Rosary Swan Lake

I get rawness, lost and screaming, studying damsel flies: this cry through darkness, this heart as pumping, this fear as inverted: our last rounds, our inner guns, this large participation: those butterfly veins, those leafy veins, this mongoose race—as racy souls, to regurgitate life, to resuscitate deaths: this gremlin face, this mulatto’s blood, this albino’s wisdom: to course through dungeons, alive with fire, and fluxing through vestibules: this bright-death soul, this light-breath troll, our years to reminiscing upon pain: to hate with venom, to rob our legacy, to mirror our appraisals: this small vehicle, as testing knowledge, this field of Mahayana maniacs: this entering monk, this full pledged monster, this gut discerning between energies—as built through stress, this palm of insects, this Japanese Red Swan: our black guts, this sudden feeling, this mystic bewilderment.  I’m struck with kindness, this telic leviathan, while chasing iconic ideals: this lovely woman, our lovely aches, this motion that dazzles: if but to die, this palm reaching, this hunter too dismal: our addict inheritance, to ponder so coldly, while to seek in every household: those steep ridges, this bridge to China, this assault upon Africa: this Rose Royce, this internal psalm, our knuckles bleeding white magic: indeed, Love, this killing insistence, this inner bribery, this session in golden deaths: our brains railing, our tracks crawling, this world of seahorses: (this brilliant diamond, this achy fly, these morphing  alchemies: to become with passion, to laugh this glorious tear, this man distorted: as never for pleasure, as more this academic, this metaphysical tune moon): this autumn yogi, this tale as unspoken, this van as Illuminati: our creeks weeping, our brains chalking, this outline walking: that like this, or this like that, while mother chokes bleeding this assassination: where dreams are sold, as children confess, this bleak disagreement: if but to live, this rapping enterprise, this freaky R&B, this blue jazzy execution: our minds, Love, this place I dwell, to cut greens boiling intelligence.  Its difficult arcs, and difficult hearts, this space in atmosphere: this swagger, this cautious night, this snap while pulling by dungeons: this summer mother, this winter goddess, this sameness as screaming our identities: this beautiful otherness, this have-not curse, this living as born to explode—those crazy thoughts, that scientific gravity, this God as splattered upon kaleidoscopes—this Jewish woman, this old professor, this tale as lives become evidence: this infraction, our daily curses, this thirst for witness-ship.  I gravel Panama, staring into this capagen, at love with primatology—this grammar problem, this black man, this ideological warfare: this woman laughing, this daughter flying, this mother to days those sweet gardens: our looking eyes, as never but dung, to plead for what: this little person, becoming almighty, while teaching with vengeance: this Malaysia curse, this Malaysia treasure, this tricky drongo bird: to chirp a sound, to mimic a feeling, to trick with pride this unbelievable face: our courage cries, this love as bleeding, this carpet damn near toxic: as arts to pavement, this inner Guadalupe, this trillion dollar mystic—It lives!  I ache her heart, to diminish her hurt, while to siphon this indri yogi: our days feeling important, our years damn near dead, to revive as seated by Elijah: this foolish dreamer, this dream as manifested, this pride as becoming evidence: this fire Malachi, this prophet our guts, this troll becoming this flying phoenix: as dear this life, looking for perfection, and damn near close to sharing: this remorseful life, this wedding with flames, this person as unbeknownst: those copying skills, this detached attachment, those principles providing sanity: this small man, this large otherness, this cut so cursed we inhale: as students bleeding, this immortal crush, this fabulous dreamscape: those romantic hypnotizisms, those romantic facts, this matter of Acts: to live as dying, to thrust as wicked, where mother felt deaths growing wildly: this book of yore-bars, this antiquitous affair, this life as merely an excuse!

Mystic Rabid Mug

I love pain, this miracle mother, this phantom father: our bleeding ghettoes, our lights barely lit, our candles our darkest years: this cocaine frenzy, that last hit, this explosive liver: our dreams shaded, our angst wailing, our countenances blending: this medley of dysfunction, our loud voices, our morning breakfasts: this high nature, this low current, our discombobulated chakras: if but this winning, as sung Dubois, or this maniacal sensory, at terrors excavating graves: our caricatures, our Venice, Beach, our Santa Monica Pier: this boisterous alcoholic, this lazy alertness, this fracture driving through gravity: our cuts, this daughter, as never those cries: our bending winds, our broken fires, this coal smothering this inkling: as branded insanity, to live as chimerical(s), this treacherous unreality: our ashes digested, this tale with blood, this grandmother’s intestines: our blue furies, this pale conversation, our days as outcasts—to witness sameness, this group of perfection, this mother with souls: to pass to darkness, or to surrender while dead, where affections yearn for glory: our waking charms, this inner glossary, our familial dictionaries: this so-so knowledge, this so-so home-base, as driven with killer ambition: this academic, this furious river, this excellent first-glance.  I love pain, this immortal swan, this kitchen by decorations, this granny that potty trained: if but to luxuries, where thoughts are abated, if but this mystery with chimes: this unfair ambit, this mental rosette, this California Camera: our Kodak Moments, our blurry horizon, this treachery as pure falderal: as never this cut, as rarely this lace, this touch of fortunate losers: where mother laughs, this other side, pointing towards father’s indecencies: to pause and sip, where mystics are cringing, while pushing gladiator spirits: this man loving, this compassion for Aaliyah, and this Four Page Letter: this midnight gray, this leopard’s bones, this meerkat’s brains: or honor this duvet, as lain to sanity, where gramps must admit this reality: our guts freezing, our sentiments tarnished, our mothers cringing—as dying this life, while fraught by secrets, to have for comforts this strange island: indeed, with wisdom, indeed, with knowledge, indeed, a young warrior—where hell is authentic, as psychs to tears, where therapists digest an inch of pure fire: those rabid feelings, this churning arc, this psych to wonders: but truth was honored, while lies were abated, to omit where tension is tremendous: so more to love, as more to sacrifice, while it feels good to perish for Love.  I love angst, this intestinal vat, this mystery with repercussions: our garnished brains, this mystic endeavor, this unclean African American: our guts hanging, our phones as radical, our sensories bleeding sanities: this fair market, our grassy blades, our palms sensing this familiar life: that old self, that dying self, this terrible breastplate: at Ephesians grunting, at prose listening, at hearts as pure as our first inception: this voltaic nightmare, this indomitable figure, this queen dying deliberately: as lives this gut, this pure admiration, but mother died so early her existence: this fair creature, this innate mother, this innate mystic: as too, this inborn yogi, this mental conglomerate, this Catholic Education: to cut with silence, these myriad friends, this time attempting purities: our holy diamonds, this field of rhinestones, this world of dead allies: our purgatorial(s), this naïve pith, this thought that ‘all’ yearn for accolades: this good quality, this outer psychologist, this old therapist: to gut his bones, as dying his mother, to find father pleading resilience: our cursed existence, this metaphysical enchantment, this old professor laughing at Destiny: if but for perfect, to feel while dying, to laugh in good humor: this barbed-tail, this inner dragon, this daughter by last rites: this introduction, to give as taught, to add nuances: this breed bleeding, this harsh existence, as Chinese Laws: to turn with incentive, to gravitate towards pain, to yank at self pleading our guts: this rabid mirror, this rabid mother, this rabid father: our achy legends, this inverted veil, this extraordinary fire.            

Gut Ransom

*…smoky-eyed fire, excruciating pain, our soul-life: losing weight, feeling frigid, and dying for closure: this traffic-life, this mountain passion, those Ten Commandments: these bruises to bones, this curse with phones, this electrical psych: our mystic fancies, our mystic daughters, our mystic mothers: this tribal warfare, this inner catastrophe, or this self-image dilemma: our running arcs, our damaged hearts, while seeking love this last shoulder: our cut with lace, our liquor with weeds, this fury too furious for freedom: those cavelike years, this prehistoric gene, this shoebill mentality: our dark nightmares, those singing dunes, this inner scorpion—as mother lives, this plant with meal, this jalapeño with bacon: as men die, to live her life, if but unyielding passion: this crooked road, that crooked office, this new dementia: as never offending, but bending game, to explode a second borne to silence: this burning cigar, this burning fever, this trifle alibi: if but to perish, our sunset deserts, our sea-deserts, our ocean-sands: this bent with death, this casual existential, this man peeking through souls: this metaphysical, this grim-reaper, this apparition: our stars with gin, our daughters with sins, our great souls mourning with grandparents: to live as galvanized, to lose as hypnotized, while guts bury essence….*

(…our poisoned daisies, our psychedelic tulips, our heart-stirred calamity: this man at slow pace, this woman too close, this other too far: our brains pouting, our guts pointing, our phones ringing: to nibble sea-grass, or sky-trauma, while furious with this design: those telic agonies, this losing with song, this poison stripping integrity: our daughters with anguish, this angry soul, this withering lotus: this gelada patience; while feuding with social hunters; at tender concerns this nest of socio-winners: at summers clashing, at romance a bit distorted, at thoughts too foreign for spirits: our blatant curses, this struggling gut, this glass too damn empty: my sober mind, this somber coffee, this lose too damn extreme: but hell to panic, as mercy for panic, to collapse too near this well: our pushy wills, our Nietzsche ants, our flaming empires: as built with lies, to adore such lies, to crumble this weight of lies: our casual responses, after years invested, to move slightly left: those singing dunes, this raving caiman, this mystic excuse: as running while peeking, or peeking while gunning, to feel for different realities: our wants with life, our needs with living, our attraction to immortality: this sophistication, as doing alikeness, where something appears as different: those caramel lips, this seasonal balm, this wretched philosophy: our commiseration, our cognac with pretzels, our maniac chemistry: this fire raging, this soul damn near dead, this pleasure to cuss where days were enchanted: our blue music, our red tides, our burgundy gut-wires: as souls livid, racing through memoirs, a bit too explosive….)

