Carved on a Thought

There’s for voiceprints upon soulprints upon fingerprints. I

walk the prints, to hear godprints, to sculpture footprints.    

The nights are musings, to welcome Sarton, to gaze at rockprints;

where David cried, to know the Bulwark, ever for favor.     I

die it softly, for gravely turned, to churn in your presence.    

I barely spoke, to stammer words, where verbs were sullen;

for demons laughed, to use a trope, to freely this maze.     I

loved it less, to love you more, a shattered aircraft; but

more to flight, the fight of flares, a creek of mirrors; where

momma fell, the first of hits, chasing a phantom.     There

comes for mad, and then for healing, to quote, Heat of the Night;

and there’s for wordbones, semi-fractured, as holy as annunciation;

to trigger a gutsoul, or better a gutbone, spinning through rings

of bark.     Please pardon the words, to trigger souls, to compliment

poets; but pain is air, ever to hover, to feel you and fly;

whereat are leaves, the veins of this trial, to surgeon a scar; for

eyes are watching, and what to see, a phantom in a psyche.     We

feel for rain, to shoot a shot, to take it to heartcore; and

daughters grunt, to sprinkle for dust, to mourn the results.

It’s quite for torn: to want and crave, and crave and want,

following footprints; but this is life, unless for change, to

stand in the margins; where freedom’s sore, and lonely kneels,

to stumble upon gold; and then return, a bit refreshed, to

hamper the flippant.     I drift a scar, with cultic eyes, as

innocent as unborn; where many wonder, to know the facts,

of where it was; and this is life, a wounded package, to favor

love; whereat, is there too, to conjure love; and hitherto, a

sullen itch, to enter a kingdom; where pain is ramped, and

rants are silent, and rareness is gem.        

Garnet Scar/Russet Suture

I think of love, knee high in pash, even a youngster.

We died a nightmare, embedded as pretzels,

a two-tier bed. [and] more to beauty, unaware fully,

to desecrate beauty. [and] every song, to stream the

blues, to muse a thong.     I love you more—as

years

break pride, where humans appear.     I fantasize

—to

see for death, if only an increment.     Its flowers and

fevers and favors, wrung dry, to give birth; for life is

cycles, and blatant U-Turns, to shift through traffic;

and oh so tragic, this miracle love, to withhold life;

where pain is grief, and grief is light, to owe you praise.

You never knew, to give for life and scarlet wounds. I

drift the mire, as murky as marsh, to ponder positions.

It’s the wiles of love, and herbaceous plants, the sweat

of ether. We built a tomb, to climb for in, to relish such

death.     It’s a pier of passion, a pregnant gesture,

loaded with fevers; whereat are scars, and terrible

dreams,

a humble salutation.   

Existence Blossoms

We anger gently, to stare for injustice, to gasp and recoil. If only to consume—a measure of light, caressing a petal! It’s more invention, a perfect stature, a bit inhumane; and yet to crave—this very thing, for an imperfect world; if only for greatness, to perish to keep it, to die the holidays.     I barely say it, for such was said: We fumbled in degrees. To sit a screen, and see for

nothing, to ponder a love-one! It’s deep the glass, where some are empty, or filled with Pepsi; and silence the road, an inner chiming, to venture dregs.     I grip cigars, and binge a cycle, to come to terms; and blessed was mother, the richest insights, as crazed a rabies.     We’re more for rabid, something spacial, to guzzle a pill; in which is lightning, the thunder of nuance, a car upon

a sky; and oh to hover, as if a dark cloud, tugging at fears; whereat is liquor—and oh the world, a must rebuke.     We flirted, to feel the passion, to know for flatness; and only rain, and only joys, if measure be life.     I thought for love—and all the years—to gain a piece of self; to see us, striving for normal, affected by gestures; and we know for love, even a courtroom, to play for

jury; where life is love—and steady for moods, to see a human; else for death, to know for strife, to shatter a castle.     We live a bias—along the roads, consuming turmoil. We read it daily, and feel for slanted, to know we yearn. I shift a sullen lot, structured as souls, a shot away suffering; and there for love, an inner sanctum, and chastised dearly.     Its shovels and icy marsh—haunted

by whispers, a bit direct; and whom for thoughts, to utter the storm, to give a hopeful glare?

     This for thought: Who helps the helper?     It’s ever for known—and ever for lived—a bit reciprocal.     I ask to pause, to shift a monad, to reckon a mother; for thoughts are hectic, to toke and tug—and pour and drink—and pop for pills; and this is pain, to refuse a hand, for—“No one

knows!”     I watched and failed and failed and watched, winking at a parachute.     It’s often—this life: ever for torn, even for lonely, staring at a banshee; whereat are scars, and muddy tears, swimming in mire.     I felt it—to flee it—and staring at a mirror; and now for haunted, to rebuke the thought, to feel vibration.     Oh the wildfire, and flippant airs, to function suddenly; and

never for sudden, to drift like petals, the sadness of seeds.     We live it shorn, a lurid sheep, filled with contrasting colors; and love heard, to enter for battle, to reap the grief; but ever this life, to give in silence, to hold for secrets. It’s a bit arcane, the hymn of pearls, a gothic breeze; and love beheld, a blooming flower, to censure a mirror.  

Understanding

I say it counts, to live it freely, aside for thorns. This is riddle, a can’t for spoken, alive and breathless. Oh to carry it, semi-split, and quasi-torn. The day was different, a subtle tare, a need for reach; for lights were dim, to vacuum dreams, to emote joy.     We pace dilemmas, wrapped in tentacles, and scraping ceilings; where to live it—is freely to die it, longing in solitude. I ponder eyes, the walk of tragedy, to muster a smile. They call us curt, short and analytical; for life is dungeons and algorithms and a host of worries; to see it breeding, and bubbling, and dripping from a whetstone. The story is logos, a twofold meaning, to strike a mental match; in which to see it, a string for pathos, and hebetated dearly. Its contradiction, a tear to fall, and feeling through distance; and more to feel, to near a wall, grieving and trekking. 

