Breath Seams

I was born easy, this miracle by rivers, this cottage downstream: that near-soul hut, this roomy wilderness, those twinkles our dusty nostrils: at laughs so even, at wars so soon, while becoming this life: our rabid hearts, alone for cold, or warm that Maybelline goddess: to sense divisions, while cursed to conceal, where capuchins play dominoes.  I ached for stature, I died upon petals, I loved sensuous music: this riveting pulse, those cymbals resolving, this sweet and violent violin: as pushing insistence, to have reality, where Love has become this art: those schisms as loved, those raptures as adored, this picture as but a reminder: that steep resistance, this impressionable mind, where family thrashed any innocent conceptions: those eyes, looking for embarrassed, a tare disgusted: this nauseous vomit, this redeemed infection, this person the only one where change becomes irregular—or foreign this curse, while drugs seem rooted in heritages and brains seem a bit high with such history: this rebirth, this chivalrous monster, this mirror speaking of privilege: indeed, this aye-aye friend, this blood sucking bat, this laugh as truly sinister.     …there were three, at this insanity, to discover there were too many: our genetics, if but that one truth, would redeem our cultures: this dream at sand-bars, this metal as melting, this rapture as curious: to damage feelings, while settled in clairvoyance, to realize that people rarely struggle for clarity: this academic project, this semi-religiosity, this atypical freedom—this adulterous apocrypha, this thrill with fornication, “if but those prudes were more relaxed”: indeed, our faults, our disgusts, our diseases: (if but our genetics, if but this root, while our audience is awaiting our arrival: those night texts, scribbled upon brains, such by response our huts): that bottom page, that bottom line, to sign at the headquarters of travesty: our brains in makeup, our fingers in ocean earth, our knuckles covered with barracudas: this sound for hereness, this feeling for thatness, or those pilgrims traipsing through dark horizons: (to feel nothing, to have ruined ashrams, while sick a taste refusing to clarify options: as caught that soul, but a story to family, but another restraining order—this lose I accept, I dance as emotions reflect, this reflexive enchant): at myriad thoughts, at this inclusive spirit, or captured by irregular behavior….    

…we enchanted chillness, this fatal explanation, this burning age-light: we discussed cupid, we interrogated Athena, and we laughed at literature: at tension this miracle, where ill-language sprang forth, where personal interests became more compelling than family: that old friend, those old lines, this fantastic climax: this fantast mystic, this offense to souls, while separation is immediately followed by fornication: at not a breath, where minds are selfish, where men are asking for something irregular: that chance to piece puzzles, that chance to read minds, or that chance to fix heaven: (…this hate in cries, this soul as reversed, to want for something decent: *for one to behave as we perceive them, instead of constant disappointment, where Jesus turns into some sort affected Adonis*: this Adonai feeling, this goddess in a man’s dreams, this workshop courtroom: to lose respect, to hear you couldn’t speak, to know for this tender damage…).  I felt concerned, this battle in children, this want to please more than self: this heavy gut, this page in Zelda, this craft in Sonic, this restless telic design: as bigger than lights, pushing passions, while forging this philosophy: to know death, while requested to live deaths, where allegiance seems irregular—this criminal curse, this hyena lawyer, this irregular take on decencies: *to hear your eyes, at such contention, attempting that one go-again: this must to relinquish, for choices are rare, where difficulties come with seeing clearly: this inner sheep, this outer blacksheep, this picture perfect family*.     

