Zinfandel

 

 

Nobody loves like essence. Such gothic lights, mystic wolves. (Unarmed, they say, face to heaven, disputing one tear.) To suckle cloudberries. To sickle inactivity. Waiting out something unending. Only by feelers, jousting as we do, feuding myself; such wounded nemesias, such watchful zinnias, and a tear might feel cathartic. Too much for truths. Too artistic for breath. And one is wheezing, fire of my flame! (It was for essence. It forms pride. Life takes to itself. Reflection of my mirror—by another’s face, wherefore, we dream. And how to forget again, loathing reflection, seething upon winds, stronger in my weakness.)  To a third person, enveloping two others, on a wild trail, nurturing tumbleweed.  If loving is a sin, let Depth repent, a soul does as parents taught.  By excellence in one soul, as to find offense in others. Let fey be gentle. Let summer illuminate demons. A fever along a path, sudden into dilemma—curse of my voice, scream of my silence. And Love never knew for us, a zephyr in its chase, as curious creatures, worrisome upon those gates. To stand and gaze into emptiness, to feel at home, such lousy negotiations. If making it to Father, to ask for clearance, such bolden confidence. In all those complaints, treating humans as phantoms, all Love asked was to feel loved correctly.     

Soul Absorption

 

 

I never (quite) understood instincts, with a need to tame such. I, too, never understood instant absorption. Some elements might be taken for granted; plus, we need not (over) analyze realities. I beg to differ, palming a book on psalms. More than a hobby; trying to decode mirrors, mine, others, found in script. And to adore beyond understanding, applying attributes to spirit-matter. Some are given vulnerability, others learn it.  Everything one will love, all of each challenge.  I never remembered that feeling, now it lives.  Beyond comparison; made into emotion, of its own accord, to take a form, to give life through an illusion. (Such coldness, by warm ice, contagious vice, gloomy joys; accursed to have met, giving all, trauma based, all of what was delivered.) It was uneasiness, staring at an image, seeing traits, preordained to adore, challenged by majesty. A fever in a scratch, a dark light in its expression—those indecisive seconds, trying to reach, falling two palms short. To keep one going, to have done so much—alike to teaching a life lesson. (A lasting message where wisdom is unclear, mind of its mind, soul of its spirit.) Asking for graces. Disputing prudence. Asking for what cannot be absorbed.  (Those with letters, writing postscripts, rereading transcripts.) Artisan souls, cavalier over last rites. And one dream!     

Cosmic Forests

 

With each key the universe is somber; sourced in excellence, dying in surviving. I never wished for it. I thought to the onus of it. Such pure responsibility for fate, if such might be asserted (learned or environmental and all). I make no excuses. I just reason something is askew. A man will come to himself, hopefully, early in life. He will see the horizon, create his letters, and seek his joys; all in becoming a falcon, in understanding the phoenix, flaming into a firebird—wings length’d with eagles, soaring by precision like hawks, to have chased, to have seized, to have captured woes. A soul is indebted to Wisdom—in knowing where such dwells, in courting winds so long—part of seeking is crocheting embarrassment, neat humiliation. Those mountains tell a story; the feminine forces speak to years in exile; a woman to her masteries, to have sat with kings, to have dined with princes. Soul of my soul; Spirit of my spirit.  A voice echoes into hemispheres, such melodious femininity.  Mind of my mind—season of mongooses.  Upon a dandelion, into cosmic chi, to have presence in Wisdom; such tender visitation, certain paradox, to churning frustration, penalized for adoration. To sense something greater taking place: attic cathedrals, vatic chalice, magnet mesmerism.  With each key the universe is somber; purely melancholic wilderness, heaping happiness, tears for something seeming tragic.  

Life Is So Much More

 

 

An ancient soul, surrounded by souls, and a lasting séance. I catch chills in discussing it. (We live metaphysics in private.) Where no one can see. (I was amazed by her prowess, stunned by her silence, part displeased by nonchalance.) Days are with admiring others, sensing hard work. By grace to have lived. By religion to have repented. By temple or church to have surrendered. Old ancient souls, knitting skies, filled with intermittence, alighting epiphanies—to have believed so credulously—indeed, to have become withdrawn from such mind behavior. Faith never meant so much—as when all was in battle: life where it feels estranged; belief where it’s under fire; minds made of aluminum, facing cold reverberation.  To sudden into song, warring an olden spirit; part cured, clear, editing real life dreams.  We might not see it. We might harness nebulosity. Something opaque might destroy us. We can’t fathom souls living otherwise—having life, fraught by good deeds, in realizing—days are filled with activities—such become living.  Another crease, a thin crevice, some pursuing mind spirits, trying to unravel a glint, if to breathe by light, by winds. Soul of my soul; Spirit of a deep discussion; Breath of cosmic force. What many of us see seems unrelated to life.

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.