I say it counts, to die it freely, aside for joys. This is ethos, a must for broken, rising through tests. Oh to bury it, this thought to fathom, to know for indoors. The night is drifting, a shaping glare, a beige mirror. I’m running for heart, in the midst of darkness, reaching for diamonds; and woebegone, a falling contour, to search a moral. This is us, a risk for thoughts, a compassion for souls; where cold is torn, and warm is certain, and found is us.        

Inward Tables

We chat for discreet; and miles apart—to channel an inner phone. I’m quite for taken: to feel for nuance, an inward tunneling; where winds blow, and wolves whisper, and ever with nuance. We thought for low, and felt for five, to struggle for seven; and oh the winds, to christen a soul, to boomerang depression. Its craft and mystery, gods and goddesses, and vessels of wildfire. I know not a name, and more for names, to study for cause and effect. I’m more awake, to receive for gifts, as tangible as inner rollercoasters. The pigeons are silent, to listen to songbirds, sitting for sailing. I know more the music, a vine made of iron, a swan made of flesh; and dance is but a dream, a mixture of tensions, to look and dance regardless; for life is tiptoeing, and dreams are morphing, from dirt to life and then for more. I heard a vision, to nibble a loquat, ten miles further afar; and spirits heard, to shift a frequency, to know for a troubled sea. The ships are swaying, from gray to beige, where teachers nod and psychs scribble. I’m three miles closer, to land upon seven, to read the forecast; and life is hectic, to know for terms, to dream of evenness; for this is art, and even magic, a mystic yogi; where stars are near, to tug and touch, a tad bit terrified; but more to fields, shifting deeper, a castle in a psyche; and more the Twilight, if ever a dream, reaching for a nightmare. I’m soon to drift, to feel for visits, a mnemonic sketch; in which are cries, for screaming justice, to journey inwardly; and something gave, to give for more, afraid to receive; for this is love, and somewhat anonymous, to chant it discreetly. I saw for words, to shift and change, floating upon a graph; where chains shattered, silence spoke, and dreams fevered.  

Our Dearest Swan

Upon a petal, Love; for this is life: to read a leaf, and stare at veins, to die a leaf. I speak of love, a bit weary of love, to feel you growing. The nights are young, the days are young, the pace is young! One should smile, where years compliment beauty, and love is fawning; but learn to envision, to see a castle, drawn on psychic membranes; and see for mother, even a sunflower, fending for a future; where love is painted, and tiles are diamonds and precious stones. We learn to live—and offend for nothing—and givin’ forgiveness; but life is different: a wealth of hurt, a reservoir of pain, christened with joys: the youth of your eyes; the arms of your powers; and the deepest concentration. We often vanish—and play pretend, knee high in quarrels; for love is religious, filled with precepts, and a bit vexed; but know for glory, and know for prayer, and seek communion—the greatest gifts.     Something smiled your name: I turned to see, and a mirror spoke. We danced a tune, to live a tone, to know for treasures.     I hope for growth, and private nuances, to feel for Spirit; and what of chi, the very difference, where the two soar the cities?     I called a dream, and felt for damned, to dress a portrait. It’s shaded blackness, and trickles of sorrow, to break forth in joys; where right is a product of left, and down is the realization of up.     There’s a gift, buried in a swan, to see it as pantomime.     So shovel deeply, for turquoise eyes, as brilliant as brown gems; where life is drifting, to harness mystery, to love a sister; and give her gold, even chants, and laugh and play and cry and live! [for] this is life; and love is turns, to master the edges; and true to heart, is every word, to see you sailing in love.     

Love’s Inquiry

I often speak of love; where love is described; but what for love? It moves a boulder, somewhere a psyche, a subtle suggestion; which morphs into a mountain—afraid to say, “Love”; or more enlove—to say, “Love”—racing through emotions. Oh the boundaries of love; the turbulence of love; to retreat for love. That’s a secret note; to see love spin, and trek patiently; where love evolves, to know for want, to realize nuances; for love is brutal ecstasy, shrouded in vessels, to exhaust but a frame. “I love you through promise.” “I love you through actions.” This is the meaning of, “I love you.”     Love endures; to shower vagueness, where such is detested.     “Tell me now,” we utter; somewhat confused, to share a cup of coffee.     Most want perfection: a giving love; a blind love; a love without boundaries.     It’s quite romantic, and it lives in degrees, to love beyond perspective—but something’s lost, where something’s gained, a delicate tradeoff.     Are we there: gone and crazy, as intimate as chimps, to pardon hurts for love?     Do we give—that very thing—in which we crave?     If so; than this is love: a different frequency, and all consuming, to wrestle for love.     I stand a bit jealous for love; enlove with an ideal, which colors love; for love is a vehicle, to require fluids, to charge for engines; and love is kindness, a showered compassion, a focused attentiveness, where such is unmonitored; and love is debate, honest and pure, where love is accounted for; in which for closeness, a richer us, to invest for years.     We learn of love, even spatial love, to see an individual; where love is frustration, a turn of currents, a shift in personalities; where the old and new alternate.      

If We Knew Her Gaze

It’s sheer energy, a mixture of dispositions, an actress of a woman; but more for lure, as opposed to guile, to cast a net for tugging. We’re flawed and flawless, to hewn a craft, as alive as reciprocation. We pant and pace and play and plough, ever for love. Such portfolios; a mixture of channels, where one loves fervently, and one walks away. Its papers and pens and passions—to jot for prose, enlove with ideals; and more a gesture, to guide a gaze, and gauge a gentle game; where love is kilns, plus, strategic distance, to carve a cautious craving. There’s brighter lights—plus, sophistication, a sly seductress; and still the motions, for subtle slights, seasoned with sensations; and thitherto, a board of chess, where yes is maybe and no is probing. We manicure madness, to scratch for minds, as mixed as mental museums; where tiles are mosaic, and love is masterpiece, and hearts are murals.

            I love to see her, striking a pose, sporting a sexy suit. The heart becomes mobile, to telephone frequencies, standing there in vibrations. We long for myths, a modeled design—to measure the purest game; and what for us, to see such style, and crave exclusivity. Shall we make it; a private perspective, to exercise prowess? I wonder of such craft, willing a wretched soul, as close to pain as eyelashes; in which is knowledge, a sullen wisdom, to read the daily events; for this is love, a tub of oils, and three petals.  