Perfect Errors

…this threshed genetic, this pathetic existence, this dying soul: as juiced with sin, or extravagant luxuries, peering at this imperfect gem: can’t nothing die, living this satanic mischief, while longing for this man’s wife: our daughters giggling, our mothers livid, feuding this diamond tester: our kites at breakage, our women at woes, this perfect universe: that cold goblin, this aye-aye terror, or this eye-eye gremlin: our guts ruined, our diarrhea laughing, this pistol purchased with heroin: our minds at persons, this field internal, this life as breakage: this wine stained goddess, this sense with pieties, or melancholic at bars: this pub for liquor, this granny dying, this man thinking (of) mother: this psych pushing, this soul gathering, this inking mother: or beautiful fires, this lamp with ecstasies, this Yahwistic algorithm: those epiphanies, this noetic breakage, this rhapsodic maniac: to gut for survival, to lose something kinetic, where something blue speaks to familiar carnivals—as laughs Scarface, this face of deaths, this running capuchin: the wrong message, this pictured swan, this man pleading Jesus: this man with pillars, this test with pliers, this mafia as father’s: this prime beef, this civilized death, to cut with wasps: our brains as garbage, this fool as deadly, this dangerous exploitation: at sublime captures, to live this lesion, this bleeding wound: this pus for liquor, this warmth for passions, this ghetto for nutrients—as nurtured to destroy, while fighting tendencies, as told by consensus this Jude is watching: this Big Brother, this uncle officer, this agent trespassing: to speed through women, while addicted to women, this man at love to redeem mother: our broken music, this rebel in essence, this portrait laughing at Jesus: where mother screamed, Truth, this ducking limitation, while to arrive aware of this legacy: if but his guts, to know your path, while something felt good for me: this reckless cadence, this dim cliff, this man laughing with Jesus: our darts splattering, this religion as background, this fool as immortal or famous.  …to dine with crows, as close to eagles, where genetics point to something historical: this future granddaddy, this last resort, this man pushing for this little girl: our eyes at water, our mothers feeling slaughtered, at lyrics with pure language: this beaut as dying, this beaming maniac, this curse as beating to hell this family: our fathers hustling, our mothers turning tricks, if but to place a plate at junior’s table: this remote laughter, this agonizing secret, our cousins with pictures: to laugh at moms, while freaking his brains, where a younger runs into banks: this have-what game, this have-not pain, where an adolescent stabs a Lexus: that woman, that mother, that hell to cavities: indeed, these blurry eyes, this man laughing, this death as too fatal: to ask for comebacks, to ask for civilization, this immortal caiman: our friends dying, our brains running, this ventriloquist scything our frantic behaviors: to need for wholesome, this boring existence, this thing concerning endeavors: as doing bad, while freaked off of gin, while slanging another travesty: this boosting mentality, this young tidal wave, or this magnificent boarder-line: to get it laughing, while drugged at flights, this twelve year old reject: {it was hell, Love, this man at tears, to push an Urban City: our warriors grinding, this stuffing of socks, this big mouth language: to drift at fifty, slamming through gutter lanes, to wonder of this remission disease}: where days are head-storms, accused of jumping this gun, while curious about decencies: this aged soul, this wisdom monster, and this agitated exchange: to sense blues, to lose eye contact, to freak out Uncle Sam: to go big, Love, this laughing for sanity, this freaked existence, this husband at tears: to know resistance, to claim insanity, while as sane as George Washington: this bad luck, to act as if, where persons fall to nonchalance; this banging heart, this shark at drastic(s), or this tragic but attuned mother: where granny sat in private, while aunt died gently, to lose so much but a child sacrificed.

The Beneficiary

…at closed cliffs, prying for entrance, this vestibule of ghosts: this dinosaur legacy, this shoebill genetic, at courage this lake walking upon sand: our brooks laughing, our souls so close, our daughters picturing maniacs: this watchful granny, this intelligent uncle, this pensive wife—as men drown, before coming to life, to bat a layer those droppings: this keen fool, this losing father, this forfeited friend: to cuss with silence, to act with behaviors, at court-lands walking in shackles: those perfect errors, this fine island, this frisky beaut: as driven capuchins, elated for at ecstasy, this poisonous centipede: where mother was golden, this perfect replica, while death haunted its subject….  […this account at hero, this heroine at capacity, this daughter deciphering but needing guidance…this plain view, those immortal codes, or these endless commercials—while deep at execution, this guillotine laughing, this head to this pouch or rolling for dusky skies, this daunting allegory, those mystic fens: our mayfly curse, this intricate web of do-goods, or hell to wings this darkest ritual…].  I adored this rescue, this inner antenna, this inner shard-grief: while Love appeared, this thought carrying particles, at dinner about a curse: our marooned feelings, our taupe eyes, this sable rich galaxy: to ponder lullabies, or to remember this filled palm, while aching for redemption: where mercy is foreign, unless received, to request forgiveness for something most heinous—this field of sociopaths, this summer rain, or chains dangling from perceptions—this living matrimony, our vows stressed by barnacles, while Love is quite ecstatic. 

