, Junoesque, rummaging sub-spirits—a type of thunder, 

 

to sit down and unpack self. If it was with penance, to invert unto love, a radical belief. To receive it on purpose, direct activity, to feel alone in a second, and sudden into rapture: so aloof though. As it delivers itself from alienated assertion, to vindicate what tends to ruins. 

 

II

 

So great the problem, so offensive to say it. I thought I felt you. Underground is deceptive. Who’s to blame? A person, of course. I smile it off. Such stressed-out color. It seems typical. I tip over. I regroup. So serious—at points. We might take something for that. You seem even. I imagine one 

 

in control. It seems difficult. I layer accordingly; needing what can’t dream. Can’t explain it. It seems human. To have stated so much—across a career. I do apologize. I’ll leave that to its lesson. Accursed as we are, so much helium, one would think to flying. And both are intolerable, so 

 

captivating, an orison for a long ride. So iridescent. To utter something forbidden. Despite ourselves sharing indifference, something tries at intimacy. I begin to wonder, if a negative is present: Is it still intimate? At a side point, along a sidewalk, staring from a van, to see a flower 

 

striking its breath, deep concrete. At a different lake, depth an impassive pond, musing upon ducks and squirrels. I’d ask for normality, as if with a rubric, to wonder if I arrived. To need a feeling, to describe a voice, chairs meant so little in hindsight. To come to affects, mesmerized by something 

 

unbeknownst, sticking to seeking some mirror. If it reflects, we admire our souls. After Love kindles a guitar, to display an art, so confusing, to wander down memory lane. So many worries. It becomes life. Seated on an intellectual’s bench. Just seeing how it unravels. 

Time was Brief

 

 

With deeper allure—to ward off ghosts—melancholia is an empire. Such dialogue confuses—: one wrestling despair. It was remote living, inculcated values, rumors and resentment. To divulge humanness is vulnerability; a façade says—Life is in order, things are crisp. In not giving it a voice, smoldering as we do, pieces slip out of place, requiring restitching. It’s often addling: configuration (persona) and frustration. Expectation becomes nature: a pendulum is faced alone. As trying to 

 

vocalize it, souls are busy. Such are stars above; such is ink and mortar. Many dreams damaged by dread. It was alarming to see us. In becoming fragments of us, one sees a deeper struggle. To imagine happiness as an absence of sadness; or sadness a deficit of happiness: familiar language. One might get lost in religiosity, pleasure, spirituality—drums, piano, classical studies, etc. With observation, we see a regenerative property. Something desires to recharge daily. On another side 

 

of it all—must exist pure joy, ignoring human condition. To possess utter simplicity; to dine on laughter: some dream as it lives. Else, wholeness of existence is wrestling with discomfort. If to pride humanities—such segue into turbid reality: to have adored as does a fledgling, introduced to something seamy. With love seeming askew. Needing to call admiration by a different name. Fumbling through misnomers. If to give meaning to many souls, accustomed to longing.    

Inspired by Chants

 

Into flight, crisp lakes, flowing light; to have died to return, intimate dynasty, an echoing transgression; beauty made ethereal, clutching agony, in its sin—it grants redemption. A soul to 

 

indifference, tugged by interior, to collapse, gripping midsection, abandoned to shivers. In chasing those blues, defined by upholstery, too much to overpower—life in its cure, culture in its bone, celebration in its suffering—fields filled with oxen, shoes as witness in bartering, such suffusion 

 

of dreams; a casualness to penance, some familiar glint, certain rites, séance dwelling in its sanctum. (To picture a soul indebted to holiness, ever accustomed to flight, innocent fervor, we assert, a creature of allure, fevered by concentrated faith, ascending on high, doctor of one’s spirit. 

 

So intense by insulation, to have loved whilst dying, to have died whilst living; in purity of purgation, sweating belief, pouring into chant, agitated for an unknowable reason: driven forward. In tumbling through visions, in rendered visitation, to capture feelings, fierce emotions—flying, 

 

transported, as if by dreads: spirit of suffering, suffering of bliss, treasured beatitudes, if to reach in passing a shoulder. By transfixing; by zeal. To ask about anomaly; to assert something is unsavory. A soul to its needs. A human to her sanctum. In all of its dying, it’s living

Intimate Forces

 

To feel new. To become as if virginity. Such determined souls. I was with pash, so isolated. Each mile a whetstone. Each spirit, uncaged. Lucent pearls. Fragrant auras. Loving you seems innocent, carefree, to have understood wants and desires. Such casual creatures, some underscore, sorting 

 

through underbrush—if angels were clearer. To know psyches, to hate resistance, to have proved excellence. (Indeed! Never listen to a poet. Never confide in one’s species.) I do jest; a soul looking for redemption, rereading atmosphere, coloring thoughts, palming mind calligraphy—those sins 

 

seem indelible.  To feel new. To dance like no others. To let hair fall, touched by wilderness. A man to his transgression, a woman to her breakthroughs; so many paws, such cosmic changing, a soul 

 

on pause like Nintendo. Many trials. Many blessings. We presume a spirit is built a certain way, for intentionality is sketchy. And Love lights up fireworks, to chance determination, upon a whisper, captivated by irony, threshed by seasons. Life is waiting to make suggestions. I tell a tale 

 

of romance being hard to capture, despite, intimate union. If ever those gallicas—to know self, confused by cravings, spatial at moments, to fret over delicate science. I should ask … to play cello—something keeps dying, deprived of what others enjoy … trauma is an intimate force. 