…to enter sensories, this rising piano, this Galatians Guitar: our Colossians Dream, this tender backslash, this tender alley: our cans tilted, our laundry sprawled before this audience: our blaring saxophones, our roaring clarinets, this attempt to study this noisy attic: our gravy with flutes, our flutes with chimneys, our chimneys with regrets: our grannies puffing, while eating steaks, this meal too much to bear: as diamonds appear, this invisible reality, to sense experience carries its heaviest insistence: those poisoned eyes, those palatial hips, or more, this chiseling by dear guts: if but perfection, if but this midnight, to care so little as extending its greatest efforts: our ruined ecstasy, our tragic existence, or better, this tale where self wasn’t present: insofar, as living, or those credulous ears, or this need to seclude our perfect daughters: where chipmunks dance, our internal leaps, to want something so desperately and forfeit life: this passion as exclusive, our dreams as so inclusive, to turn at angles to witness travesty….        

Plant Life: Adolescent Core

…damn near turned-out, and damn near buried, and damn near a lost cause: this furious passion, this damned existence, this gorgeous travesty: as nine species, or seven explosives, this dreaded fear: to lose his life, this dead-eyed soul, just released from Harbor: our tiger instincts, this precise woman, this priestly woman: our guts to liquor, our hearts to ecstasies, our bowels to Febreze….  *…our beans with red nights, our souls with darkness, our arms with love scars: those puppet eyes, that puppet grin, {our women control passivity}: this jerboa race, this kick to breathe, our mornings slamming shots: this curvy bullet, this bold mistress, this shifty behavior: if but our deaths, those wild begonias, this lotus daughter: our haven brooks, our torn distress, this precious insight: where ghettoes are perfect, this perfect chaos, this stringent pantomime….* 

I sought parent roots, this strong current, screaming for aunty: this steep sophistication, this jazzy wit clearance, this home too far to reach: our sociologists, our homemakers, our lieutenants: those Federal crises, those secret agents, this world of cultic warriors: that field of activities, this mandarin with cheese, our coffee with cigars: this foul breath, this lively love, this blunt testimony: as addicted to habits, while shifting personality, to relocate our radix: this corner of dingoes, or that alley of hyenas, to cut a turn into pure leviathans: this ghetto life, this rich cocaine, this infestation of gram smokes: our mothers to flickering, our fathers to pure Peruvian, our cousins sailing for cringing: our heaving guts, our asthmatic heart-cuffs, or this holy catastrophe: where cellars dialogue, as chairs withstand, while tables bleed tyrannies: this mental feud, this ghostly mirror, this shift as perfection arises in deaths: our blatant arcs, like antiques by deserts, to arouse this Aristotelian insanity: our science to love, our science to children, our investments proving non-substantial: if but by fire, this smelting misery, this chimney mother.

…we panda existence, becoming twelve-headed monsters, able to discern motives in but instances: (this beady-eyed soul, those lithium eyeballs, this risperidone nightmare): to push with assertiveness, while one waits a certain resonance, as deciding whether or not to act violently: this inner riddle, this place in time, a caravan of warriors waiting to feel incentive: this cold kill, this jetting through freeways, this throwaway vehicle: indeed, to laugh, while frightened as hell, to praise without hesitation: this ‘somewhere’ God, this inner God, this picture perfect God: {if but this existence, our dreggy-nicknames, or gutty bear souls: as begging questions, while seated at loyalties, where one has disappeared: this harsh tale, to think that thought, where one was merely influenced}: this wretched divinity, this wretched heartbreak, as mother fell damn near deceased: our casual spins, this life in ghettoes, this evil-aided insanity…!

I’m cooking salmon, a cigar at mouth, reminiscing as mother did it: this beautiful queen, this misguided addict, this fair travesty: as cultured grandparents, and resistant daughters, where profanity tends to relax anxieties: this cigarette mother, this Malt Liquor mother, where such characteristics serve as warning signs: our casual mothers, our deadly mothers, our caring and affectionate mothers: indeed, with shame, indeed, with pain, indeed, to inhale and dissipate: this truth be told mother, this gift to realization, this Tibetan mother: our brains to deaths, this mother vacuuming, if but to carry this son’s dilemmas: if but to live, if but to die, this woman screaming, Bloody Murder: to cut leaves, as sipping sap, to then disappear into a mingy confidant: our years to seeking, our nights to membrance, or those sights too sightly to mention: this roadblock, this cul-de-sac, this rebel’s plant-life. 

Cross Cultural Ghettoes

I pace roughly, while sipping black syrup, a tad bit confused: this cryptic abuse, this bleeding culture, this sap with juice: those blazing cigars, this kitchen by smaze, this adventure towards Netherlands: our Australian cousins, our African uncles, our European blood streams: this wellic feeling, this mutual disdain, this inner cabinet: to unleash ghosts, this goblin affair, this pier by memoirs: our fitted suits, this color as shifting, this colorless as dominant: our bold brides, this woman we adore, our ski-lodge feuds: if but by panic, to announce as losing,  this drilling sensation: those white shields, those brown diamonds, this yellow horizon: while partly psycho, or terrified by mirrors, or petrified of self: this feminine monster, this gentle skycraft, this allergic aphrodisiac.  I cut with time, redeeming violence, while torn this lose of time: our gradual insights, our beaming wits, where life sends its curve: this alien ball, this inking bat, this melting glove: as young souls, stressed by ghetto rites, or redeemed but dearly unlatched: this fading linchpin, this screw unwinding, those pegs trampled under silence: this remarkable feeling, this trenchant curse, this web latching upon hearts.  I remember its onslaught, this season for gifts, this horrific feel-good: our lively parents, this shift in moods, this terrific dinner: that Galatians Alphabet, our nights enthralled, our doors proving this Ghost: (this living catastrophe, this feel-good destroyer, those years to treading pavements): this trick-or-treat, this treat be-good, this trick for goods: our Sahara Atmospheres, this stuffy stench, those grimy otters: if but our curse, this fair dilemma, those cross-county cranberries: our explosive fights, this tale with chimes, this tale with clauses—those romantic promises, this perfect life, this designated difference.  *We perish with life, We die our resurrections, We count our twigs: this style by cultures, such unyielding sophistication, to become alarmed where we sense its absence: this essence by empires, this legacy by ghetto rites, this séance supporting mental keenness—our days to fantasies, this steep admiration, or so subtle it appears before intimation: our winded souls, our adverse scars, or this pledge to distress potential vibrancies: as men guzzling, while seated at hearts, to dine upon God’s arteries: this vacant puzzle, this holy sickness, or this reasoning through denial: our aches and bridges, our inner appetites, or this design troubling longevity: this waking curse, this void through dungeons, to grip for life this outer parachute.*  I sat at renaissance, aging but a young lad, while nursing mother back to consciousness: this thing with life, as hidden from reality, while children witness our indiscretions: those bold lies, that lying mirror, that ignorant doctor: to speak of lungs, or to suggest purities, while arguing us concerning our livers: that foolish soul, this foolish world, that foolish heart-murmur: at cliffs pleading, if but to leap—our children gripping our ankles: this wealth by dysfunction, this abused child, where innocence becomes hardened replies: to seek for normality, where children become adults, to then upon this super relationship: our dear indoctrination, our bull-shark mentalities, our essence seeping into usage: those bold barks, that ripened root, that steep suggestion.  I hear life, this sheer abandon, or this defensive personality: where secrets are held tightly, while intrusion spears-forth this lashing, indeed, even this retaliatory disposition: this thing with shame, as pulled towards its aversion, while feeling sickened by pursued interaction: our dreams with scars, our visions with doubts, or our lives cornered by goblins: those treasured allies, or abusive agents, where souls search for slumber: those tarsier eyes, this fidgety nature, or this calming friend giving more: while souls mock, watching our destruction, as grinding hell to keep their distance: this coarse reality, our souls devastated, our grandparents mourning.                            

