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.   

The Critic Says …

 

 

“Show me, don’t tell me.” Of all haunting words, these churn. I was with a feeling, it spoke of dreams, it cried of age—of all creatures, of visions through marrow, of ghosts as thoughts, sweet nectar, vinegar-based lies. As it might open itself; as it might close itself—based in cleaving—so decorated, fantasizing over chills; forever a feeling, forever out of reach, it pays to be a little nonchalant. Amazingly, something is not true because I will it to be. And loving tides, corralled skies, one poignant convergence—those soft brown binoculars. “Tell us of experience.” Can’t win for losing. She dances in turquoise, filled with promise. She teaches discourse, flamed about the Great Debate. She loves impartially, favoring the disobedient. Of all her woes, she wrestles over losing time … each soul affixed to chaos, formed by excellence, winnowed in fields, tiptoeing through sugarcane. 

Truth

 

The artist has gone to a space. To listen to her song stirs spirits. A man of virtue, a woman with pride, shall die in this song: Truth Is a Beautiful Thing.

Life feels both kempt & unkempt. In a brief time, one can fish out gems. In trying not to preach, art seems difficult. To hide treasure, suffusing life, giving it all one can. 

With vatic scars, meaning prophetic scars, how to condemn a family to poverty? To say in explanation, something akin to, it means holiness. 

In college, we were agog over Truth—ultimately flabbergasted by gratuitous evil. In meeting a few rich souls, one concludes, holiness is participatory.

The artist suggests a focal point could not carry her weight, her load, her truth. Many miles, through shames, a language hard to understand. And still, to take her place, to stand there, too difficult. 

One gift for the focal point, to hide such a person, to hold one’s head. 

Could one take her place? Truth is a beautiful thing. To close with aforementioned thoughts.

Contradictions

 

What if signs meant melody? In celebration. Life’s joys wane. If knowing all of sunshine meant ecstasy. (We jot down in a journal, we see ourselves, we push the journal aside.) I lived in dark regions, murky mire, marshweed mayflies. (He went too soon.) I imagine final whispers, uncaged sparrows, cherubs and answered dreams.) Loving was difficult at points—we face an impossible challenge, a refuted ideal. It comes out harshly. I must be bitter somewhere in there. The goal for folks is sagehood. To give until it churns. Then to speculate over why such pain is necessary. I sound sarcastic. I mean to get in alignment. I mean to continue the fight. If I might be honest, it’s putting a whooping on the spirit. Each year. One with prudence & faith says, “You’re growing stronger.” I try to hold a straight face. I sound like ultimately core beliefs should be reviewed. Someone was boldly optimistic. Lucre. Research. Progress. Such penchant words for a poet. I’ll ignore my base needs. I’ll be unhappy braving the good night. I’ll placate in order to be at peace. It never mattered. We believe in ideals. They give life. They make meaning. Despite rain, they make for sullen happiness. They ultimately build order. (All will experience lots, some will be freed due to prudence.) I do surmise! 

Come Go with Me

 

Over chilled wines, asking for freedom, begging through silence. To dance, right? To live again like college students. To have life rupturing, to sit aside a fireplace, to gaze deeper, to feel each sentence. It was a miracle those years, beauty brings poetic pains. To mean so much to another, to have that dream, to know for ultimate support. So cursed to love, so desperate to love. It means too much to speak. If knowing each reality. To hold arms, slightly unmeasured. To need to give, to want to fly, to die into bliss. It was never a lie, in a given moment, to have life made simplistic. When pleasing is an art, never rushed, unless … sweet & sour banter, insatiable dialogue, uncured by love. Let rain fall, keeping company, sounds into souls, imbalance kept subdued—to adore flutes, to bathe in horns.  