Affected

 

 

Multivalent sunshine. It was neat, I supposed; to know tenderness, to muse at roses. So damned, so curious, bled of parts, pleading integrity. A soul has capacity to adore by a glance; be it chimerical, be it natural, be it desperation. I suspect upon an introduction, so indicative of humans, 

 

too much to realize, so indebted to miracles. I’d seduce my mind, accursed like dragons are, such a gila instinct; and longing became instinctual, many suppositions on its guidance, pursuing in 

 

dreams, ironically, treading distance. And Love was watching, filled with strategy, seeing something aching, such ornaments, such oracles, to have imagined some strange essence. I was smitten, I’d suppose. Alike to meeting charisma; those flickers, spirit flitting, hertz and hearts. So 

 

much phantasm, if to assume life, it becomes saddening. A different soul approaches its mirror, seeing as we do, a glint, such ruminating science. Still fretting furiously. Still with sacred silence. 

 

And thinking about Siena—mesmerized by mystic flurry, asking myself to keep reality—too many fragments to sort through; to perish in one’s living, to see femininity, to wonder what magic one works with—so perpendicular. With memories surfing, traveling through darkness, so intimate with melancholy, swatting at deserts, framed in wishes, affected by prayer.   

It Amazes We Never Speak It

 

It puzzles me to see frustration, not as it permits itself, rather, in kind eyes. I know those carnivals. I’ve spoken to those harlequins. Such mockery; such rumination. And I’d never, nay, I’d trespass neatly, unforgiven of myself. I’ll let skies watch as we neglect time. I’ll palm violets, self-accused. I’ll pitch pennies at a local pond, gazing at swans hydroplaning. O for wilder days. So much participation in negation: souls to their fruits, berries, cashews and almonds. So tender an apparatus, so great an earthquake, a soul to himself, parts deteriorating, climbing into invisibility—one streetcar, three reasons, introduced to a treasure’s tribunal. I don’t suspect it passes you by, so intent on invisibility, barebones, right? Such a predicament, explosive bulbs, cosmic pains, allergic insensitivity. It puzzles me how we’ll never speak it, watching as we do, expecting clairvoyance. I wonder what works. So enwoven to freesias, listening to inner freshets. It was always cultic attraction, it never changed. Beweeping subconsciously, just enough to remain sentient. Many knotted skies, treacherous innocence, to hate when one sees us—needing eloquence, sensing opportunity. To unfasten thunder, to hit seaquakes, to be in essence, a keen creature, a wounded miracle. 

Wild Weeds

 

 

I’ve become a piece of what sustains us—something else is missing. Deeper thoughts; louder presence. In rereading it, I see sensitive elements. It will never be clarity. We'll never make 

 

quilts. What I desire is forbidden. What I’ve become is unmeasurable. I get into a funk, whispering to leaves, plucking mind noise, sipping cranberry juice. It was without meditation. It’s now contemplative. (I do imagine at times, some wild radiance, one distant, long-range touch.) In 

 

saying Love, it feels foreign. In admiring a mongoose, I become part animal, part reptile. Akin to meerkat senses, petals with waterfalls, danger as it swelters, a dying innocence. I have not impressed many. I battle with that. In truth, craft is for its on sake. I hope to get there. (and Love 

 

was with grievances, careful to offend, I would imagine deeper hauntings—dealing with decisions, convincing self to move forward.) And came a soul, like a brand-new clarinet: it never goes asleep. 

 

I’ve grown accustomed to dreams, listening to something disconcerting—upon a concerto. (and one is privy, so gentle its damages, if he deserves it: a soul was watched, a soul measured it: I’m not sure perspective is clear.) To say of love, it dwells in this castle, fawning for Love: delicate passions, alike frustrations—to love plurality, to try, to curse skies.  