Carrying Sediments

We carry dirt, this inner personality, while conditioned by experiences: this fragrant nightmare, this compassionate monster, our aches breeding our perceptions: this world of psychiatry, these psychological notions, this well seriously poisoned: (this slippery slope, this weekend cadence): our social ladybugs, our apprehensive butterflies, our forward socialization: at atypical openness, this challenge for ghettoes, this nesting ground for upper echelons: this barbeque, this indifferent treachery, this wheel within our stars: as breathing our lives, or reckless with love, or stitched in secrets: this trifle place, as our sisters die, as our minds gravitate towards miseries: this daily frustration, this hellish meditation, this character constructer.  We carry dirt, our nursing cribs, our extraordinary parents—this chime by consensus, this misread community, this history of abandonment—those bleak mannerisms, this instance with anger, this fair breed admiring nuances: those orange hair-lights, our greens with ham-hocks, our fluent use of profanity: our wants towards survival, our inverted therapies, this wilderness while open to miseries: this familiar dance, those familiar faces, our racial orientations: while color becomes eventful, or colorless becomes this social margin, or both as at home with familiar characteristics: this tension with essence, our differences by maniac behaviors, our wonders concerning colorless strains: this stress for popularity, this celebrity mind-state, or this deep resistance when selected as abnormal: this serial behavior, this ghetto catastrophe, those rare individuals: as coins flip, this imaginative academic, this relished charm: our trips cross-cultures, our need to feel differences, our interlocking insistence: our sea-shore moments; our schools finishing our habits; our necessities tended-to while becoming outcasts: this florid nation, this fervent beaut, while never appreciated: for nuance in unfamiliar, as souls grieve life, where color becomes this adventure.

We study dirt, our chimerical realities, our extravagant essence—this feeling, as so close to unusual, to stand so near and feel so distant: this bubbly personality, this wretched curse, this brilliant envy: (as met a charming psychotic, this bubbly persona, this serious mirror): to come to behaviors, while foreign to realities, to feel energy converting into nuances: this cherry reply, this genuine want, as for nothing aside for that interaction: this wealth of pain, this space in hell, for cheerful desires this atypical explosion: our dirty headlights, our dirty home-base, this filth preventing this American ‘Normality’: and still, we breed love-nests, we have children, and we mingle with other cultures.  We carry memories, this war to exist, where children become our worth: those ostracized communities, those resisted personas, our interior selves—as blended with dirt, this projection upon existence, this fair gain—to have this curse, as needing this curse, for this curse becomes home-plate: if but to dream, while pure of barnacles, while cleared this state of effusions: our purple dresses, our pure white tunics, this receiving, sexual atmosphere: as giving self, in order to retrieve self, while one becomes leery of capitalization: this home of children, this office at work, this trip to Africa: this eye-opening realization, this child’s death, this warzone by ghetto bacteria: our screams at night, our wails at day, or this cheesy existence claiming its neutralities: indeed, to futures, sprawled by time, while peering into differences to find agreements: this filthy field, this muddy lake, this jutted childhood: our first-base, our spiked brains, and this curiosity where two seek similar nuances: this atypical chemistry, this rare soul, this understanding by soulmates: our white dresses, our black tuxedos, our palms carrying doves: our dirty therapies, our becoming therapies, our voices emerging through therapies: this man running home, this man cherishing ghetto adventures, this man laughing at something genuinely bright: those torn ropes, those falling cuffs, those melting scars.                 

Bipolar Rain Crows

We sing by flights, this fringe by survival, this dis-ease by wrangles: our remorseful porcelain, our teary intestines, our bowels rumbling: those catfish eyes, those Labrador cries, this tinge of perfection: as slanted coasters, or diamond memoirs, while trekking gray-sands: this burgundy feeling, those burgundy passions, this blue horizon: agouti tranquility, or meerkat curiosity, or marmoset travels: this red sun, those blinding vases, our wounds depicting perception: at but a glance, to determine temperament, to carry borne messages; and oh by features, this casual response, where simplicity becomes Mother Mary: this living space, this wooden frog, this ingrown mushroom.  I take to passions, admiring wings, but realizing that each becomes this kinetic warzone: our buoyant particles, our scorpion thoughts, our walls by both escapes and trapdoors: those rosaries, our melting semblances, our Duracell Batteries: as engines percolate, seated in stillness, this remote island: our ashes flung, our cigars churning, our thoughts that essence to resonance: to fair with gorgeous, this trembling soul, abandoned to Promenades: that tremendous nervousness, that voiceless concern, that immediate retreat: at purple dirt, a bit terrified, trekking this country valley: our indie music, our indri primates, or gates too close to vigil: our watchful eyes, our terrible cries, or this tendency to transfer feelings: that steep projection, as giving others traits, where said elements are mere possessions: this mirror’s eye, this third retreat, or by miracles, this chance to exonerate yesteryears.  I palmed an acorn, while trekking palm trees, while pricing trestles: I sought a swan, as pure simplicity, forfeiting her rights to anger: this foreign soul, this bleak sky, this orange/beige travesty: as born to legends, while attempting to feel, while refrigerators breed Iceland(s): this jasper warning, those jasmine apes, or those saturnine feelings—where God is interrogated, this pain in souls, where Job is said as one complaisant: this steep blaspheme, this terror with time, this possible position: our years at darkness, to perfect benighted quadrants, where innocence feels aloof from itself: this shorn rainbow, this palmed Alaska, this tundra of waterfalls—those electric mystics, this sign our arc, those walls too enormous for emotions: this intimate giant, this fair creature, this excellent masterpiece: this Rembrandt, this Picasso, this Beethoven—at intimate wars, as too complex for regulars, while bold enough to hide in public: that warm embrace, that chilled insulator, that intellectual eagle—where flipper becomes a confidant, while Bugs is eschewed, while, notwithstanding, private sessions point towards an impending catastrophe: this space in souls, this esoteric intimacy, this man’s soul stirred in quicksand—to leap with courage, this footing in Ghost/s, only to spin for fire this web of sentience.  We spend tears with lies, trekking raw rivers, or skiing frozen oceans: this polar bear instinct, our beavers fiddling snowflakes, or our travels to enter vestibules: those roomy domains, our worries stapled to walls, our harvest as something chimerical: this winter’s mime, this summer’s mystics, our autumn yogis—as filled with helium, afloat low feelings, while seeping into transmissions: this shift with time, this something to sober, as to encourage those winners: unraveled aglets, unbuttoned prisons, or unknotted traumas: this itty bitty spider, those screaming ropes, this particular space: our Brentwood Sun, our Santa Monica Moon, our Los Angeles Colleges: as filling our brains, this wild pack of alley canines, or that occasional porcupine: at souls, with quietude, this search for rectitude, in this uncertain certainty: our abrasive professors, our judgmental psychologists, or our stratagem joysticks: as concerned with mirrors, this dance through lights, this mantis camera: to come to passion, feeling emptiness, with so much more to give.                                  

Brain Pockets

I session gently, by far an adventure, gapped at certain intersections: our days with concern, our lost communion, or this fair second with time: those feathers discolored, our wings by oils, our washings by Calgon.  I differ such indifference, this internal shadow, as hesitant by fear: those rolling arcs, this voltless session, this tender vacuum: our impending breakthroughs, this struggle with swans, this cavity melding with neurons: this abrasive response, this casual approach, this un-teachable courage: as pure contradiction, this learn-ed soul, this miracle stressing personal insights: our grave destinies, this pillar inflamed, and those babbling moments.  I session gently, lightening to gesticulations, or struggling those captured winds: this atypical soul, our atypical distinctions, to find where less means exonerated: this man with friction, this self as motion, this daughter as unchartered exospheres: our blighted crops, our senseless harvest, and still, We journey by faith: this fair frontier, this intricate exchange, this fire these wolves.     We sense wrangles, these inner wounds, this wonder concerning speaking our souls: this device by clearance, to resolve conflict, to confront mental mirrors: these crescent scars, those remote controls, our intellectual welts: that intimacy with time, this dependence upon souls, this gradual becoming: as arts flutter, where candles flicker, while furry comes to heights exploding in tears: this rare adventure, this study with time, or this study with intentions: to move like snails, to pace like iguanas, or to flee like geckos: our zealous hearts, staring at zealous souls, becoming with time such zealous healings: if but to dream big, if but our souls noticed, if but our arms reaching: those unknit feelings, as brought to closure, where souls knit various ideals: to unknot frustration, or to knot something decent, this surgeon of stars: this deep travail, this seesaw journey, this bundle of seaweed—where darkness whispers, as defeating its purpose, where generators operate as binoculars: this scope with pains, to volunteer for surgery, while convinced concerning methodologies: those shifts with turns, this seeming betrayal, this winking sunrise: this friend of sun-breaks, this aglet unpeeled, plus, impending tension: as more, those vehement lockets, those pockets in brains, such as sour freedoms: those dragonflies, that tiger’s breath, or those frightened artifacts: indeed, with time, indeed, with life, this exchange of intimacies: our shoelace closeness, our mental differences, to come to bridges announcing our humanness.               