The Maze of Love

We love this thing called love, a vault of emotions, leaking through crevices; forever to need it, else for weary, to flirt at unawares. We, too, are immune to love, to gather love, to live it a bit torn. If only to know love, sheltered in a soul, to favor souls. We give with distance, ever to ask, “Are you worthy of love; and Would you cherish love?” I speak for love, twisted for distorted, a product of love: ever for stripped, a naked love, running through the vineyards; and there is love—a crying love, a joyful love; where love is aggravated, and love is hostile, and love is delicate. Watch for love, counting petals, to sprinkle upon satin sheets; and love lives, if only to die, to rebirth love. I feel for love, traveling afar, a bit of an outcast; for love is light, and misunderstood, to shine through darkness; and love is rich, in a violent world, to give for love. We thirst for love, to abuse love, and cherish love. It’s twofold, a living paradox, to control love; but love is free, ever for leaping, landing in the midst of love. Love seeks for love, ever to speak it, this thing called love. I know for love, the onus of love, to carry a paradox; and this for love, and love for love, and love and shame; but art to give, the pain of love, to believe in a precious love; where love is shameless, and strictly pure, expressed through humans. Can we see through love, the spark of human hands, to claim the richest love. How could it be other—than that that we are, where love is reflection; but there’s a love, a grounded love, as heavy as, Love; where ours is us, and love is speckled—and riddled with a sullen yearning; for love is captured, the dungeons of love, for love to give freely; and this is love, to welcome for torn, a welkin love. 

Flaming Moon

Untuck a feeling—a Gordian knot—ever this pressure; for the mind’s a Bugatti, racing and pausing, and shattering light lamps; and ever to wake up, from dot to dot, to be there—anon. The scent was amber—the lather was rose, to bathe in deception. I couldn’t for see, to feature a crystal, a gammon of meditations. Oh the entities—afraid to speak it—to awaken a system; and oh the pressure, a Gordian knot, to untuck a feeling. We spoke of art, closely aloof, to measure a heartland. I awoke in rhythm, to enter while sleeping, centered for spellbound. The moon was stalking, in view for essence, a margent of the future. We laughed to see it, a set of strangers, to search no further; and ever to search, to live it froward, to feel it clamor. Such was midnight, to regroup at dawn, sitting and sipping silence. It was cozy a scar, to outwit patience, as fervid as a gaze; and eyes would gloss, a fever of activity, to stumble from pash; where sweat arose, even an odor, a taste of sinning. I captured a fib, to claim for balance, to draw us closer. Oh the fibers, as silken as forbidden, a mirage of serpents. We tried for earnest, and far too shy, to recapture the dawn. Oh so heated for sight, to see for excellence, a dragon to a rose; in which for passion, a mare to gallop, a fetching vision. We churned and tore time, lost in memories, where tears trickled; for what was real, to make it so, a sun to a daisy; and slain in parts, a future to a spider, to know for days; and now for painting, to summons words, to capture essence; where love is living, a touch of religion, as fulgent as rustic landscapes. We stumbled to it, an inrush of cities, flooding and fleeing a soul; and now a web, even a trespass, to gaze upon grace.

Psychic Painting

It’s a quilt of this love, to fall emotions, a woodblock life; and this is portals, to shatter inhibitions, to utter—“I need you”; for cut for scars, an invisible wound, captured in countenances; and oh the visual, for subtle vision, to reach forth a hand; in which is love, a non-stop video, to vanish blossoms; where hope is textile arts, and marble angst, a template for love.

     We passion through abstracts, to fish for concretes, to die through climaxes.     How to critique, a veiled gesture, a craft for geniuses?     We perish a thought, to walk a tear, to bounce the contrast; where life is color, and wheels of frustration, an inward collage.     There’s less to crave, to opt for love, as naïve as rabbits; where caves are speaking, and knees are weak, and mothers warn; in which is growth, and armoire dreams, to scribble calligraphy; for bridges are brushing, to paint a fortress, a mind of artworks.

     We’re animated, a subtle hue, a vocal silence; and high for nights, to live graffiti, to glaze a glass; for deep the scribe, a gallery of gust, to cuss for dreams; for this is love, a gliding gown, a gentle gesture; and god flared, a fever of fights, wrapped in hormones; for friction dwelled—the depth of caves, filled with fresco drawings.     We court exhibition, to exhibit love, to feel embraced; and slightly vanished, to repeat the night, to enamel an orgasm; where hush is love, and love is rush, to erase the tension.

     How to depict it, a deadly design, to draw an emotion; where hearts are bold, the oils of paint, an old art; and god heard, the goddess call, a mural on a wave. 

We Paint it in Essence

Oh for mercy—to see it breathe,—this life called love.

Such undertones—for floral petals—a trumpet’s echo!

Its porcelain bouquets, where vows are

     masterpieces,—shadowed in velvet aches; for love

     is kilns—through concrete gestures, fevers

     forevermore.

Oh for heart-caves—to feel the furnace,—a portrait

     upon a mind-graph, ever an art gallery.

Calligraphy paints a sky. Murals imprint souls. The

     earth is photos.

Oh for violet dreams, sprinkled through regions—

     buried in the spirit of excellence.

Such ecstasy: to trickle through a fountain; to know for

     iron-wills.    