Mood Island

 

 

I’ve seen in its ideal, Love as identity. Love as entity. (I presume from experience, moods are immortal.) They’re aesthetic; they’re tragic. A precise mood can carry one through a storm, or serve as segue to some mystique joy. (One doesn’t mention it. It doesn’t mean it’s not alive, as in, with motion.) A mood can distinguish a given receptivity, encourage determination, or end traumatically. Let’s venture upon an ecstatic mood, engendered by intimacy—to exact happiness, 

 

some rear creature, in giving one life, honor and existence; indeed, to embark upon a life of joys, intimacy, determined with a given ease. Two persist in each other, gregariously, feeling isolated, cheerful, thankful for Love. Mood is therefore sacred, adored, with a hint of melancholy. It’s an oddity how it seeps in. Maybe from an inner sanctum, realizing mortality, feeling uncertain in some sense, fretting worthiness. Some part in self, yearning against its happiness. Something to live 

 

with. Indeed, moods shift; to adore, moved by adulation, to glance at Love, a mood to zap itself, filled with raindrops, way more complicated than it ought to be, or is it?  Life has compartments. Each has mood access. A writer will face conundrums. Each coming with a given mood. Sameness reigns true for any field in Humanities. Moods grow in intensity; managed, if diligent. A core mood will influence other moods. Still, there’s a tragic mood. It sits neither left nor right.   

We Heard Silence

 

 

 

Reins on self; courage to breathe. Deeper inhalation, exhaling for eternity. It was meant to be different, dying wasn’t an original thought. Part penalty; part mercy. Such altered egos: brilliant lights, benighted asphalt. I was hungry for what Christ understood. I needed those secrets—bleeding seemed extreme, breathing requires sacrifice, courage. If Father be good, if Mother adores 

 

us. It was never for aggravation, it was meant for holiness, such barefaced error. To undergo convergence, to have an altering experience, they ask us to walk away. I was overloaded, fraught by exhaustion, loving as it appeared to me, wrong in my endeavor. I insist on permission, what 

 

permits travel? An outsider in tales, treasuring Wisdom, knowing Solomon passed with evidence. I never chanced faith—disputing naivety, adapting to ignorance; to lack understanding, to know for perfection, thrust through by a feeling. Too much is blasphemy; too little is ignored. It was a 

 

together effort, souls passed. Remaining silent of God. God continues to listen. By conditions, predicaments, to ask: Will they let it go? Reins on self, trembling penmanship, petrified of Yahweh. The first rule, in a ruleless community, never applying ethics to Divinity. Such a losing cause. Such a thorough investigation. I sit to hear souls asserting what God can’t do. To some a hundredfold. 

Examining Soil

 

 

One pushes & may perish in determination. Another watches. Day in & day out. It’s a devilish charm. Plus, souls are climbing higher: firebricks & excellence—to imagine what women carry. Such mind swooshing, to mesh with diamonds.  (Adoring was natural. Casual digestion. To figure 

 

it clearly, many are eager to pass over—to meet the gravedigger.)  Clockwise dreams. Deep damaging attractions.  It seems indifference shields it, adding to turmoil, so curious, so aesthetic.  

 

Going inward the trespass to conjure waterworks, akin to watchwords, such a softened singsong excitement.  To what spirits endure; to pure contradiction.  In treatment of the wounds, distinguishing scars, escaping in a tender session of lotus making; accustomed to pursuing by 

 

excellence, kneading some craft. And eyes seem cultic, seeing into intestines, a soul is left uncovered inside. One pushes & may perish in determination—to imagine what women carry. Something cryptic to it, trying transparency, measuring trajectory.  Entered at birth, knew it at five, 

 

was knee deep by nine. Lost majorly; ever a step too close to life, overthinking generalities—sudden into upheaval.  As for cherishing, it tends towards vulnerability, so creative in lotus making, winnowed souls, treasured sickles, palms deep into soil trials.   

America Has Color

 

 

Blamed like addiction. Advertised to hells. As we knit to become respected, semi-cursed, fully affected. Gaming eyes. Hungry wits. To adore for its unlike what I know. So similar. Same battles. 

 

Different dragonflies. Abased for being feeble. Devastated for being strong. And Love tried to understand, she accepted the rain, unable to grapple with the trauma. Couldn’t quite relate, despite all the training. Something keeping us divided. And honestly, color fails to fathom privilege. 

 

Moving through such a delicate concentration, music in commonality, jazz in psychic connectivity—so much is abandoned to locate Love. Some may assert differences, others links, 

 

some remain absent from it all. What of poets—psychologists—psychiatrists—therapists? One might say—differences make humanity, pleasure and happiness take precedence. (Can we escape politics? Just a side question.) I can hear souls screaming: “Don’t convolute matters? Just live!”) I 

 

find something peculiar taking place: even to ignore displeasure, even to love society, something cultural, something innate—carrying all of heritage, it wafts to the surface, it pokes, it probes us: 

 

“I must be a good person!” This is the conundrum. What does it mean? And how much must I one, endure, and two, ignore, trying to pass by something breeding beneath the principle. An unusual 

 

way to endorse color. A mulatto’s understanding. Mingling between worlds. To see clearly the similarities, to grapple with differences, to have some inborn disposition, running into bias at turns.     