Alike to Likeness

 

I can never tell if it’s like voodoo magic, pouring into a cauldron. I wander the circumference. The job will remain mutable, those sharp x-rays. I laugh over a neat beverage; to imagine she used her heart, mastered by her brains. Many have an inkling, a notion, nothing static though. Others have infinity, sadness, shocked those wings keep flapping. I never asked for help. One assumed I needed adjustments. Based in her own assessment. And fall comes with cries; I wonder over lies we never adjust. Seaglass to relax. Marshweed trekking. We seem regulated, in search of fulfilling fires. For many it’s simple: I feel resonance, it means attraction. I fight against this understanding. To crumble often; to partake of ambiguity; to hear phantom like guffaw. A neater drink, accused of grogging, anything to look nose down, it makes mirrors more friendly. I can never fix it; and she needs it to live. It’s a crossing, so crosswise, melting into resentment. It’s alike to trying to connect with Love, and another interrupts, not out of passion for Love, just to ensure the connection is made impossible. I often sail inside, asking where she loves, to hope somewhere, two are enjoying ecstasies. To be honest, she seems to have a lot of free time. I will leave that alone. We live in a draconian land. One can believe what he wants, but he must keep it to himself. The coven, correct?   

To Give is to Receive

 

 

I tell myself to keep it simple. I believe Love mastered this. A level closer, suffering at those gates. Head to chest. Pen to hands. Ink to serenity. I was living like that, acting before souls. It never tells a correct story. I envy those straightforward. Years given. Love might smile gently, a tear bubbling up. I imagine many sold a diamond, standing near there, trying to purchase it back. To imagine where minds go; such glowing, deeper gravel, skating upon emotion. I wonder in ten years will knowledge uncover more lights. To partake of nectar, to celebrate what hurts. I wish life was easier, to ignore elements, to believe in wilderness. I would like to know more. I would like the combination. A soul after change: If to figure out norms. I negated parts, subtracted from self, still undergoing pressures. Such murky clouds, too wise over there, to make it a long while. Maybe souls want for self a continuous stimulant, something everlasting, something acute. Purposed awareness. (So ubiquitous in given circles. No one is fully amazed. To switch into another group, to be seen differently, indeed.) I never forget the infraction. I just wonder what God means by redeemed. Just confusion on my part. I try not to imagine the harsh. I try to value reciprocation. To give what one would like to receive. Nevertheless!

I assume, I suppose.

 

 

What motivates upper echelon? I imagine a little sadness, permeating each layer. When a smile is haunted and brilliant. I wonder how we endure it, facing eyebrow music. A letter to it. Love was fretting. We keep pushing what should debilitate. I was never keeper of gates, atop a world, low to fields, mere slave of it. And Love was rapid heartbeats, methodic hertz, in over-proving a critical point. What is it? 

A soul will keep giving. One will know for weaknesses. Driving a bulldozer. I only assume. I suppose.  Love is cherished in a circle where souls are dispensable: beauty must be extraordinary; so, talents are of utmost importance, more for purpose.  One would dine often, showing said talents, winning hearts, being praised. 

Gesticulations. Off the cuff. Each embodiment meditated, played out in mirrors.  Why have I said these things?  That’s one’s life.  Wire and worlds, right?

Unknown to souls. Unmet by reality. To be skilled. To feel neglected. To compensate over yonder. Such resentment for all concerned.

Earning it. To denounce what’s been earned. What if one remains silent? Years passing!  And color awareness, Love at amour, to wonder why one isn’t trying.  Disruption. He might share something with another.  To hear it in dialogue; to seize one’s monopoly.  I understand now. It means life, despite, it has a mission.  I was passive about it. I felt, it should pass.  The world feels alienated, alone, so close to an agenda.  A right turn at an uneven philosophic; so curt at points, displeased with another’s down time—constant application, something insidious, knowing one has love for underground communication.  I assume it means little to unsaid spirit, angered, it means life to some of us.  A passing volt on a bad day, to glance over and say, Good Morning! It seems universal. To go for infinity to prove a point. Those women one prides: Do they warrant it? Disruption. Pushing. Waiting for something ill. Putting energy into it. Hoping to God!