I’m in-for-out, this mental vestige, and those misappropriated perceptions: as far too easy, to suggest infatuation, where one is trained in deception: such pale flesh, such rubric concerns, such rubric cries: this husband fawning, this riveting body, this tale as too old to vet: our mercurial feelings, this sudden anger, this course at magic islands: this Fantasy Land, this Fantasy Island, this miracle of situations: to come to peaks, aroused with violence, to cut for veins this trenchant elation: our normal eyes, this normal soul, while requirements scream for a certain slant: this given insanity, found in this treacherous soul, while morals abated become tsunamis: that winking greenhorn, those winkless eyes, this tale for pure control: to utilize prowess, this audience of thieves, this carnival of clowns: where Love was perfect, as detached from sentiments, to evolve as one a Pagan of our crimes.

I inked a number, this numerological curse, our days at Taco Bell: this sentient mystic, this sentient meditation, as souls become blurry into this picture: our years laughing, our deep inheritance, this grain as convoluting soul-caves: this remarkable woman, this other at detention, or both two worlds into chaos: this film of daughters, this inner photo-shop, this misconstrued realization: if but for remnants, to expose to colleagues, as facing something too horrible to redeem: so less to fantasy, this blacksheep outcast, and more to reasons to avoid bleak realities.

…into glorious eyes, as told to cameras, this incredible gem: those rosy freckles, this botanical penchant, those insistent quarts: at lavish flights, at inner membrance, or our doctors flying for caged by realities: this urgent nowness, this fleeting hereness, this extra-ordinary whatness: at casual responses, while battling inveterate proprieties, to become angered that one isn’t flying: this mental camera, this endless film, this picture at casual cries: if but to exist, our animal instincts, those sausage and potatoes—where Love is nonchalance, peeking through restricted eyes, while forging this false horizon….   