Sky Thoughts

…so much entangles, this man by dreams, this wrestling shadow: those blackdamp(s), this inner smaze, this ring of smoke—this beaming dragon, this mental sea-monster, this ironic joy—as bundled with feelings, or feeling semi-flat, this natural disposition: as days fly, our souls bubbling, at that sudden burst of mind-waves: this luxurious beta-cave, such flatness dissipating, such arms sprouting wings: to realize this shift, this blanket of knots, this berry of intimacies: our crying antlers, our reasoned antennas, our angling knowledge-base: this reckless calmness, this throwing of one’s soul, or those wafers with wine.  Its casual delights, or rumbling intestines, or acidic reflex: our planes while seated, our stillness with moving, our motion contemplating concrete: this abstract world, as thought his belly, where asphalt rarely crosses our antennas: this pillar by science, this rushing physics, this tenable metaphysic: those books by facts, our earthly examinations, or this soul concentrated on spirits: those stinging eyes, that glossy glaze, this angular reception: as souls challenge, this vest by existence, our guts responding to stimuli. I weep for wisdom, this fair creature, this robust nightmare: this protector, this tester, this immutable creature: as minds to skylarks, or brains to mechanic scanning(s), our nights by disappearance: again, alive with uneasiness, to locate passions, to embark upon this voiceless journey: our months as monks, our seasons by seduction, our evenings to psalms: this weekly undergoing, this slight ache, this slight frustration: to feel irk rising, while to study those tentacles, while proud to have pushed it downwards: our bellies laughing, our intellects searching, or our instincts realizing havoc’s approach: this field of grapes, that nursery of feelings, whereat, those sentimental notions.     It looks for sameness, these kangaroo agendas, this nonchalant aggressiveness: those suspicious cries, this languid voice, this shameless disagreement: our woes to skies, our dreams to stitching(s), our seams slowly unthreaded—this need for attention, if but for balance, chased for floored our mirror ghosts.         

Simple Complex Realities

Our delicate weather, this sunshine state, its moody contradiction: our aces and kings, our tender memories, our neuronic harbingers: this kingdom by silence, this kingdom by treacheries, plus, this resilience to relocate honesties: our cringing wilderness, this lady in black, our talkative habits.  This aromatic coffee, this banana muffin, this aloof newspaper: our casual eyes, at casual cries, seated in this roomy city: our deceptive magazines, while never such beauty, to arise a feeling forming distrust: this elegant statue, this picturesque waterfall, and that nearby vestibule: our memory’s museum, our sketchy tablets, or this bundle of coins: as laundry lingers, as laziness centers, while pungent odors are bombarded by Febreze.  We shared a steak, this reasonable course, attempting this diet: our burgers and fries, our sausage and eggs, our guilt and determination: this land of obesities, our treasured placation, and this well of milk and money.  Our nightly news, our blues and rhythms, our milk and cakes: this dearth of calcium, this effort to attend our famine, our days at existence: this statuesque moon, this extravagant sun, our stars silent by night-sighs: this morning’s grasshopper, this litter of kitties, that diligent and passive mother.  Our evenings cleaning, our restrooms filthy, as realizing it always demands attention: this lot of humans, this wood-designed-floor, or this shaggy carpet: our kitchen dishes, our dinner inventions, while tossing this old bag of Hamburger Helper: indeed, with life, our dusty windowpanes, our dusky emotions.  I write of aphorisms, but rarely do I gripe, while acidic oceans rage in this gut: this sea-dahlia, this cliff bumble-bee, this anxious tiger: as pacing our consciences, while swiping figs, while pushing intuition: that sudden roar, those myriad faces, our dreams confounded by emotions: as unresolved, this moment in time, while years are invested in particular fantasies: this inner warzone, this need to careful our thoughts, or this vulnerable disposition: as birds sing, about this simple life, while facing this complex hawk.  I gaze upon dressers: at this container of butter, this tube of Gold Bound, and this plethora of individual items: our New Year’s solution, this Healing Softness, those pair of weights: plus, this brilliant irony, as if life wasn’t demanding, to censor with life this domesticated zeal: those high buttons, this inverted tension, our bodies reacting with eczema: those dear apples, this topical syrup, or more this hankering for walnut breads: as souls breathing, this dusty river, listening as our souls growl: our moody features, this quick solution, or our disappointments. 

I attempt at thoughts, while scratching my ego, while working towards some goal: this cranky refrigerator, those ecstatic crickets, or these jumping spiders: this scenery with time, this musical reality, this complex simplicity: our chores pushing us, our doors recording mirrors, our tours through our homes: this blatant shadow, this laughing pantomime, or this cave so steep our minds are troubled: this seven foot mirror, this typing while feeling, as geometric souls.  It becomes our waltz, this abandoned rubric, this old rosary: our nights at prayer books, our days reciting our memories, and this couch in its perfect space: those at home libraries, this book overdue, or this old coat that offers comfort: our leather boots, our casual slacks, or this pair of Italian something: this deep motion, this centered frustration, this combing island: where life becomes mementoes, and bibles become birthmarks, while essence becomes sophistication: this gloomy insight, this unbearable insistence, or our courage to persevere: our minds in college, our souls in refinements, our Hamptons a mere morsel and essay: this deep demand, as purely upon self, while framing this terrific puzzle: indeed, this life, and that darn concern, while flaring fires.     

Fantasy & Islands

…such hidden gloom, such dying roses, such deep instillation: this full Christ, this conflicted sinner, this abandoned resurrection: our deep blues, our jazzy sorrows, our mystic relations: this fretted capacity, this glowing countenance, this instantly suffocating room: our defensive glances, our moonlit children, our slight envies: this robotic response, this rabid air, our castles built upon green sand: such innocent delicacies, such lemon insanities, or our souls writhing this committed wind: to die while inhaling, to grip a palm of pills, to bemoan this air of nicotine: our bowels resentful, our hearts tugged, or this grin suggesting dishonesty: our cozy souls, to rekindle our first years, to sing with deliberateness: this rapacious woman, this insatiable appetite, this tugging where sin is bashful.  (I touch this agony, while screaming this love, where music is such sweet forgiveness: this aguish for beauty, this artsy elocution, this breeding hound: our colorful language, this British charm, this European wit: this African tribalism, this pierced membrane, and your majesty embroidered upon mental planets: this sitting moon, this walking beach, this glass murmuring: our sacred passion, to relocate this essence, to find with tragedy this inner treasury: this palm of blue-jays, this throat to speak, these frontal lobes beaming with ecstasy): as delicate creatures, too skilled for converse, too insane for retreat: this romantic agony, this forbidden lust, our arms reaching where Osiris dwells: if but Ms. Isis, this glamorous damsel, this sister of sins—our aching intestines, this river of vomit, this uneasy agitation—to struggle our voices, tugged by fantasy, and dying to flee justice: this wicked sunrise, this longstanding kiss, our souls demented with rectitude: this jasper grass, this fluffy hay, this accentuated waistline: those rejected hips, this wood-oaken scent, this endless star-chain: as souls blighted, so close to annihilation, so far removed from our last argument: this rosy charm, those sinful thighs, this sinful feeling: as finding our courage, if but to sing, this valley painted in turquoise: those trimmed begonias, this reckless neckline, those remorseful eyes: as moments feel life, while seconds induce challenge, this unbearable dream seeking reception: our casual dance, this inner saxophone, this restless piano: our mourning lights, this palm of dew, this reluctant shower: as dies our souls, this dream in gold, this passion as slipping its reigns: where canines bark, or growl while eating, to find with time this canine’s uneasiness.

…time becomes relentless, this French undertaker, this Cambodian sharp shooter: our silent Rembrandt, our dearest carnivals: this wide-eyed invention, this imaginative dreamscape, this dainty warrior: our souls to deepness, this darkness permeating, our wheels rolling into sunsets: as miracle souls, so lavish our concerns, to pamper with ease our passions: this partial moon, this daily sign, or those soundless symbols: where music dances, this late night cartoon, this plate of honey-melon: as sensibilities shift, this fair compass, our remarkable sensories: this want for horizons, this reality facing our dungeons, or this cat purring in our laps….        

             

…it was bound to emerge, this frequent visitor, that abrasive shift: this ladder mocking, this paint slathering, this canvas laughing at pressures: this fork for salads, this spoon for icecream, this melancholy for deeper thoughts: this Jesus for redemption, this Father as mastermind, this Ghost as remembrance: our steep insistence, our tugging at feelings, our rich communication: while looking at existence, while seated as reality’s settees, while knitting our resistant morals: this lawyer’s conscience, this judge’s ulcer, this monk’s religion: as souls flying, feeling electricity, while cautious to take notice: this world of songbirds, this motive unbeknownst, at serious frustrations: our casual routines, our casual approach, or this fiery stepstool….                           