Broken Carnivals

 

 

Pain grows with us, although, it can sustain us; rivers of vulgarities, a clean climb, and still, pain is the topic. To have loved was a privilege. To have died in such love was promised. It gets wilder, achieving adversaries, once so neat, the line is so thin. I asked about esoteria, seeking an answer, it was part metaphysic, part meta-science, and conjecture. Through anxiety and cleaving to identity, to become gentle denial. In reality—two loved, two became friends—if uncareful, two abhorred each other. Notwithstanding. Their times were lilies, watered baptisms, intense passion, gnawing at electricity. To soar across cities and travel through alleys—so cured in Love, such false celebration, alike to a man and his proverbs. Riddle me this: When do we become family again? And Love hates parts aloft a scream, so cordial, loathing a holy image—such symbols, wild memories and never so close in a dream. I ponder on reality, unless of use, one will cast a spell—and many have time to do damages. But Love is successes, blurry pains, threaded upon a synaptic gap. I was with some weird feeling, exposed in forests, pieces returning and mourning, to celebrate a soul’s happiness, to wonder about condition. I’ve said little. I was desire for a fairytale—to love like exclusive warriors, to have for existence—one claw. Three fingers, one dragon; to see it play piano, to key eternity, to violin an avalanche. Let God be gentle, I have much to contend.     

As You Will!

 

 

It (happenstance) has become unusual. What is Your plan/What would You have me learn? I’ve studied some keen reality concerning wings, dice, thus, gambling, thus, freedom. I know why souls are flustered, beginning at isolation, ending at alienation. Some souls seem estranged, withdrawn, to frustrate others, doing such by will. Soul of my ache; brother of my worship—sister of my spirit, and Mother of my cross. I was an oddity. I was wayward. In seeing life playing piano, I see Your keys at play. You’ve paired me before, to my naivety, unaware of fruition, connected notwithstanding, memory vines echoing one’s name. An apostle will have and not have freedoms: freedom—yes—to select garments, to live part civilly free—yes! As for internally, certain freedoms, unless paired: Father of Mother, Mother of Yeshua, freedom to explore what has not an ending—a soul is with thoughts on said matter.  You’d see me before existence. You’d make plans for my life. I repeat what is written. And You knew this woman—crossing our paths, knowing each were with predicament. To spark resistance so intensely, to make for psychical opposition; that wasn’t enough, imprints, spirit cages, caves in souls, even water in eyes. You gave her first billing: I’m with envy. I ponder intangibility. I wonder how it unfolded. It happened in her—exposed to careers, wrestling, as we assert—to have empathized with Mother, sight unseen, to have intimate understanding, holding face, testy on some point, it seems young, it seems human, with us saving by graces. However, You deceived me: Father of charms. It hast to be life as it is at this time. (I do worry! I do pray.) Life of my absence. Moments of my vision. As You will!

Sky Rulers

 

It behooves a soul to see—to inhale nature … for one rubescent, sorrowed, excitingly devastating. You seeped in; a desperate jeering. I imagine false feelings, albeit, so intense, an omen in some regions. In all of my flaws, you became an emerald. With nothing to include, prose bewailing attraction, intelligence betrayed, logic most insufferable. I debate epiphanies. A dear secret: self will find a way to deceive itself, embarrassment becomes legendary. I never had a right to adore. It feels like the jaw of life; most call it bull-crap. Sanctity requires global participation. I find souls are weakened by need. I’ve a plan to garner 10 consecutive wishes; indeed, a nutty professor, such loving kindness, to picture a human soul. As for eyes: nothing to contend with, cherished preference, too many diehard concerns, too many deficits. We age tenderly, pulled by romance, desperate for security, in days filled with uncertainty. Each chase offers wilderness. And what is an author searching to enjoy—capacity at its zenith, obviously—hoping for dreaming, one final excursion. I was rethinking ripeness, each accidental seduction, just for some insecure place inside, damn those damages. Such rubric passions, such hampering reality, often, we meet souls sharing rain—eager to tell their story, confused by exasperation of self, celebrated for seasons. 

If to Return to Self

 

 

 

Life is sunny darkness … steep regions, old school rhythms, seeing is difficult—one message is clear, there’s condition in humans. It’s a shame, such twilight zones, a soul is never trusted, and couldn’t utter Forgiveness. Tried and true, unrighteous but pure, we fail to decode scripture. We fail to determine God, as written. Love was sullen that day, many occasions, we call it humanness. It has no alpha, and it has no omega. Born to it; learned in it; it begins to feel normal, like comfort, we might not be ready for something new and different. With Love standing stalwart, face-to-face with leviathan, resurrecting in her rebukes, part maniacal, unsurpassed sanity, frustrated it repeats 

 

each morning. In meeting Love, it was mystery, as if we were sent—mental penmanship, physical calmness, attentive to what can never be; soft spoken cadence struck like fire, and Love was dear forests, irrepressible commitments. In disputing insouciance, vying for chaos, to need control, an art, just because. With watching comes affectation. With rumination comes images. Some are wiser than others, they believe in practices, impressing upon consciousness. Indeed, poets, sages, collars are wild, speaking foreign cries, until one is faced by uncanny atmosphere. Love left it to darkness, 