Swan Blurry

I ruffle feathers, as unbeknownst at incipience, this havoc moon rise: this swanic future, those swanic friends, this summer at leisure: this panting guy, this brook with meadows, this purple monsoon: this rain falling, our souls howling, our actors passing forth: those creative lines, as mother muses, retrieving a subtle insight: our grannies reaching harvest, this prime episode, to grip with essence: this feudal ballet, this symphonic allegory, those resounding clarinets: our jasmine gowns, our turquoise evenings, this remarkable poet: to lose her cries, as to lose her energies, while feeling sad over a stranger: this steep humanity, this foreign whistle, this sudden whisper: our inner glaciers, this in-sounding forest, this coppice of trees: our cedar roots, our cypress Legos, this mesmerizing Yahtzee: our building corridors, this ghostly vestibule, this ecstatic presence to hearts: our fire, Love, this holy adoration, this grandfather’s clock: where days are macaques, as nights are chimpanzees, while morning regroups its feelings: this feel-feel life, this river by emotions, this inner italic.     I love your mind, this feeling at seconds, this steep realization: these Zenists Techniques, these Mystic Zenists, these Buddhists Mystics: to push a little, sipping something sweet, at thoughts concerning an old friend: this ruthless parallel, this demonic pleasure, or those cemented tattoos—as conditioning existence, this out-leaved position, while raking at chipmunks: our goblin sensations, our gorging steaks, or this second for fasting: this Eudemonia, this Picasso Legacy, this inner Plato Dynasty: our epicurean desires, our stoic heartbeats, or this round scathing doubts: if but to pause, while thinking on Truth, to realize this caiman existence: our aches laughing, this world abandoned, this shark two inches from attacking: if but to win, while losing aforetime, this sub-planet of pragmatists: as pushing further, to dance with Frasier, while Niles laughs sadly: our graves as jewels, this return as news, to ponder our old souls.     I adore a swan, if never again those eyes, for we share genetics: this rejected force, this probing cadence, this inner friend: as mother toasts a bagel, this lathering cream cheese, or this Pharaoh screaming over marshmallows: this satanic satisfaction, this holy cauldron, or better, this devil converting to Christianity: indeed, to broach topics, this steep impeachment, or this ironic manifestation: as crying moons, or elated Taurus’, to feel that life will suffice: this color we ignore, this quadroon political, this feature in black cultures: or life drinking, or this perfect countenance, or this song so steep it sings: (your miracle eyes, this palm of being-ship, this new adventure: this world of friends, this universe of scoundrels, this want to give you this gift: this shortened page, this rage in men, this dispersion into this suppressive nature: as ethics watching, this ought in women, this cyberspace feud—where Love was genuine, to effect a change, while torn for truths destroyed our ovens: this casual address, while sad a notch, but revving this Ghost for clear advocacy): those forgotten prayers, this table inside, this multiplication: our mother’s laughter, this woman trying hard, this space in women attempting to perfect life: this rosy child, those rosy cheeks, as dear to life such innocence: to ask simple questions, as father is patient, to retrieve a thought of entanglements.     I end with wounds, as never to blackmail, but more this sky-crazed existence: this inner zealot, this cultic friend, or this steep ingested history: our deep aversions, becoming our charms, to gravitate towards something that’s revolting: our serenaded flutes, this cello response, this wilderness of orchestras: this beautiful swan, this precious insistence, this lake as covered in petals: our sibling feuds, this place in years, to look back with sentimental fondness: this soul spacing, this rhythm chasing, or more, this scent of vanilla: our dreams in jars, our jars tossed to seas, our ambiguity settling.                  

Brain Pictures or Mental Mongooses

I sense silence, this blue whale, this situation: our captive glances, this flute with wings, this glen treading his valley: our reworked eyes, our rewound cries, this reference for shuttled insights: those passive macaques, or long-tailed monkeys, or tailored internal mnemonics: this euphonic life, this inner echo, this picture speaking Latin: our here for now, or this revving proclamation, while kindergarteners trace alphabets—our piccolo dreams, our Pinocchio lies, our mental Stewie: as men captured, while laughing insanity, a dream pictured with jealousies: as daring to fly, but afraid of heights, where others are soaring: this infant alligator, this caiman gin, this adult human—at tyranny’s lake, at mercy’s pond, or this insidious reality: that captive feeling, our captive men, our swimming tadpoles: our bones with sinews, our warriors climbing out of graves, our bodies falling to wind-pours.  I met a mantis, I plucked a flower, this exotic sap—those inner screams, this irritability, as but this segment in life: those cranberries, this summer diet, this rooftop gymnasium—as, nonetheless, this instinct in souls, and this California Sunray: to see too closely, to awaken mid our discourse, or to walk away that sorrowful awning: this inner psychiatric, those revving ancestors, this turquoise decision: as far too subtle, this pain for alignments, this man slicing sugarcane: this tranquil feeling, as having its price, where effort is afforded for racing: this urgent world, our anxious urgencies, or this loss for lacking dispossession of self: our itchy flesh, our Sahara Fires, our suppressed rabbits—at thickets by nooses, to avoid tragedy, where a little excitement induces a Doctor’s Mentality.  I wrote Triolet(s), I dined with shame, I laughed while feeling existence: this penchant woman, this firm belief, those cagey investigations: to sing with hearts, to relive and rethink, while affections linger in cabinets: this journal with ears, this silence with vocals, this touch as remaining touchless: our perfect toes, our rescaled intestines, this blank admiration: to cry as livid, or livid for crying, while, nevertheless, it’s much ado about feelings: those casual husbands, or intense women, or both as interchangeable: to sit with apes, to draw a monkey’s blood, where a father sits with daughter afraid by history: whereas, we station with pains, those skylark trefoils, this burning sensation: our analytical deaths, our intrepid forgiveness, our dying enchantments: to border love, but devoid of love, at love as mere a sentimental disclosure: this mood for passion, this science as winning, while many are paying attention to decaying leaves: this ladybug afar, this set of binoculars, or our upclose morality: this captive of souls, our ethical conundrum, or this instructional magnet. 