Rubik’s Genetic

…it’s been years, this somber sin, this rejected monster: our livid muscles, our dear charms, our developments deep this remorseful season: our alligator soot, this elephant dung, this backgammon ghetto: to sense with life, this infant attraction, this plebian slant: our cursed genetics, our shoebill instincts, this flooded pond: our brooks uneasy, our conscience bleeding, or this willow bending: to have for fantasies, this airplane daughter, this sophisticated vixen, {this wretched essence}: as blue blood money, or appropriate spoons, or liver smothered in Tabasco: our dreams extrapolated, our winnings as terrible, our angst as driven: this sole purpose, this soul pain, this mischief becoming illuminating: this treasure by losing, this anxiety by sinning, this kleptomaniac beauty queen: our sips of coffee, our distorted playfulness, this catchy gown: if but this life, this four-headed calmness, this psychiatric war-exhibition: this sightless majesty, this cool composure, this infinite ache exuding deliverance: this application, this mystic observer, this fair friend: as needing admiration, if but this event in life, or more this impeding recruitment: our mothers to energies, our fathers to skies, our souls remembering our grandparents: this handsome woman, this sophisticated gem, this intellectual monsoon: this scholar of dreams, this Tuskegee giant, this round of playful noise: this deliberate approach to language, this ability to spell complicated sceneries, those slightly suppressive vows: our minutes to clarity, as refusing our sketches, to know for our terrific intestines.  *…I remember infatuation, staring at our contour energies, where recently I gazed this countenance: this fair woman, this abandoned dream, this pain riddled through happiness: her dear capacities, this woman as warrior for Yahweh, this person a warrior against depression: but throng to brains, this insistent feeling, this amazing wonder: our ankle low dresses, our sophisticated anklets, our beige top suits: this time to need, as aborted to grasping, while chilled for perfect this storm of dreams: this cabinet mind, this sight too difficult to forget, or that churn looking over one’s shoulder: those intellectual insights, this man to restrictions, this land as immortal: to scatter as lizards, or flee as cheetahs, while honoring this husband’s lot: for life was reaching, this pan of chestnuts, this man recruiting for dear existence: as a man thinketh, as so he liveth, while his wife personifies justice: so angst to love, while settling for experience, where it felt like hell to feel such adrenaline: this rush of prose, this inward griffin, or our tender cerebrals: this song blazing, this feeling crying, this remorse as blended in memoires of Princess: if but to dream, if but to live, if but I were enough: moreover, this catastrophe, these hurtful words, this man rebuking his posts: those incredible lenses, those incredible brains, this talkative feature: indeed, to trespass, as believing it as normal, where private folks demand a touch of distance.*  (…she’s so naïve, and so smart, and so gifted: this immortal charm, this resonant personality, this catchy laughter: those pyramid realities, this mental geometry, this acting with easiness: those genius psychs, this deep trepidation, or this feature constantly appearing: as if to privacies, this musical opera, this presence in stillness: this watching woman, this dying legacy, or more this father I needed to love: if but to risks, if but too risqué, if but this woman that knew his reality: our dearest sisters, this mystic observer, this slight intrusion: but life was present, and energies felt pain, while eyes presently drip: this courage in deers, this tiger to snows, this stepfather as feeling his passions: our growing priests, our rhythmic nuns, or this pushy for abrasive tendency: our authority challenged, our guts to fires, our essence bleeding humilities: as casual beings, or reckless mice, to push for perfection: this lovely granny, this fearless father, this great treasure: as borne to missions, this inner loquat, this mental pomegranate—where granny was pure, this lovely woman, even her cigarette breath).

Mental Assembly

*…yesterday was liquor, this lizard’s release, this repent with chimes: our steady stations, this mug of gas, this kitten fiddling mushrooms: this fledgling laughing, our mothers to sanities, our fathers coming home from wars: this asylum, this mental condition, and such public mockery: our Aaliyah wives, our sibling computers, our inner circles: this perfect resistance, while perfect is seeping, by far this terrific cobra: our itchy scalps, our red dirt deserts, or this event at Death Valley: this scorpion mouse, or two headed centipedes, or our majestic zebras—as men at love, fawning over fair features, our visual distractions.  (…yesterday was cathartic, bleeding with daughters, or finding love for mothers: this dear struggle, this helium anxiety, to confirm that some mothers were afflicted: this enriching diamond, these electric chills, this zebra tailed lizard: [those deer eyes, those grassy legs, this essence painting riverbeds]: where passion becomes life, this angst and vine, this mental serration—this saw-like frustration, this need for desire, this want for something filthy: indeed, this religious lizard, this slithering reptile, this discarded handkerchief—those grasshopper moons, this ceiling by Regrets, or that Libra and that Scorpio: [this Pisces heart, as depleted of sounds, while fumbling this solace frontier: those beige spectacles, this restaurant outburst, or our mothers screaming at Jesus]: this remarkable therapist, this acorn unlocked, this dung beetle excavating sewers): as lives our guts, this internal superwoman, plus, our venomous recue: this pure saint, so dead to life, so warm to structure: this Catholic Asian, this African Christian, or more, our colonized Americas.  (…yesterday was psychiatry, to ponder this taste in stereo, to conflict with probing positions: this rant this rave, this giant this snail, this heaven as hell—our blighted feelings, our weeds sprouting, our crops speaking this exotic language: our metaphors, or occasional similes, or this existence feeding upon aphorisms—those petit observations, our seeing while surfing, our days to Watch Towers: [it becomes this treachery, or this lavish existence, or this refusal to gaze upon confliction: this elephant shrew, this racing monster, this ability to move two times faster than cheetahs: our running minds, this aesthetic congestion, this stuffy and runny nose]—our borne mentalities, our wakeful daughters, and this tall branch speaking its essence: this tiger’s head, this lion’s body, those phoenix wings—as built for raging, this sign becoming conscienceness, this symbol haunting our harvest: those infant copying skills, this posit as defined, or our Maruchan Noodles—this far chase, our deepest influences, our nights to Troy: as extra our lives, or ordinary concerns, or plain treachery—this song by wolves, this howling sunrise, this penchant curse—as men live, while women breathe, to have for justice one slice of existence): our chess designed genetics, or this schleprock feeling, while pressured to review every tenet: this cross with life, those abandoned chuckles, or better, that abandoned self—at full throttle, as seen this best person, to realize that humans become self-saboteurs—those darkened brains, this infested lying, or this spiritual heist: our random condition, or this extraordinary Ransom, or our scholars playful as children: this deep reflection, this ravishing retrieval, this incredible rescue: our chocolate theater, our vanilla enterprise, or this medley of acrobatics: this kettle whistling, this pot seated gracefully, or this rug leaping up and claiming its existence: our bare bones, our troubled bodies, our biblical allegories—where Magdalene grew, our dreams by Love, and Peter was destined to peter-out: this fuel for men, this reality for women, as witnessed this history of Exercises: to live as moving, to become this fire, or to demand of self certain behaviors.*       

Swanic Likeness

…such casual, debonair tides, this loose existence, this existential panorama: our furious guts, our remorseful woes, this time too early this collapse: to dance as if, to come to treatises, to die while resurrecting: this pentagram, this apocrypha, this uprooted bishop: our dreams by boats, our meals by gates, our hearts ruined for pressured: this thin woman, this strong woman, this ruined existence: (for tides are permanent, this etching into characters, this casual disposition—as flushed nonchalance, this cynical reality, this gravity tugging upwards: our inner music, this bestial symphony, this ill-gotten cadenza: our harps, our whistles, our enemies: this running faucet, pouring its venom, while hell to souls that struggle: our banished hearts, this lovely creature, this ruthless machine: at porticos pleading, at horns tugging altars, or more, at Jesus asking appropriate questions: to flee by wretched arts, this kingdom beneath sewers, this dream in purple and white: our flailed flesh, our flogged brains, this space in purgatory): if but to exist, this tarnished sanctuary, this stress dependent upon experience—as reaching ghosts, where mother dances, this seven year old convert.  I sense a swan, this language repeated, this essence seeping through religions: our guts restricted, our brains seeking homage, our insistence to survive: this world by tyrannies, this harsh reality—so young realizing those particulars unsaid: our downward faces, this upward pride, this confusing reality: those adult voices, this deep resistance, this child emerging as this swan—our caged soulprints, our instant angers, or this freezer becoming metaphorical: our writing frenzies, our last converse, this star that mirror: as born to waft, to scud and fly, to flit and demand—this courage by rank, this passion as mother’s, this calmness as wisdom: our forefather’s bleeding, our terrible nightmares, this sheet as quite a quilt: this slew of mystics, this inner triangle, those explosive glands: to channel with time, to grovel when necessary, to attempt this serene atmosphere: such ambience, such as pyramids, such as Hebrew origins: to float as Asiatic souls, to visit this mental providence, to administer therapeutic tactics—if but to breathe, while harnessed by realities, to sense this self emerging where something has fled: this castle of thieves, this purple passion, this inner eye-glint: such acrimony, such deadly curses, this un-polite existence: as it rarely repents, as continually trekking forward, at seconds leaving Jesus behind: this welkin Buddhist, or this Catholic sibling, our years to removing our first sins: or Protestant sinners, this pride this room, and our darkest insanities: this catered persistence, this fear to let go, this reality pushing this evaluation: as men tinkering engines, our women rebuilding transmissions, or daughters yanking for demanding this inner entrance: our abrasions winking, our days as shallow, our nights as too deep for comforts.