 

roaming interiority, cleaving to existence—like an experiment, like poignant flame, chi surging and soaring throughout our universe. It never stops. Part justified. Part for furtive concerns. Human need is pivotal. One ponders—it could come from elsewhere. If one is charged by essence, connected to similar flames, these quite easily could appease and satiate a spiritual craving. It never mattered. It always sung to itself. To pretend otherwise is impractical.  In trying to love reflection, in wrestling with societal demands, in giving to it—a somber canto, it appeared necessary, it seemed to give life, with others having perfections … they make it look easy: life of my life, such fruit, trying to capture insouciance … I saw it with Love sitting closer. I paid it no mind. Most are trying to save each other. Most elements are fleeting. A soul is lucky to return to itself. (Years at mind catapults, a vision, quite affected by life, no other recourse. Connected to souls, feeling condition, quite obvious, nothing clairvoyant there; with days questioning themselves, to have gazed in, disputing freedoms in others, while we dispute inclusiveness likewise.)

 

Over pomegranates, ruining a neat blouse, not too concerned with that: lilting laugher. More, a gentle smile. Too grown for a fledgling. (Some are trying, too much to compute.) It seems legitimate. Two come together. All of life in that union. Love is unseen in being seen. Nights with it, because something is missing. In holding one’s breath, hoping all will change, loving arms, giving all to survive it, captive of faith. It wasn’t intended for readers, maybe—it was for the author, such décor, rooms filled with chatter, eyes full of silence. In every nook there’s a soul. Made pensive at times, gathering oneself, calmly facing their lives—to brave sanity, those loving charms, to need what aches, more goodness than deficits—turning rain into an empire.  

Forthcoming

 

I know for not knowing. So casual the chaos. To sing to disruption, to unknit each seam, as to awaken to a similar quilt. It gets that way. Soundness challenged. Quickness averted. Devastation; showering in deepness, never wished to claim it, but a hint of despair. It seems ridiculous to say it, laughter unto a falling tear. And souls are at battle, guiding feelings, seized by emotion, unthawed, needled by reverberation. It comes across like a gift, some excruciating talent. It speaks to trials, mind tunnels, somber triumphs—

If to measure goodness, true, outstanding charity, condition besprinkles atmosphere. Idleness is vamping itself. It always felt precious—an art in wrangling, so philosophic, not nearly an entire solution; such zeal to adore, to believe, souls to cherish—such zest, trailing a xyst, or living Zen, facing intimate core self; in truth, a side of personhood, deeper than human reach, capacity is mythical, plaguing, searching souls, present like a noticeable weight—

Nevertheless, a dear friend, a loving sibling, a treasured spouse, with all those valleys, all those crevices, such activity, with perfection for others, with a flicker for spaces, so clear at seconds, carrying a symphony—

Such a mirror dance, fraught by perception, affixed to life-giving illusion   and adoring when ill is easy   seeking a solution to a seemingly terminal disposition   endlessness of glee   to notice self, smiling, withered, measuring expression, only enough—

Mazelike

 

Each day has hassles. I never meant to dwell on it. It just seems natural, albeit, to come with discomfort. Inner opposition. Those hours in thoughts; it seems complicated. I would imagine art might save us; one soul might deliver us. Some feelings are on repeat. To see life, to feel moved—musing upon disposition. Trying to say much without saying much. Rather something different, 

 

moving quickly, these are remnants, recompense, better, genetics; leaning into mechanics, reviewing science, moved by scripture—feeling like a soul, remaining silent, facing a fret, nostalgic for experience, those making life beautiful. Such functionality; such faculty. It was always there—deep in minds, to echo repetition, to remember guffaw, never doubted unison of experience—those longer roads. Ever in motion, so much so, something catches up slowly, like 

 

gentle creeping, those inner mirrors. Ceilings giggling. Television on simultaneous reverberations. Walls mocking. An inner understanding—can’t pride it, can’t ignore it. To hear it; sitting in stillness; if not desolate than facing deserts; if not plagued than haunted; if not focused than obsessed. Surrounded by emotions. Framed in palms. Symbolic disposition. Hypnotic scars. To adore Passion, simmering in discussion, becoming aphasia, trying to hear all sides, to a soul’s 

 

detriment. Upon what works, so isolated, accustomed to dreams, listening to overseers, the dreams we erect. Torn modalities, thinking about Love, so near to it, so scarred by it, numb at points; a spirit in composition, holding maxims, fevered at times, by a feeling. It becomes what life permits. Some parts are by condition, soreness of a soul’s existential, sky-watching, measuring clouds, facing some element, trying to bypass others, facing a great balancing act.  Over nectarines, asking 

 

questions, listening to gesticulations, searching for correlation, a difficult battle. Pantomime emotions through solitary channels, sudden into rhythm … Love is planting seeds, to imagine needing solace, an ancient curse, a blessed baseline.  Grateful it’s motion, it might swoosh at times, to shift reality, a sudden position—to imagine it was purposed, at many pressures to believe otherwise. If crazed, we ask for ultimate perspective, we ask overseers to evaluate each other, to apply those same rudiments to poets, no need in lying to self, if seeking truths.   