I Love Us! Written to the song “Here”: by Alessia Cara

We live and laugh and lust and play; and more this life, this grandeur, this village of pistols; and more his eyes—to speak his heart—a partial psychopath; but aren’t we all, cased in music, and taking notes.     I remember for secrets, and “Bet not tells!” and a hell of visions; for there were ghosts, to exit his soul, and phantom eyes.     I cry this fever, to tap for in, to lie for happiness; and act as if; and daughter moved, and father jolted, a series of chides…and what was it, to finally shift, to seal analysis…for something feels, beyond emoted, to fall his lot…and where for light, a walking wraith, to meet for kinds; and power shared, and power gained, to give more power.     I see a woman, to protect what’s hers, and damn good at it; but there are cries, to whelm a soul, to strike a flame; and god came, to climb a tree, to get perspective; in which were hearts, and triple beats, to infuse for wrong.     This is love; and ever to want; and ever to have; where purple is scars, and thoughts that follow, to usher a locomotive; but what for her eyes—for something lives, even hypnosis.     I must envision, and stream a ghost, even a kindred soul; but what for grandeur—to live it and perish, to speak to self?     I ask—longing and living and quite for distant.     I know the motive, to die a spaceship, to watch for Jones’ Town…and this is life, to buy for sale…to guard a daughter; and what for this, to wrestle and losing, to believe for winning?     This is us: somewhat anti; and this is us: somewhat cutthroat; for life is struggle, to meet for wise, to want to unravel; and love is blind, a ride of grandeur, to paint a perfect smile; and must to know, the way we love, fully a portrait; to see for arms, and give for arms, to see right through it; in which is love, to take a hand, to see it worldwide…I love us!         

Scar-born

We speak freedom gently; to salvage sanity; to sterilize wounds; and heaven deigned, for scar-born us, to chisel the flame. It burns internally, a fever through caves, the waves of nearly gone; but Christmas came, and private eggnog, to awaken heavily.     I searched a picture, and tucked it afar, to sip through the heaviness. Memories came, to tussle through convictions, to settle a hopeless mess.     I wait the given, to lose and receive, to watch for ink bleeding; for this is soul, the ink of the Gentiles, as thorough as mind-caves.     I wait the wraith, to exit a mirror, and tug an earlobe; and hitherto, the days are cultured, a vat mining spirit; where something found, speaks for webs, to charge an engine; and there is life, a feature insane, as alive as breath-beats.

We’re scar-born, swimming through malaise, a bit unaffectionate; and oh it came, to see ourselves, yearning for affection…but did we see it, a mirror we loved, refusing us access? Did it shift a soul, where demons arose, a metaphor for thoughts? I ask to know, a tad bit shy about it, to ponder the a.m.     Something’s askew: to want and never give; to suffer and never die; to hurt and not want it back!     Let us not drift; seeing for peering, and peering for seeing; where grass is greener—a fresh pair of lenses—and tree-sap is wafting gently.   

We Must for Waves

I feel it this river, a bit sullen—attached, a flickering wick.     The night is sad, the wine is gone, and I must watch this mirror.     There’s a ghostly childhood, a rocky adulthood, and periodic fevers.     I trek a railroad, to gather iron, to carry a life-load; where all are victims; and all are giants, to balance out blessings; but truth is gold, a swan for visions, a bit esoteric; and baby’s thumb, to print a brain, a touch for psychedelic.     I love in absence, to love in presence, to plant for seven seeds.     The days were green and aqua blue, a teddy for a tear; and when mother smiled, I saw for ghosts, to read a map.     I’m off the scale, to fit a tornado, a silent ostrich; and mind to war, and war to mind, to climb a phantom.     I love her like candy, and tic-tac-toe, to journey a gaze; where all is chess, and vest scars, and sacred motion; for this is life, and holy sessions, to feel it and dance; in which is love, a featured graph, to know for not; whereat is chaos and butterflies and ladybugs and dreams.     I must return—to a beige swan, to live in between; and I must return—to a flaming furnace, a girl’s eyes; and yes for bold, a phantom for a muse, and ever for love.     We fever the night, and steam for days, as gray as a first thought.     I love her swimming, and flowing freely, and freely flying; where spirits fawn, and chant through brows, and beige as said swan.     I know for hearts, to spin a net, to capture souls; and all for love, to feel and perish, to perish and feel; whereby a wave, even a storm, to boomerang a heart.

     We must for stars, to climb for winds, two destined for wings; or maybe return, to a cozy cloud, to dream for countenance; and more again, to grin and smile, gripping a wounded lamb.      

     I drift to touch—a golden seed, afflux a web; and that is life, to bump a curb, spinning dimensions; and god heard, to chant a verb, as stormy as silence.  

Labyrinth Born

All praises due! and Your insignia, Lord!

I’m spent for sails, aloft an ocean, to wrestle Poseidon.     I’m lost and found, adrift for clouds, to rustle your smile.     I never heard it, to feel it deeply, a vest of passions; and god knew, for princess’ eyes, and hazel mood-dreams.     We never loved, to know for love, a city of wilderness; for this is life, to channel forever, to feel departures.     I’m barely here, a landmark fallin’, as grim as gothic; for tears are down, to touch for carpet, a squirrel for dins.     We chase and dance, to wonder of chi, to hit for hearts.     I know for you, a silent rhythm, to infuse a heart; and this is love—to never see—a fleeing vehicle; and corner to corner, to barely see, a woman for terror; and still to chase—a locomotive, fallin’ for rising.     I wish for goods, a day for twelve, as alive as penguins; in which are tears, and haven smiles, to see a human.     I barely could, a vault of dreams, to see addiction; where god knew, for faint returns, to plummet mother; and more to mourn, to see her crying, alive and dead.     Where was it; this thing of love; for a broken woman?     I scream to feel it, a park of dolphins—alive a fantasy; and mother died, to fend for bills, as cold as icicles.     I remember rain and pain and constant scrapes—to see for callous and stoned, a wealth of liquor.     We perish so gravely, to rise in pictures, a woman as a cyclone; for hell was near—a need to challenge and die the same; where death is growth, a seed of feelings, as beige as, I love you.     I type to see it, a force of fathers, gathered at the creeks; and more to flight, to love a ghost, as here as nowhere.     I love it—this life, as bold as prophecy; in which for troubles, a vest of woes, unless for accuracy; whereby the nights, a silent prayer, a noetic wave; for this is life, to feel for thoughts, aloft a labyrinth.    

Merry Xmas

There’s caroling all through the house. The birds are chirping, singing of joy.