…we sense this life, this imperfect existence, while insisting upon perfection: this lying mirror, this mere perception, or this honest and affectionate mirror: our souls moving, our rooms widening, our ceilings evaporating: this base of training, our inner responsibilities, this parent removing obstacles: if but to exist, this pragmatic reality, while balanced enough to remain spiritual: this deep compassion, this terrific science, this cage flung into nearby fires: our metal melting, our minds liberated, our justice resounding from mountain tops: this slight insistence, this day with judges, this book as recording every decision: this day at life, our steepest passions, this ability to justify every action: our idle tongues, our loose language, our hurt feelings: where two danced, and harmonized gently, while living our freedoms: this small bundle, this fair tale, this unimportant reality: for perfect is sought, by imperfect souls, where study and diligence are shunned: to eschew works, purely dependent upon grace, while free to do as we presume: this slight rant, this deep soul, this daughter as a reflection of likeness.         

Dahlias upon Sea-cliffs

…our livers surf, our brains at hyenas, our guts floored by (gravel): this rising rose, this rosy mile, this sinner’s Malachi: if but by ruins, this overseer graphing, this river craned by blood: this ocean fleeing, afar these belted tides, as legions trek our muddy glands: to love as if, to die with wings, to sense this horizon gutting our inhibitions: this frequent trespass, this woman with kids, this terrible fortress.  I’ve come to panic, this political nuance, this Michelle in Obama: our deep Rihanna, our bashful Cleopatra, this tale knitted through Osiris: our casual eloquence, this classy enchantress, this woman as held to private morality: our zealous religious, this pint of bourbon, this curse addicted to its predecessors: our mothers comatose, our fathers absent, this son too explosive for normal converse: this behavioral sin, this inner pill, our lakes meeting our ponds: this lethal cigar, this infinite cigarette, if but this kettle steaming prose—as men convoluted, or women at their last guess, to come to grips this mystic by sparks: this passionate writ, this wrestling trespass, or this fever whet for this soul’s guts: our blanket realities, our quicksand dilemmas, where Love was sick enough to proffer a life-vest.  {I’m dying our glove, this engulfing feeling, this mental vox—as voices cringing, or mothers to abuses, to arise this panic at one blast: our winning acreage, this sand-dirt cleaving, our years to counting mules: this spiritual weal, this internal vizard (mask), or our vital retractions: as immortal losers, or mortal winners, to come to scripture pleading father’s existence: this hung beacon, this hung phoenix, this rising air-sin—where father designates, as groups coordinate, while essence explodes into five year bids: this passionate mantel, this tendency to unsay, while cursed this eternal distance: our privileged seeds, our deep unrest, or this propensity to exclaim this deep adoration: this mother with child, this surviving prayer, this potbellied daughter: our unnoted arts, our incriminating autobiographies, or more, this music sensing earlobes: as unknitted dearly, or reckless mystics, to vow with time this need for passions: our cut caviar, our relished gin-juice, or this radical forgiveness—as sudden in time, this satori mountain, this hawking for truant epiphany}.  I splayed our tyrant, I paid our sins, I died while eyes rolled into oblivion: those Italian sonnets, those Italian women, as but a fraction of your art: this man running, as returning to islands, to peek with contention this fair catastrophe: our bleeding Beyoncè, our rippling travail, or this troth bleeding its recues: as women with wands, or grannies with magic, to cut and cuss this man for dying: our deep surgeons, this battle with reality, to ask and witness this shift in temperaments: indeed, with issues, our tissues raving at Keyes, while pianos dance to Naïve’s resurrection: this slice to bone, this revised episode, this resistance pleading its subsistence; and, thereto, this dragon with wars, this boar with demons, this psych with feelings: as never our charm, but ever for tugged, to bless with ease this Jerusalem mystic.  (I cursed a flower, to witness it wither, while ashamed because of so many witnesses: this plaid scarf, this inner cleanser, this fen harboring mayflies: as women to guts, or souls to women, where it felt good to bond with serenity: this hell in time, this space in air-goats, this tragedy becoming our deepest ingestion: to cut with life, to love with deaths, to arise this billionaire ponderosa—those galloping energies, this thrust through arcs, this plaintiff attorney: as fused and driven, this ambition—that black goddess—where parts are choking, while rhythm provokes, where a man rests but a second by fortnights: this inner project, this primate feeling, this code by genetics—as musing forever, this rising volta, this remarkable Trethewey: if but to exist, this terrible confliction, this Smithsonian alligator: where eyes are opal, and tears are rubescent, and ferocious animosity is defanged: this bleeding whale, this bloody sea, this innumerable number of sharks: where Love sewed, this flower upon algae, this floating miracle).

Dear Eyes

I ache soreness, this vengeful dahlia, this mis-fathomed rumination: as dying God’s pain, or intricate a snaky web, or feeling this present spasm: our guts to harmonicas, our blood to venom, our bowels to Jehovah: this pregnant spouse, our dreams upon platinum, our grannies trying this curse: if but our good times, seasoned in Cajun soup, to blend our gumbo: this feral daisy, this pungent rhythm, this fury unto gravel and dust: our furious bones, our ferocious lungs, this tornado stretching our arteries: this sure Princess, this alighted travesty, this swan ingesting currents: to bleed soil, to ingest mud, to fall while gripping satiation: this hell for tears, this bird for cries, these mystics our old selves: this passionate elf, this remarkable person, this tale fleeing down yonder: if but by wisdom, this theologic pain, this husband becoming as he witnessed: this perfect person, this gray noise, this welt attached to heart emotion.  I could forget—this tragic curse, while staring at grandfather: this welkin man, this thought to goodness, this winter’s abrasion: this talking wall, this steep affliction, our days pondering Nebuchadnezzar: our grannies bleeding, this son of thoughts, this tragedy as far too cruel: where God is questioned, this vexing maze, to feel as Job this humbled existence: but dear to God, this losing of children, despite this new person: our aches with solace, this beautiful Lexus, this warming and cozy temperament: but, nonetheless, this cruel man, this cruel feeling, this right to wage war: as men dying, our women to chimneys, our guts ingesting raw liquor: to plead as destroyed, to gripe as destroyed, or to grovel as one destroyed: this pushing passion, this timeless thug, this remarkable Theologian: our days to passion, our nights to passion, our lives as knitted in tsunamis: this voice as deaf, this ear as receiving, this woman as too for much: this living swan, this dying swan, this occasion to depict such raving examples.  I’m losing self, as born to psychs, I’m shedding tears: this non-threat, this emotion as subtle, this adverse creature to blackmail: if but to soar, as livid this curse, where Love was such beauty: {to speak with substance, to exist despite consequence, to utter, It was pleasant our first time around}…this intimate therapy, this kiss from yonder, this ache for more than our ruthless selves: this father watching, this aunty to God, and this great grandmother to swanic souls: this struggle with life, this tetras as failing, this anger as rooting Naïve in sediments: our blatant cries, this person I met, this woman at ends attempting to lace infinity: but hell to me, as more to self, to witness this snake with wings: this dragon’s curse, this swan at prayer, this curse as passing through generations.  I couldn’t pause, this life of Chinese rice, this world of Fajita steaks: as men wondering, while falling victim, if but to nothing than this silent voice: where Love was ingratiated, and Love was willing, and mother was positive: to come to grits, this terrible truth, while Love was quite demanding: this horrendous Precious, this heavy heart, this arrhythmia seeking its home: this trial with passions, this leafy intestine, this gut-born insanity: this puffing maniac, this wine as our first chorus, this pentagram as God’s witness: our warlock horizon, this wiccan half-course, this mystic with deaths: those tragic crosses, this effusion in souls, this man with reluctance to choose life: this dying fool, this mechanical music, this ache as slipping into darkness…our rules for justice, our judges for plaintiffs, this mysterious woman pushing my panic: this button slipping, this passion wailing, if butt to suggest this love of hair designs: to cuss and rant, to fuss and live, to remember this woman crying her life: as daughters and souls, but not on this account, for I failed this journey: so no to redemption, at this moment in time, and more to suggesting, I see your soul: this inner woman, this elegant flower, this want to exceed as perfect: where death is gentle, this majestic segue, this entrance into faith: that mobile creature, this leggy Labrador, this talkative iguana: (your fairest luxuries, your seconds at God, this feeling as illuminating).