We sing this life by ifness, or whatness, while attracted to thatness: our used sentiments, our used prowess, our forgotten selves: where youth was wild, and middle ages were dramatic, while old age cleaves to its insistence: those scales falling, our Tobias prophets, this fire as seated upon mind auras: our hearts as penchant, our guts as wistful, to sense with life this pulling gate: if that lake with time, if but to withstand attractions, if but those controlling elements: hereupon, these classic flames, this notorious ifness, this infamous thatness: this dedicated lawyer, this sophisticated Judge, or those insistent doctors: as souls gunning, at oceans scudding, or this persistent office: as coughing up mucus, or swallowing volts, to tear with life this power for sexiness: or casual mafia thoughts, leering into Scarface, at concerns our mother’s ovaries: our resurrected bark, our magician branches, this feud with composing as one feels: this cryptic force, as churning letters, to insist upon decencies: our souls needing life, if but to sing at life, as one passed thirty is feeling unsung: this blank existence, this winning crowd, this motion towards something that disappears like ghosts.

Garden Skies

I saw faces, this sky-thunder, this super-fantastic—this father’s ambitions, this mother’s fantasies, this fair-skinned evening grin: our nights dancing, our carnivals by Luther, our winter demons screaming rhythm for blues: this inner Levert, this natural high, this cousin winning: our banks laughing, this steep insurance, this capital sinister—as casual friends, or mere acquaintances, to accidental upon a touch: this rolling vehicle, this cloud seven, this smoke seeping into dreds: this latest book, this secret diary, this soul’s feelings—to drift upon stars, peering at turquoise seas, about friction those blue eyes: this Jewish frequency, this Jewish Priest, this torn for tussling ambivalence: those sweet aromas, this monster for love, this cannabis about gourmet.  I push realism, laughing at heights, a bit pulled inwardly: this cell-penchant, this roomy sorrow, this natural insistence: our daughter’s whys, those fuming rivers, this gown for baptism: those ghostly cries, this picture painted crisis, our oneness as too bold for clearance: those taupe skies, those taupe brows, this anxiety stressing our morning steaks: our eggs with onions, our coffee with rum, or this empty room prior to screaming crickets: that soul we loved, those piccolos we carved, this flute where resistance couldn’t tolerate laughter: that sudden decision, a spurt upon gusts, where ghosts simmered in agony.  I’m one to blame, addressing my sharks, tugging my spine: this mysterious box, this rapture of energies, this swollen rib: this mystic angst, this war with nothingness, this charmed and reborn snake: our warm castles, this night-passion, this empty bed: our intricate movies, this ceiling cinema, those particular motions: at Hozier for wisdom, at Jesus for power, at Yahweh knitting a piece of Israel: this holy choir, this inner acrobat, this sky-sin-calligraphy: this woman’s insistence, to aid this soul, while to carry a segment of my river: this seeming sin, this push for renown, this curse as delivering its intestines: to feel human, but tugged sorely, this person peering forward: these analytical gusts, this internal snow-storm, this man looking while advising: this deep oneness, this distinctive shyness, or this reason to ask, Did I do that: this surprised self, this saffron diamond, those smiles if but that reality: this frozen flame, this summer miracle, this autumn regret: our satisfaction, our ocean clouds, this telic outwitting purpose: our cursed shelves, this poodle’s settee, or California remaining hateful. 