We know for others, the tints of love, to feather an earlobe. The tree is

evergreen, filled with ornaments, for a season of promise. The poodle is

silent, attempting to see color, eager to go to Petco. With such abandon,

wrapping paper is torn asunder. We think of eggnog; we set the turkey; and

watch as smiles paint heaven. It’s a mystical wealth, a touch of fairytale,

as tangible as a poodle’s kiss. There’s something different, a vocal glow, to

promise something mythic; in which are walnut pies, and pecan Fridays,

where children run wildly. Parents swoon gently; to receive such warmth,

to see such bliss. The house is jubilant; to sprinkle tears, as fervent as

furnaces. Its sheer amazement, to break a candy cane, to hug a sister; and

boys wrestle, to trade for gifts, a suited negotiator. Breakfast is quite vast:

biscuits and bacon and sausage and eggs and jam and jelly and stars upon

trees. Mother—with a halo, dances to hymns and homilies. Father—with a

halo, chases for sport. There’s for hugs and kisses and tugs and wishes—to

live it like a Sunday. There’s for faith and prayers and grace and love; for

moments become immortal; in which for consciousness—the psalms of

David; to know for others, and know for self, a need for silence! 

Pottery Faith

Let that be for reason, to die multiple lives; and god heard, for a goddess stood, to judge a cycle.    

     I couldn’t stop, for driven deeply, to churn a nightmare; where women fled, and acid burned—the depth of a soul.     I knew for grandma, and such was dignity, to yearn for praise; where life was green, and death was myth, to feature the madness.     I sit with joy, even a smile, to die 9/11; and what for smiles, to cry and live, where thousands grieve; but this is life, to win to lose, captured at a red light.     We know for hate, to feel for hated—a mirror at an orange light. 

     I scream it torn, to die a psych, to know for this life; and god heard, for a goddess stood, to judge a cycle.     Tell me, “Love”; and tell me, “Life”; and tell me, “God.”     The days are visions, to try to live, a monk through a city; so more is pain, to feature thoughts, a pint for laughing.    We never could, and never would, to feel for pity; and oh to god, the deepest scar, to see for mother; and there you stood, a woman my age, shoving disrespect; where purple grew, a dream of dreams, and passion grew.     I laugh and mourn; a storm of souls, to yank and pull life.

     We die to live, plotting and scheming, to forge a family.    So more a truth: the real for the unreal, to settle in realness.      I love to see it, a person as me, shoveling snow; where five is ten, and ten is life, to catch a greyhound.     It’s more a riddle, for those made privy, to live it and die.

     We love with reason, a season for a falcon, to write and fall; in which is love, a creative vision, a teacher as a muse.     I love for thoughts, to hear for words, a lecture through a soul; and god heard, for a goddess stood, to judge a cycle; where heaven broke, to fill for souls, to love in silence; for this is wind, a treble beat, the temple of sorrows.   

To Tug a Texture

We live it torn, and ever for amends, to receive parts of mercy; but

damned be clear, as not to give, a part of mercy.

I see it in rills, the coldest chills, to hear for disrespect; and mother

called, the grandest scar, aloof and yelling. It’s a shorn disposition;

to hate and love—a caress with splinters.

Here’s a crayon; and here’s a memory; a childhood Disney; where

hell broke free, a father’s inferno—fraught with drugs.

I died to see it—and colored with pencils—a mosaic platform; in

which for deaths, and small enclosures, to scrape a brain; for

mother cried, where heaven paused, and never the same; for power

is rich, a mixture of medias, either for left or right.

I feel a daughter, as clear as gardens, to sketch a picture.      I see

a web, as muddy as ponds, to thwart a soul; where visions form,

and storms rustle—the leaves of a conscience.    

Secondary Utterances

Its abstract lives, featured in concrete, to muse the architecture.

Its acrylic tears and animation to believe in closure; for life is

airbrushed, a gallery of hurt, an assemblage of mercenaries;

where to perish, a thumping heartbeat, to feel her and stumble.

I knew for mercy, to receive it not, to greet an auxiliary; whereat

was death-work, a platform of tracks—a woman with child.

The faces moved, stippled in portraits, blending my heart-mare;

and love heard, for silent screams, to awaken such artwork.

Bridges are rising, speaking calligraphy, a canvas for a cartoon;

for neither sees, the fresco clay, thumbing ceramics; and never for

us—and ever for us, to run away gently; in which are scars, and

tattooed weapons, to mourn through flesh.     We felt to love, or

something thereto, casting stones; and oh examples—and burning

hearts, featured in concrete; where wine is good—to measure

flame, a temple in a psyche; and this is love, to give for rope,

to piecemeal graffiti.     It’s ever there, a steaming coal, to press

upon lips; and this for colors, to grab for chalk, and outline self; for

wilted tulips, sit a grave, a collage of life; where blotches speak, a

broken compass, to contrast our lives; in which is struggle, and

sore for difference, to know she ran the gambit.        

Poke-a-dots

We loved for seasons, enough to live life, enough to opt for something different; where some may love, to find for solace, we turned up a nose.     It’s something difficult; to spread for thin, where love halts its destination; for this was us, lost for lonely, open to alternatives; where some have not, the grandest perspective, as grandiose as, I can’t; and this is living, to know for choices, as free as Rihanna.     We never would, to feign we should, as distant as lovemaking; but not for all, for something’s there, a fragment of a self; in which are spurts, to shelter pride, where both forsook a universe.     We lived for arms, and lied for love, to rebuild from wounds; and love us more, to birth a child, and flee into a city; but what for art, a tragic tale, as tall as Zeus; in which is fear, the theft of self, to sit in silence.     I hope it stood, as stalwart as trees, to withstand the winds; for if for bane, than life is torn, a falcon to pavement; for vultures came, to pierce the flesh, to watch for death; but this is life, to kill and laugh, a bit metaphorical.     We love in grief, fresh from love, where neither gripped the rope; and thus a cliff, to pardon breath, the kef of danger.     I love you less, to love you more, a silly resistance; where friction dwells, to lecture love, an adjunct life.     We perished scenes, to reckon Shakespeare, a Rembrandt ache; where death is good, to reckon self, a spear to a soul.     I’m more asunder, to find for love, a bit religious.     They say it spiritual, to offset rules, where pain is segue. So more to love, to reach a cloud, fallin’ through billows; for this a ruse, and never seen, a women’s kimono; where great is heart, a treble beat, the tempo of crazy.     So earth is sun, where sun is life, sweating through scratching; in which is pain, a woman’s eyes, to know for sacrifice.    