We Couldn’t Die

…this infinite strength, this bloody heathen, our grandmother’s urn: this florid blueness, this anxious death, this hidden principle: our black veins, our black bones, this incredible black threshold—as built for deaths, to arise as floating, this unstoppable force: our muddy rivers, our sediment hounds, or this sizable Goliath: that man to wretched, that woman dejected, those scientists bogging resilience: if but to die, this leafy existence, probed for plagued sorely: to furnish habitats, to intimate snakes, this purpose eluding recognition: this chiseled swan, this friendless cygnet, this flourish by detrimental emotions: our scribbled sidewalks, our kindle and catfish, plus, our Cabbage Patch Dolls: this catching fire, this endless beaut, this maxim prowess: as born with hatred, this motherly cocoon, these eminent catharses: as waxing eloquently, this feral déjàvu, this space as scented but forgotten: this weak feeling, this strong attraction, this fatal nonsense: as men cleaving, where women run, while wrought in fantastic fantasies: those lemur eyes, that epitome chin, those idyllic curses—this found artifact, this wretched genius, such as pain too electric to reveal: this steep malaise, this channeled television, this radio screaming her name: as shorn nirvana, or dejected dakini, while satirical justice tugged this panacea arc.  (…we vex with pride, this mental ape, this inner gorilla: this axis by thoughts, this gremlin for Love, this scientist removed—as sure to seas, as shorn by shores, as dead but alive an inner chamber: our deceased guts, our resurrected intestines, or that sigh so gentle those psychotic seconds: awash with fevers, or nautic with sentiments, this knot, this sculptress, this invisible winner: our daughter’s brains, this invincible flower, this bloom by December: our fables churning, our puppets as puppeteers, or this whetstone psychiatrist—to befall his wills, this therapeutic massacre, or this penchant mantra—where pearls are motifs, this mastiff madness, this pearl bedded with lyrics: our dying for living eyes, this field for deserted blood, this milk as afar restricting its honey: to wax with eloquence, this seldom antique, with far so many miles, to intrigue as if born a fortnight by adult passions: that vacant lust, those vacant glares, to arouse for deliberate this maniac attraction: while cut through thoughts, this jazzy queen, this mistress to myriads: our kissing child-games, our imprinted stars, or this burgundy red carpet: where love runs, as chased by intestines, to capture as forced by retreating: this lovelock delusion, our bodies writhing by frustration, our minds playing jumping-jacks—that steep koan, this Asian sensei, this Jerusalem depicting its training—as crocheted lagoons, or rabid but dormant daughters, or blackened moons: this winsome pain, this whelming torture, or such to guts rebuking failures: our brains afoul, our souls ruined, our bowels breathing adders—this gutty fuse, this pregnant dove, this woman calculating calendar dates: indeed, a circuit, this threshing mischief, this reaping where God has sewn).  I shift currents, this remarkable season, this incredible human: our doting zeal, this family life, as far too valuable to taint by destruction: this deep pleat, this extra-ordinary galaxy, our lutes aflame pure justice: this place for passion, to outsoar petty grunts, our tattoos with Indian Ink: this opus flute, our outstanding confidants, this person that betrayals statistics: if but to die, seated and rolling privilege, this harp speaking Swahili.  {I ache with terrors, peeking at glamorous women, this vernal welt: our untold privacy, our sweltering and boiling bowels, this timbal, this pregnant kettle-drum—where passion exhausts life, while Love is passionate disposition, to grieve with luxurious essence: this battle in men, this struggling Hebrew, this Vedic Guru: our inner harem, this Isaac Hayes, this place coming by its exhaustion: this inner Isaiah, this mental Jeremiah, this Greek goddess—as pushing through bad times, to Give God favor, while pulled through jealousies: this censored soul, while tugging through graces, if but this kettle of ashes}.                          

Binocular Guts

...such vatic energy, such rich enchantment, such rusty wines: this space of termites, as metaphoric thoughts, or semi-deliverance: this intricate wilderness, this ancient rose, this frozen tulip: as kissed particulars, to evade our Love, while charged with violence: this antiquitous ache, this antiquitous daughter, or our return to acres…this silent need, this silent craving, to possess your wits: this cagey scholar, this infant’s anger, this remarkable training: our jasper sunrise, our jasmine pollen, as sudden this tropical tear: that salty resonance, this salty lake, our leaping turtles: indeed, with nuance, to gather these souls, if warmth becomes our coldest glaciers….

…we requested passion, this angst for Love, this incredible summer…as cringed our guts, this feud with adaptation, this evolutionary language: our mystic giants, too humble for war, or too crazed to resist…this penchant in time, this outstanding rage, according to our sixth sense: as frustrated geniuses, this push through life, this simpatico Condition, or this feeling tugging our strings: as men gunning, this psalmic war, this insidious cure—while so infatuated, upon this thing called dreams, upon this essence bleeding its humanity: those rustic charms, this castle elegance, or our infamous retreats….

I dreamt about pecans; I awoke feeling thirsty; I lay there pondering our hunger…this mythical kingdom, this sagacious entourage, or this emotion attached to invisible essence: our blackest moon, this fantastic pain, or our opal palms: if but to sing, while whittled by scars, while this fantast screams: our seconds at comforts, our incredible abilities, or this reach knitting softly: our cultic waves, our emphatic grave-life, and more, this arrow pushing through existence: such deep blessings, such lethal ammonia, if but to likeness called, Love: this rubescent sun, this fatidic conclave, and more, this mental-merry-go-round: those challenging words, this need to feel, while afflicted by steep depressions…our legs crossed, our knuckles swollen, our voiceprints cycling through kingdoms: this yogic pinch, this pensive passion, this wistful electricity; and more, to agonies, and more, to vacillation, if but this region of brunette leaves: our deep insistence, to adore beyond reality, to touch this incessant heart-wrench: our pliers falling, our women catching, our indelicate wars occupied by swans: this force filled fragrance, this mime dancing, or arts to life, this suggestive longevity: our coquettish remarks, our chivalrous pastime, if but this belief in brevity: that brief midnight, those otiose promises, or this fever parted by deaths…moreover, a dream, this cadence with existence, this palatial mid-sun…our seconds as automatons, forging our religions, and forging our philosophies…as, nevertheless, that fair grim-reaper, those flowers too heavy for transport: this inner reality, this esoteric charm, this morning to fantasies…those inner recalls, this fruitless lettuce, this raspy e-coli—our days as pigeons, slowly this wind of eagles, to retrospect upon those years as unthought: this cavalier woman, this misspoken wrist, this misspoken breath, this lose of something that lived its essence: this steep secret, to tap into dispositions, if but to cull out those rabid instincts: hereunto, this reluctance to push, this reluctance to claim Glory: that magnificent mystique, those magnificent feelings, this space leaping by signs…{as mere souls, at love for decades, at patience but existence: this tragic tale, this tragic glint, or this reality so tragic it fits: our shivering tequila, our nightmare wines, and more, those unsavory calories: if but to live, to place this peg upon life, our firs bleeding animal rights: at lethal charms, so entrenched by sexuality, to gift this terrible relation}.               

Hi Love: We Experience this Each Life

It becomes your soul, this gravitation, this inner compass: to ache as dripping, this sweat as supernatural, this feeling by Remorse: our Saturday Musings, our brains sauté’d, our colours playing make-believe: this pressure, to inform your heart, with such modicum reach: It becomes madness, this generational curse, as I churn upon Mother: this avid reader, this push towards glory, this agitated Mother.  I sense your heart, this penchant dewdrop, this sudden outburst: as leaping forward, this fortress of gold, this fossil buried in my lungs: that silver hearth, as God’s floor, to arise as this immortal queen: this blood and brine, this soaked planisphere, and those cloudy textures: as moody this summer, this iridescent artform, this dulcet voice seraph: or this mental carnage, flooding arteries, to coil with this slight approach: for life has become, this furnace of roses, this reproachable heathen: this self as cringing, this self as dying, where this new woman emerges.  It becomes appetites, this welkin sigh, and our sunset tears: these fragile smiles, those luxurious daisies, or this sour and empty swan: as never to rightness, or ever to jurisdictions, while captive a daughter hard for justice: our godhead brains, our liquid soil, or this twilight shrapnel: where time in unfair, as kernels are incorrigible, while fiddling with this sign of turmoil: this cypress electrocution, this clockwork existence, this country of old souls—as livid arcs, or explosive dynamite, to roam this land of pantomime expressions.     