Quiet Noise

 

Diaphanous eyes, portal prophecy. Some parts speak to us. Other parts pass by us. Infatuation became deciduous. Loud in summer winds; excruciating at times. It was lyric, euphonic(s), bold and crisp agonies—to adore by feeling, feeling famished, famed, thus, famous emotion. Upon interaction, a key component; to favor living, to die in a glance, seeing a frown, sweet detriments. Love walks through woods. Knowing for little insurance, assured nonetheless. Made to flourish. 

 

Designed by passion. Such in a soul to drift the seven perfections; like theft at times, like rude at moments, like pure in its destruction. Everlasting lights. Mental fireflies. Some parts remain undreamed. Such maelstrom; accustomed to reaching, soft and sullen disappointments. Wits become overseers. Experience chaperones. So fuddled at moments—what does irony spell? Deserts made of seas. Dahlias made famous. To have pieces. To desire mastery. Then, too much 

 

unrealized, to take flame for granted. Such complicated creatures: we keep looking across the fence. Palming dragonflies. Mourning hummingbirds. A long line of mesmeric poets. To yearn for utopia. Faced by parts of dystopia. Gazing at the moon. Making life more complicated. Neither left nor right, just mourning dearth. Existence is full of doodads. If one sits idle, thoughts erupt. Too many exaggerations; they make life; to have a rare titillation. 

 

II

 

I was measured in fragments. Seeing it manifest, to notice vulnerability. I imagine some are privy to silence. Plus, the interior bulletin board. Akin to sacrifice; much unsaid, much to unsay; a poet will be held accountable, one lasting tribunal. Such parched flames; too long waiting. Parts lost. I sense a presence at times. Folks entertaining notions. With more to give, purity in souls, a fight to be with goodness, battling elements. Feeding shorebirds. Seated in meditation. Admiring parts of 

 

different regions. So many toils; such turmoil; appalled by what’s apparent. To dispute something made obvious. To pause and ask where souls are at; such smoky skies, partaking of cosmic spirit, one faucet into mirrors, to drop a prayer in passing. I determined certain duties, to sum up existence by asserting responsibility; common realities, mutual needs, with souls withering. I contend it will never occur. I feel at home in such malaise. While it eats at reality.      

Perceptual Design

 

 

 

Upon a flat line or soaring into skies. At least by assertion. And asking for grace, seducing complication, weeping heart mercy.  Love roars like a lioness; Love travels the middle world.  I find the in-between excruciating—a soul wishes to fly on demand, akin to pondering a first dance. Encouraged to stipple magic, to recite grays, accursed at spirit, one lasting flute. Too random where 

 

one fights for individuality. Never prided, or batting an eye, alike to preachers—every Sunday revving it up. Elation is addictive, for it’s like a phantom, it appears in a flash.  Love was performative, theoretical, filled with psychic sockets.  I try to ride a current, to evolve swiftly, both 

 

sensitive and desensitized—some strange creature, akin to leviathan, many emotions are swamp based. Too much to receive.  The hunch is tentative.  Love is a machine. Love is fierce. Love is delicate. Such is the difficulty. One sees it, has insights, works against it—swamplike emotions. “Either it’s all for me or I work against it.” I keep traveling.  And Love is a picture in a portrait, a scream in its wailing, water in its fount.  So much is invested; where one desecrates vision—to 

 

need in turn a delicate river.  While I tire of conspiracy talk, I realize some things are in motion.  We ask for clarity. It can’t be located. Most often many gridlocks are deliberate.  To notice a feeling in its denial, sheer internal contradiction, most ears are soundproof. If to try at a snail’s pace, torture 

 

in it, travesty in undergoing(s), wandering islands, seeing what was in throes of passion. Hard enough to blame a man, if he never knew, as it was never revealed.  Such change into a butterfly—such wildness in nature, so great the beauty.  As Love would balance scales, cedar chest letters, world renowned feathers or clipped wings; a soul must war, design has it no other way.   