Swan Wings

Must we feel this moment—to live this moment—or act as if this moment? It’s a combination of moments, found in this moment.     There’s a chimney filled with smaze, a trope for souls; where shovels dig, to sort the soot, a legend for eternity.     I feel her watching, even a swan, and slightly agitated. She wants for harmony, to never see tears, to heal for souls; in which is pureness, shadowed in naivety, to journey this world; for words are motion, channeled with grace, where often tears trickle—and as for beauty; but maybe more, she yearns for pureness, even tears parted in rubies; whereat are smiles and handkerchiefs and bubbles made of diamonds. I kneel for this wealth; but more to see, a sudden shift, stationed in serenity; where motives pierce—in favor of peace, to change a culture; in which are stars, for spacial dreams, to wrestle intentions.     It’s not for stress, but rather blessings, to get beyond acting; for rarely we capture—a treasured sensation, unless for young—unless through actions; for often the seas are still, a feeling for stagnant, to act as if.     In acting—we find motion, to generate feelings, to tiptoe symbols; and that for acted, becomes that for truth, a station to act as if.     This speaks not of some, to speak of all, where some live for moments; to be there, in that moment, to respond without acting; where moments wither, to act as if, frightened of hebetation; but rarely the young, unless for training, where normal is acting (to act as if); or rather acting is normal (to feel as if), to bury a person, for something is lost.     This for dreams, where normal becomes a sense of low, unless for acting; whereat are notions, to mix the bowels of normal, to maintain balance; else for slanted, forever an act, a loss of authenticity; unless for this, a grand thought: acting is authenticity.     I leave it to a swan to sort through the properties.           

This Moment in a Picture

We reason through legends, to gather for reason—our prowess in a kettle.     I found for reason—her soul, frantic over reason.     The years enfold, to feature legends, living through our reason. 

I so much this feeling, for often this feeling, a need to rev a psyche; for soul is willing this feeling, a picture in a kettle; wherefore are images, to grow for limbs, to walk forth.     Weren’t we in a kettle, tucked in an attic, befriending mice?     It’s merely pictures, even a mirage, to suggest for pain tucked away; and to this end—was I born, for freedom barred in aluminum.

     There’s for miles between us, and merely miles, and never our Mass—and never our dreams; but there’s for mining, sorting through soot, as severe as blackdamp.     How long such as death; to sickle imagination, to count the branches?     They gave yarn to a kitten; where said kitten—was occupied for a time; but pondered the kitten, a box outside, and so went the yarn.     We search this box, to search this feeling, as curious as kittens—yearning to go outside.     Is it our nature; forever looking through windows; warm for a summer breeze?

     There’s an engine revving his heart; and there’s friction revving his soul—to give for buoyancy; there’s impending waves, pressing pressure privately—for whom to feel—ever this feeling; where bars fashion dungeons—ever to break free—where moments torture peace—and dungeons breed—featured in bars;

     but the sun rises, to settle upon vision, to devastate perception; where evergreen is lived, and poems are sung, for brilliance—this feeling; where the goddess breathes, to fashion life, as beige as integrals; in which for passions, this in-between, this fervent feeling; for the goddess lives, semi-inflated, and quasi this feeling; where wealth is flux, a touch of grim, to seize the moment. 

Family

I think of family; we’re a bit off keel; grieving in worship; and oh the giant, to pardon gods, streaming for justice.     We live it torn, forever wheezing, to grab a stiff drink.     I think of aunties, to carry the burden, alive a nightmare.     I love us more, and ever for distance, to mourn a cousin; for vowels were made, to strike renege, from morning to moonlight.     I can’t for live it, to know for mother, to strangle a neck.     I love you more, to know a legacy, to ask for blessings.     We die so often, to resurrect, reading Revelation; and ghost be heard, to fathom grandma, a woman of stature.     I know for pain, to lose a sister, an aunty for a child.     We want for more, and ever to settle, to wonder of God.     I know for Alpha, and even for Peggy, a fleet of giants; for mother would brag, to feel for Spirit, a life in webs.    It’s more theology, and more philosophy, to know for grief.     I love us born, that sacred moment, and even a secret.     I can’t for cry, to know for hurt, a child in a carriage; and many watch, to plead the rain, a gift to a toddler.     To speak of self: we love us more, a tear in a bassinet; for life was given, to strike a match, a flicker of fireworks.     My dearest aunty, the days have mourned, to know for Edith; and truth to heart, the pain is grand, a thought upon windmills.     It’s deep the blood, the secrets of us, the light of darkness.     Know for love, a torn event, to see you and panic.     I think of Bill, a hardened eye, to cringe a soon return; but this is life, to scrape the graves, to pray for souls.     The nights are you, my dearest cousin, to know for mercy; where love is tears, to see returns, an aunty you loved.     I’m more for faithful, a silent cure, to stream a curse.  

Fever Born II

I know you wonder—of Chinese food, to venture spicy.     We die a rhythm, to live a cave, a slave of feelings.     I hate the fraction, to mourn the ceilings, to see for madness.     Oh for intimacy, to want for perfect, to ask for life!     We cringe to read, a vest of troubles, where a swan grieves.     Try to see me, a ghetto child, forever suffering; where demons call, to break for bottles, to face the heartless.     I love you free, a spot upon stage, a silent sorrow; in which are veils, to stagger and live, a source for fevers.     I gave and died, where pressure builds, to wreck for peace.     If only a grant, to soar through cities, to claim for Paris; for love is green, to mourn for claret, to run for hell; whereat are facts, to grieve a soul, to puncture a lung.     I felt your pain, to know for secrets, to feel a carriage; where daughters cry, and more to laugh, to grow resilient; but feel for hearts, as wild as foxes, as bold as lions; whereas for death, a silent voice, drowned in liquor; where god knew, to flee a fortress, to see for lovers.     I know not—for density, to know for measures—a crowded shelter; to see for life, and groan deeply, to carry a monster.     I love you free, and more so freely, to give a child; and not for me, to see us rumble, to feature a wound.     I ask for reason, the signs of hell, to grieve grandparents; where life is shadowed, to burn to fly, to level at a four.     Does it kill, to feel for rain, a notch above dying?