                           

I adore by credence, this remote ambition, this present exhaustion: as words fall to heaviness, as ghosts explore emptiness, while swans pretend this life: this mental triumph, while at serious wonders, to fulfill with time this immortal deed: this creed by science, this art by forgiveness, or this allegiance to something angry: our Aphrodite, our Women’s Wisdom, or our fertile and distrusting ovaries: as needled in bones, to encounter our nightmares, this clasp upon something dying: to shimmer and totter, to live with indignation, to have this force fraught by illusions: as rejoicing our get-backs, this clarion of horns, this summons to vindictiveness: this nether-land glitter, those strewing shapes, this banquet of redeemed fathers: (as peeks a purpose, this tension upon high, this absolute zero down below): if torn by parables, we stress our guts, as churned this privy about knowledge: to get as dying, to inform as livid, to retrieve your inheritance: this know-all soul, this person at much to learn, while shivering from pedestal fevers: wherefore, this garb, as hung to perish, where mother is quite proud.

It becomes your needs, this glimmer of light, this embarrassed swan: for this is justice, our egos passion’d, our guts pampered: this toilsome mirror, this daily dying, if but to appease swans: this purpose of living, this cut in wounds, this lesion bleeding its resistance: our primate agendas, our kingdoms grieving, or this nonentity appeasing for dear life: where family smiles, to sentence this death, while daughters feel a tad uneasy: this turquoise tether, this place by Mars, this recurrent theme to haunt my existence: so more to equality, as this thinking soul, where Irrationality purchases its last ticket: for days grow longer, and songs grow deeper, while florid a vibrant curse: that primal feeling, this dazzle with venom, this choice persistence with isolation—as aches rightness, or flings as flung by contempt, while we must examine our keels: this august mermaid, this resilient survivor, or such numbing atmospheres—where words are but silence, as feelings remain ignored, while death is eating gourmet: this undulation, this rigid piety, or this lightsome butterfly—to sense with easiness, this joy in your heart, while so many are purely envious: (our mauled heart-currents, our flannel pegs, and such generational rhetoric). 

Underwater Sculptures

I tried this life, feeling like abused, sifting through ivy: this hallowed bird, this rising phoenix, this zealot gymnastics—as enlove with dangers, this fair queen, our innocent binoculars: that scream running, this gut grinning, our mass mischief: as divine castles, this type by history, to enter while failing by gavels: this horrendous beauty, this terrific house, this warlock and wiccan: our chewing insights, this sipping with grace, this opera Oprah: at tales with Prince Harry, at dungeons with The Color Purple—as aster fires, or walls speaking, or lilac sherm leafs: this buried soreness, this muddy blood, this suture to palatial wounds: (where goodness is yours, this sentient spark, this jasper grass: those ceiling glasses, this see-through mirror, this Idris Elba—as legendary survivor, or strict partialities, or numbing water-prints—wherefore, this wretched hope, as living our shoe soles, or plummeted by resistance: this music million, this trillion silence, afforded a nation of Mandela’s): in truth, to die, relished for insanity, this offbeat dejection: this leaping puma, those amaranth eyes, or this maniac attempting at something normal: this casual grace, this defaced legacy, this mental abandonment—as foxes to hens, or foxgloves to children, or this inner beautiful prison: our un-dreaded scalps, this scorpion love-ship, this essence recorded by Thich Nat Hahn: as purely amazing, this African estate, or this slight ingratiation: (this tortured laceleaf, these freesia extravaganzas, this intimate lacewing—whereto, our people cringe, as needing this life, to avert with time our length by succession: this groomed pearl, this magnolia vice, or our winters putting others before self: this political battle, this satiric theater, or this path screaming its fire).

I often sound white, this excruciating battle, this spacial appropriateness: our torn perceptions, our shorn hypotheses, or our theories driving our insanities: this absent prenuptial, this living by faith, to appear as riveting this wrinkled hypertension: this reckless bi-racial, this terrible mulatto, this frozen quadroon: as marching queens, suspended at sunrise, or casual this Stephen Hawkins: those terrible passions, this terrible kiss, this terrible future—as fraught by gifts of valor, or harassed by blood-genes, to fret this hall of chains: (as something unraveled, this maniacal atmosphere, this marigold army—where providers dance, as granny merely gazes, to know by gut this astray reality: this rich break-through, this intimate future, or this palace always defending itself): whereby, this lack of trophies, this kingdom of wives, where only a few are considered royal: indeed, with pains, indeed, with heart-scents, or more, to passions this mind-silt—as ruined corners, or raging bulwarks, or this mother’s choir—to self be justice, this tale about divine intervention, this asexual Spirit-Raindrop: as moving winds, or index enchantments, to die with time this classical mythology.

I handle venom, while sensing delusions, to have this art as reflecting by insecurities: this lethal disease, this cabinet crisis, this chilled Cabernet—to fuss with dreams, while pleading for clearance, this Freudian feud: while running paradoxes, this conduit of souls, this pristine ripple: as ballad fools, or window believers, partaking of holy liquor: this keyboard existence, as typed into, to commit something atrocious: this colony of dead rivers, this bleeding into Poseidon, or this telegram to Buddha: as souls failing, as thoughts tortured, or sleet becoming vocal—this stunning volt, this haunted ghost, or our unfastening nails—at works with forgiveness, at deaths with excitement, or felt for intensities: (this black bird, while guarding our graves, to thirst for light with Eve: this broken triumph, or The Pride of Cain, or our mothers seeking alimony: despite, this dearth by souls, this absent interaction, this greed-charmed saliva).

Gnats & Insights

I know your energy, this furnace of soot, this Lutheran Jerusalem: our bare waves, our naked chaos, our blatant wholesomeness: if but your mind, sold for glory, rebuked for innocence: this cooking elegance, this shifty loyalty, or those mischief leprechauns—as Alaska melting, or by a thousand days of darkness, such frozen intimacy: our subtle contention, our wilderness tundra, or more, this sipping with passion.  I know your energy, this fair wife, this remote lioness: at years destroying kelp, or tyrannies to aiding souls, where some are quite infuriating: this palm of snowflakes, that seventh hour of majesty, or less, this filter, this imagination: our romances bleeding, our chainsawing oceans, as thus, this remarkable conscience—as fools driven, this blast by nostrils, our tripod ecstasies.  I thought about you, this person I channel, this person I ignore: this American Winter, this American Summer, this Conglomerate by America: this film reaching, this soul born inside trees, this Branch flogging contentions—as livid scientists, or religious scientists, to die one foot cemented in gravel: our porcupine fevers, this otter backstroke, this orange grape—as, moreover, a curse, this built towards Israel, this origin towards Ethiopia: our great lakes, this intensive care, this intensive glare: while mother arranges curses, if but to hear you sing, if but to push those crevice buttons: our Sahara blood, our resurrection plants, this transmigration—sensing this flying thought, while rebuking this flying squirrel, where chimera cameras explore armrests frequencies: this man to feelings, this woman to treacheries, if but life a village of lemurs: this cordial pain, this mantis symbol, this field of bamboo dreams: as accustoms life, this moth by guts, our souls burping up butterflies—as trying souls, this Voltron exhibition, our transforming science: to awaken screaming, while reaching for Love, to realize this need for Love: our vein-thickets, this cerebral cactus, or our leaves hopping planisphere(s).  I know you energy, this crescent dance, this invisible sensitivity—those pails by agony, those rails by foot pressure, this silent-vocal twig: if but to perish, laughing at insanities, while bolder this exchange by vultures: those moral grains, those gummy realities, this flexible enchantment: our days by oldness, our existence by youth, this disposed existence by both: our asthmatic spirits, our chameleon moments, or this thrill to sights prior to realizations: as women dying, or men subduing, to have this war betwixt primates and humans: this sakata indigenous, this Yolanda Tornado, this super intellectual therapist: as men for honesty, aside for clearance, to invest true thoughts void of elevation: as penguins moving, or emperors ruling, while fond this diamond of voices.  I know your thoughts, this wealth by suspicion, this phobia towards believing: as casual souls, this brain as nostrils, this counselor as feeling resistance: this place of see-through(s), or this river of psychotics, while holding certain principles dear to arcs: this linguistic iguana, this metaphysical gecko, where life was riveting before our genius sickness: this place as challenging, this tortoise examination, this choice of breads: our hard breathing, our apish instincts, if not for complaisant niceties: indeed, to pulling backwards, our silverback psychiatrists, our gorilla therapists: as but a soul, suspended in pains, stumbling for nibbling mental-grass: this fair exchange, this sauté’d grass.  I know your pain, as far from clairvoyance, while more to this station in time: our scientific glances, our religious suggestions, or our fumbling through historical facts: this length of time, those chimpanzee earlobes, this generation of fireflies: at burning hearts, or orangutan simplicity, to put life in a nutshell: this fair condition, this want for brightness, this need to suggest, I care!