Subtle Gesture

 

Like a vision it probes—a subtle expression. Love has mastered subtleties. I perish with each one. It was never our luxury—sable honest eyes, affectionate pains. Each hurt running deeper.   I throw the word around too loosely. At points, beauty aches, either present, or a feeling as if a dearth.   I imagine rain pouring on a summer’s day – roses sprouting on a decent gray – something hampering light.   It never registers. We might expect emotion, crazed by karma, asking permission to strike a nerve.   It was never in me to dance that shadow. It was ever with me to salute light, to rage over thunder.   Each with affectation. Each with prowess. Each with etiquette.   So unique; so intricate.   I suspect in being gentle one can be indelicate. A deep truth.   I have loved a mirage, raved over a passing glance, angered souls right afore time.   A theft in me.   A clown’s fever.   I see riven souls; I battle reaction to a scar.   Honestly, we make it work. It doesn’t just work.   A song I’ve longed for; in knowing dreams, in getting closer, ever asking for privilege—such dynamite, euphonic charms, on a specific wavelength.   First granted entrance, a wild escapade, endless apexes—soul of calamities. To envision eternity, as it frets itself, to have exaggerated its promise. Only if it feels like pain; some choice by arms; to have loved in private.   

Human Needs

 

 

 

Everything isn’t as it appears. Looking closer, neat vodka, juice with gin, pathological ulcers. To have Love seems too sweet to believe; dark roasted coffee, armlength havens, regathering broken berries—life of my needs—winepress of my visions. Quite determined. Sensing it hurts. Tears falling, undressing closure, too intimate for a running statue. Buried in words, giving rain back by onus, ontic space, something still taunting. If to be honest, something extraterrestrial is in motion; those with ether fathom, to be with slight haunting, encouraged from regions, always one step towards disclosure. In feeling goodness, in perspective of rites, made country, made stars. Who needs eternity, such a blessed curse, minds stirring martinis, quite close to repetition, one casual excitement over eternity; both filled with nuances, caged by dreams, partaking of essence, near ruined. So emphatic upon winds, through exospheric glens, many garbs of light and esoteric sins. Almighty sunlight those spectrums we travel, chasing holy contradictions, pleasurable misconception, facial abandonment; spinning, Love, one solution, sanctioned and satisfied, so casual to adore, unknowing to self, pursuing happiness by instinct. An uneasy realm, sickles or scythes, life so close to perfect chaos, to need beyond capacity, cleaving to harps.     

Effectual Perception

 

days have texture. a man yearns for tomorrow. sweet blossoms, acidic rain. words dragged out, as opposed to freefalling. I tell myself—it doesn’t mean much. A difficult assertion; a spin on reality. 

 

I must be proactive—; I mustn’t wait for sadness to pass. I agree with that. So, I wait it out. I tug 

 

at wires, stare at a trapeze, traipse a scar, difficult cadence. I’ll capture sorrows, nibbling a chip for minutes, gazing into a given thought, analyzing an inner ear. I imagine wolves howling, doves 

 

praying.  I used to daydream a lot; I need to say, many years ago. It amazes how I would entertain malaise.  It’s become taboo to assert madness. I’d speak to beauty as an affectionate creature; a 

 

somber gait; holy presence; sheer teary-eyed joys. It seems like life; a mixture of happiness—

 

touched by gloominess. Battling an existential impasse, grave inside, meaning little to others, as they face life. I wait for a song to shift—its ending seems more important; upon a feeling, a thought 

 

addressing emotion, a sign in heaven, to drift into a portal. Love is unknown. Memories made intangible. Deep lighted moods. Arts of pyramids; passions anew; a slight grimace, we call it 

 

remnants; to love skies, to pamper a lily, to adore what never gives fruition; making goodness, one dream, affixed to a type of ingenuity.  

Upon a Breeze

 

 

Let souls win beyond floods, unquenched, fever-hearted. To adore the humanistic, shocked, climbing persistence. I never met beyond what I could see. Such nervous creatures. Made that way. Maybe assisted in life, so gifted in life, threaded in silken spirits. Soaring through fits, gray celerity, fueled excellence. Everything goes under—to meet itself, what I become was always me—a soul catching up to itself.  Over yonder, I never noticed it—such is taken for excellence, on par with devastation. Too much to sustain, an elated joy in its rains: jazzy preaching, wondering about clergy. Unbound. Left to suffer. Indeed, right aside us, showing compassion—a desperate state of affairs, if to see strength.  Into a feeling, trying to figure this journey, affected by a certain air—noticing yoga pants, seeing infinity, I think souls ask a lot of each other. Needing contrary qualities—angled for eternity, one god to a goddess. So affected inside, easily unveiled, so much underrated, believing one is imperceptible. It was never ignored. Such a ghostly room. It never meant what exaggerates affection. A long road. Feeling it in airs. I heard Love has perfection. Never a tear. A soul was a poet, looking inwardly, feeling titillation, quite beginning, fretting finished, an intense emotion. Those years were simmering. Those extremes inside. A metaphysical recipe. A wraith of affectation—cold summers, swooshing through atmosphere, to do rightly.  