     I ask—and not for pain, but rather for truth; in which are vessels, to crush passions, buried in therapy; and god knew, a solemn goddess, bent through hells.     I crave love, a midnight talk, to question anger.     It’s not for guile, to feel a princess, nearly jaded; and what for life, to live and die, crowned with darkness?     

Inward Trekking II

Dear for God; and ever to want her, a bit space-shy.     I feel for welter, that’s turmoil, a siren in a forest.     I watch her naked, a pristine jewel, to bless the soul.     The nights are moonstruck, to feel for pain, and jotting lines; where death is sweet, to walk the day, a bit confused.     We held records, and do not calls, even a broken email; for this is silver, to yearn for gold, even a woman’s womb; and life be green, a henna scar, to grog a falcon.     I heard for rain, to swoop for comfort, the grit of lions.     We died to live, as low as pebbles, as wet as sediments; for this is love, even for poetry, as gracile as beauty; and not for size, for women rule, to usher a president.

     This is passion, to love like breath, to glean from salvaged; and god fled, to comfort self, through a genteel woman.     I watched her, spinning for calm, to give a lecture; and space be gone, to like and lust, a living jewel; for this is havoc, a febrile passion, as hectic as, “good morning.”     Can they feel it, a subtle burn, churning a nightmare?     I know for earnest, the dint of love, where neither can; for this is life, even a daymare, to hold a pail of air.     Nary a soul—fathoms this love, and ever afraid!     I called a priest, to speak of rain, and heaven beckoned.

     She spoke of death, the constant number, driven to exile; and tension built, the deepest want, to tell her for love; but silence rules, a cult of sadness, the extent of pressure; where god stood, ere a goddess, to claim for coward; and love died, a church of hells, a woman to lust; for this is heart, a pillow for a dungeon, a window for a youngster.     Its quantum leaps, for legend gripes, to push past climax; and a goddess knew, to still approach, and sort the madness.     This is myth, and living live, a piece of passion; where art is law, and law is dirge, a longing song.         

We Found It Wasn’t Our Wants

I love you with reservations; to see you reserved, for reservation was shown.     We’re attached to a notion, even a pit, afraid to crawl out.     We speak a language, where abyss dwells, to cross- pollinate.     You live psychology, to be for crazed, a sight unseemly; where tears rinse—a savage soul, to caption feelings.     We stalk a forest, alive anxiety, to send a mixed-message.

     There’s a circus, to mimic this life, to conjure at a bookstore.    You threw the fire, even a ball, to clear for darkness.     I lost for living, to live for lost, and found at a portal.    

Petals are falling, to claim disaster, and love is searching.     I have for life, a field of fractures, to mourn a first encounter; where art is pressure, a vessel for storms, a subtle charm; in which for flame, a hectic paradox, alive at both ends; and there for reason, the belle of prose, pushing through gates. I walk afar, to see for scars, an angel in a sullen suit. We perish slightly, for held in arms, to refuse our nature; for this is poetry, ever to want—and receive for empty; whereat is wisdom, a bird to gesture, as loud as grace.

I love you grinning, where hell has beckoned, to sear a soul; wherefore is grit, the courage of love, and ever to want; where death is glory, a backward season, to read an angel’s map.       

Inward Trekking

Light illuminates love; to fathom darkness, to discern for natures.     We love the swan, as calm as lizards, as swift as wands.     Our love is thunder, pregnant with admiration, as fanwise as windmills.     We live so seldom, enlove with seldom, with contrite souls.     We fathom nature, a twofold reality, warm with sensations.     Has she courted darkness, to mingle with light, an attempt to be, Yahweh? I ask—sighted dearly, a noetic slant; where stars are dreams, stationed in space, for invisible pillars; in which to float, the very nature, screaming for earth.     We flurry Neptune,

to flame through

Venus,

as alive as arcane visions; for this is width, the breadth of sadness, as argent as swords.    I feel you more, where something fractured, to rebirth in pureness.     You reckon me mean; even an arrant fool, as vague as azure; but this was love, for solemn vowels, where hell shattered ambitions; and now for death, our sorest potion—and lying in stillness; where chants erupt, to fashion fevers, a gift to a friend; but know for joy, to stand the light, where mothers breathe; for this is turf, a woman’s heart, sprinkled with fertilizer.     Have you not heard,—of a woman’s power,—a medieval mystery?     Its love and death, for a capstone Bard, as chic as literature; and still for styles, to pave cobblestones, sipping a claret wine; where tears trickle, to blemish ink, as coquette as happiness.     We love this, to love for that, as attached as winds; and who for we, but inner chambers, a woman’s voice, ever to alternate?          

Motion Through Spirit

I feel you, and need to say more, where more is a burden; and still for more, a valley in Kanye, a Kardashian spectacle; and more to fly, to grieve and die, a flux in frequencies.     Are eyes low, the feel of heavy, a reluctant tear? I’m something there, to wonder for why, to fathom literature; and must for digress, to capture sanity, a wheel in a circle.     The tides are shifting, to fall your lot, to dig deeper; and psychs are watching, even therapists, to sing of glory; where all is rain, the shame of years, the peers of ghosts. I write for smiles, to live for smileless, if but a moment.

     Is it hurtful, to stream a melody, to think for senseless?     I ask—to mimic life, to wonder of pressures.     It’s more an ache, to cross for souls, to ponder mothers.     It was near surreal, a captive mind, to stream innocence.     I saw it there, buried in shame, a product of childhood; and through a heart, to know for love, a valve in a soul; where faces grieve, and filled with joy, a tragic mixture; for life is vague, to shovel a way, to die the nuances; and this is pain, to live deceit, staring at crystal eyes.     I try to walk, and pulled for in, to wonder of why.     Are the stars different, a bit elusive, and prone to spaceless?     I ask—a bit confused, to float a kite—if only to disappear; for gray are clouds, a vessel in a beat, to ponder for how.     Do I live for there, a treble beat, even a boomerang; for art is passion, a secret world, privy to your pain?     I asked not, to receive more, to live vaguely; and more to life, to live a fever, a mixture of the two.     You live it green, but analytical, where love is gray.     I know not a solution; to want for difference, where neither can; and this is love, a shadow in a vase, to speed for slowly.              