Mysterium

 

 

It feels like magic. It’s quite scientific. (When a face talks to itself.) And art seems therapeutic, in its angst and anxiety. One masterpiece (a whole existence). Love is ingenious. And I still have affection for skies. We never understood existence; indeed, breath, blues, jazz, and objectivity. Life 

 

has an undercurrent, an undulation, where energy aids in healing and alarming. It still feels mystic in tone, shape, and color. One reads and reflects. Art is public, maybe centered on self, maybe a vague passage to reality, aphorisms that speak and point at wisdom. I can’t help but notice a 

 

property—even vengeance has a need to interact. I never asked for what morphed inside. We concentrate on clarity, ever moved by magic, to sense some have honed prowess. In accepting perspective, one sees in self a flaw; nevertheless, each person must focus on his or her gifts. 

 

Notwithstanding, to have life, to cherish inheritance, to dance by yogic armor, seas of feelings, wondering while envying giants. A wounded soul will have positions on life; sweet metaphysics, axioms challenged, a need for reality in its depth. Such fiats fail. Saddened eyes, unveiling 

 

existence. We gauge responses in discussion, they point us in some direction. It can be numen in its exhilaration. It might generate chi out the depth of melancholy—surfing atmosphere, leaping about portals, part devastated, part affirmed, part delivered.   

Love Dynamic

 

Just a fantast at times. Listening to wants, eager over desires. Different auras, achy contours. Love is a bad ass woman. We take much for granted. And everything is dying. To graves in life, whispering names, breathless, a memory. I was remembering you, seeping into a thought, I imagine two people make perfection of character. Each chair is different. Each arm has limited reach. We accept dearth; we increase yearning. It was laughs at self, to believe I was affected deeply—winning charms, touched in soil, jilted inside, moving through traffic, it’s wrong, but I lit a cigarette. Over a spirit, confined to disasters, loving like chameleons, harlequins off of gin. Indeed, a half-shrug—until it reaches. Love is a bad ass magician. They call it chi; yes, making horderves—to lace life, a man watches. Hands form elasticity, flying with cares, a price as paid—to engender such cost. If only complete staticity, disruptive mornings, asking daft questions, insecurity seeping in. Love has an effect on psyches—all characteristics mastered, easily angered. Never upon eggshells, not her well-beloved. Toe-to-toe at it. And many roses, many tomorrows, lines of prose, scripture at times, wits and realizations. He asks: “Why us?” She looks intently, places her nose on his: “I’d have it no other way.” Closer friends. Closer lovers. Parents and magicians—and it’s all on borrowed time.         

Gentle Observations

 

 

Before it dies it suffers. Before it loves it courts. On rare occasions, one is devastated by beauty. And Love is subtle. I see it. I sense myself. Makes life seductive, an art in color, an opalescent machinery. Curtains before a cross. Baptism on the 8^th day. Better circumcision. But Love is angst and honor; so many years at perfecting yoga, such blight at times. I would need her early on. She would need life. It amazes when dealing with power, they have an appetite, something affective must be part wild like. (I looked at her and adored what I saw. I noticed a sardonic wit, an insecure armor, most provocative, most human.) I retrospect on Love, eagle eyed, filled with determination, desperate for her well-beloved. Citrus and wines. Linchpins and figs. Deep scars and mobile wounds. In adoring Love, sight seen, a man is accustomed to loathing himself, one knee, one pledge. If we knew in totality, we’d sense why melancholy is addictive. Passion of arts. Skyward penmanship. To know her is to feel imbalanced by her. Before a final fire, aloof in pain, aching on page three, soul of my light. A better person those waves as concerned about existence. Secerning through turmoil. A fierce lover. Made to flourish, a product of enduring, beyond escaping. Interior anxieties. An influencer. Plums with grapes. Days growing intensely.  

An Ode to Life

 

 

From opening to closing, gnawing at life, all things seem serious, even gnats. Looking at it, overwhelmed by it. Too much to ask about it, to share affection about it. Life is with parameters – made crisp, too much to tackle, too aloof to hold. (If I trespassed life, with all offenses, can I 

 

rightly complain?) See her as intimate, effectual at times, lethal, addictive in nature. She (life) chances heights, remains uncanny, many lows to understand her. Each axiom weakens in utterance. Prose (life) is suffering something esoteric, most insufferable, most desired. Beyond weaving, deep 

 

in seams, fabric neatness, cloth chaotic—in seeking life, catching visions, seeing simplicity, vying for entrance. Life is in needs; proven inconsistent, troubled by love, souls trying to fit in, trying to smile louder, enjoying when it moves softly. By no greater gift, seeing how life does souls, such remarkable pleasures, curse of contradiction, double teabags. With days like riddles, iridescent 

 

hopes, palatial foresight, either fulfilment or disappointment. From start to finish, guessing at life, (as if it wasn’t troubled enough); souls have earned life. Souls open early—accelerated prisms, life is never alike to its ideals. In decorum, determined, impossibly influenced—impassioned hopes, thwart at times, listening to something inside, pushing, though languishing.