Psychic Hymn

Forever, my love; this frying vibration, to awaken a soul’s breath. It’s ever this love, as wild as back-flips, to leap without a net. Its zenic this art, to communicate afar, to become purple. We pardon grays, engraved in woodblocks, as vetted as memoirs. We broke the margins, a home upon gravel, but still a whirlpool.     I often trespass, the fleece of genius, swollen with pressure—the particles of pain; for a concert of rages, the faces of phantoms, to see you explaining. We chant a verse, as not for us, to usher a tsunami; but rather a chant, as single souls, the heart’s concert. I love you rested, to conquer trials, a rising myth; and more to love, for tremors felt, a dream for a woman.

Forever, my love; this frying vibration, to awaken a soul’s breath. I reckon a mare, to wrestle tares, as fevered as flares. Oh the founts, a subtle gash, to vibrate a nib; and oh the drums, a favored love, to see you explaining. We’re born to thorns, a son of suns, the prose a velvet rose; and god stood, to forests fanes, a passage for a Pharaoh. I love of yore, for multiple lives, a banshee in an attic; and swivet the love, a swallowed sky, to ski sacred stars; and how to function, in such for presence, as sudden as, “good-morning”; for love is moments, for joyous sadness, to capture this nuance; where god beheld, a treasured friend, a hymn through a pearl.          

Psychic Wetlands

Never the a.m. […] and ever the a.m. […] sipping to ponder your name. I reread three poems, ensconced deeply, a fever in a fire, to feel for segments; and less the comfort, and more the vision, to speak a soul…and was it you? […] a feather in a wing, a noetic friend. Oh for thetic dreams, a thesis is a library, a poem through a heart. Its melic soul-beats, and a.m. lights, to nurture a phantom. Its kith for dreams, to unfrock the darkness, a bit unfledged; for ghosts are knocking, to spark a taper, trekking through wetland; and all for psyches—to journey a brain, the sad tiers of gladness; and more the tavern-keepers, a bit emboldened—to trespass an inner chamber. We feel the ploughman—for deep the fields, and chopping wood. It’s all for ritual, to exert the soul, to channel chi; and god for there, to visit a heart, to whisper a voice—inside a brain. I died the distance, to dread for outcomes, to never see eyes; and Havasu Falls, a turn for difference, to speak the pain. I fumble this word, to feel for granted, the depth of such words. They link us tightly, a B-Complex, a social vitamin; where love is present, albeit denied, the reach of expression; for this is life, to want through pressures, and never receive; but not for all—for some for reach, despite the banshee’s of minds. We pant and paint, the rustic wants—afraid of cities; and this is oath, the want of rain, if fair the balance; but never would, to cross a love, as sunlit as skies. I know for anger, a fulgent light, an inrush of life; where bonds perish, to grip perception, as biblic as Hebrews; but this is grains, and threshing roots, as wild as, I Love you; but more to life, and stippled passions, forgiving friends; in which is love—for churning seasons, the legends of valleys.      

14 Lines of Something Akin To Love

Remember the first touch; and oh so sick, to play for parts. I couldn’t laugh, and must to laugh, to hear a voice. We chatted a portrait, to dream forever, as cold as icicles. I’m now for love, twenty years late, to crawl a maze; and must to shift, as warm as doctors, as stern as surgeons.

I couldn’t find you, to sort the years, a private practice; and cells screamed. I wrote in haste, filled for anger, to mention indiscretion. [But what for touch, to see for yelps, a rootless love].

What is real, aside for hells, to comfort the pressure? Maybe so; a cryptic world, where love is disrespect; and maybe so, a mystic bond, where love paints illusions; for this is rain, a restless zeal, to feel for deeper; where shallow is scared, and love is hidden, to pardon the friction.

Forgive the waves; but never for us; where death took precedence—to love for seashores; and art flourished, to feel for pain, as if alone; but never this choice, and ever this choice, a silent voice.

I see you my stars; scarred and deaf—for love is brilliant—a torn concept—where torn is love and love is torn; and God knows; we’re living to churn, and feel for life—a moment in a vase.

I remember a moment—to finally meet you—and torn asunder. It couldn’t be death: a second in for heat, nearly abandoned; and God knows—for a good person, nearly abject.     

River Mind

Oh for Kanye, to see for love, to set for examples; and oh for Lana, to see for fevers, to torch for love.     I’m spinning and dying and teary through a storm. The hells visit, to sip and dip and die and live. This is magic, for pictures broken, to love a first born. The lights are yellow, for pure fear, and psychs in the background. I feel it beating, a torn lockdown, to sit a cell; and god knew, to search a heart, to love a rose; and love died, to birth a jewel—and hating me sorely; for life is green, a not to know, where friction grieves.     I love for essence, a bit for shook, to speak of Mobb Deep; but not for panic, but ever for love, a turn for intimate; in which is life, the lines of words, to feather a memory; where heart is grand, to rapture a swan, to filter a mother; and yes it works, to tour forgiveness, to shed for light.     I watch for sadness, as tore as love—when hell broke free.     We tether a feeling, a bit unfree, and yearning for freedom.     I concentrate, to feel for eyes, to drive a soul; where feelings rule, to roam the shadows, as brilliant as street lights.     I feel a soul, nearly stranded, enlove with the future. We mingle and move, to die through liquor, enlove with a goddess.     Oh for fairness, and long legs, and the danger of breasts.    It’s more the tears, and more the flings, to see for bouncing rivers.     Indeed for resting and looking afar, a crow in a closet; for this is life, to see you in nightmares, as rich as pulsation.     I’ve been loving you, through broken vibes, to finally enter; and this is death, for love is free, a passing passion; but ever this more, to want for privilege, a fool in a village; and god heard, to spread for rain, and trigger a pull back; where essence grew—a soon return, a jester in the courts.