…we heard laughter, we sung Satan, we leered at green eyes: this pale machine, this nutty professor, this side by science: we saw fire, our eyes to liquor, our triple six stamps: as sudden this water, this mid-room Ghost, this frantic crowd: our liquid garden, our exits blocked, these feral beasts: at opened eyes, asleep sweating, tossing for tugging at remembrance: this soaked pillow, this Christian Africa, this tribal pigmy: such firebrand, such fireworks, such loud, crucifying silence: this agent watching, this fair attraction, this engine revved at capacity: to push a valve, to re-leap to faith, to interview Isaac Hayes: this day for thoughts, as tomorrow whistles, where tonight whispers…].     I sought for Joshua; this arm stretched high, this sun afloat at days beyond: this mosaic soil, this prosaic arc, this kiss to death’s loudness: this doctor’s pain, this pain with wings, this ability to remain unseen: this ice-flame, this hug from bars, this niece at eagles: those Isabella Queens, this Swanic Ballet, this pensive relaxation: to slam a shot, to look as monsters, this fair choking daisy: this country aesthetic, those simplistic pleasures, as one quite envious: this deal with consequences, this system as controlled remotely, or dear at disgusts as never prouder: this steep riddle, this confused culture, our passions at low chakras: this life we live, this life we give, our women dying at our lead….                         

                   

You Make it Hurt

…look at her eyes, this born travesty, this cut to neurons—this blood war, this vein curse, those ribbons at such an early age: this elasticity, this fatal grip, this nine year old blazing: those blue petals, that fair flesh, those rubric eyes—as dead with justice, peering at father’s gavel, to behave as but a gentleman: this Matthew Rook, this seething reality, this course as bleeding professors: this miracle mile, where mother was raped, where officials blamed our victims: our jarring concerns, our burgundy money, this bank filled with deceptions: as kamikazes, screaming at demons, but favored with sin: this blush dripping, this woman smiling, as behaviors seemed mechanical: to leave perfection, chasing this shot, or this botanical island: those red blades, this grassy living room, this plant for oxygen: this leather footstool, this satanic beige chair, or those ravished bottles crinkling: if but to perish, tasting kosher philosophies, at markets owned by Jews—this furious planet, our lost children, this police officer dining at candles: this den of lioness, this arena of apostles, this camp of hazardous gas: as daughter flourished, this inner jail, to announce so late in development: our black carpets, this sipping dynasty, this plush majesty: those feelings for power, this power for rigidness, our psychiatrists stripping Reason: our Super Egos, if but by crucifixes, to lay before our inner tribunal: where mother passions, as granny laughs, while gramps pursues that irregular gut: our mental blouses, this dying concern, to realize—We are nothing more than habits: those trained diamonds, this sightly mirror, or more at deaths, this unforgiving sensation: to want by normality, while consensus bleaches trestles, to appear a weed in a vase: this troubled concern, this mother’s kiss, this woman’s trespass: our late rent, our out-fused lights, or more, this meal consisting of noodles and sauce: those curvaceous blind-posts, this blatant stop-sign, or this ambiguous orange garden: if but to love, where scientist frown, where fawning becomes rapacious reproach….  I’m lost, Love; this audience pitching acorns, this man a gut too insensitive: this film replaying, this image dying afar, these worlds habitual forecasts: our First Love, this adverse curse, this miracle upon jaded wings: this too deep interaction, this feeling meaning so little, while Love adventures as playing souls: those jasper dice, this jasmine mile, our saffron ambitions: to see for Love, this extra- resentment, to push passed this riving inconsistency: that split in frontal lobes, this man at edges, those irrational seconds: this denim queen, this evening king, or those night owls: to sip sweet gin, or radical vodka, at arm’s length this amazing dream: our years at signs, our gusts at carrying—this pregnant rapture: this pain by dungeons, this pilgrim-blind catastrophe, this woman searching but too suspicious: at deep concerns, wrangling with Jesus, while laughing at pure hypocrisy: our Australian Rites, our Danish Concerns, at thoughts while a bit too wild: this daughter’s haven, this sister’s affection, this mother’s den—as men dying, where men must be men, while death has Wisdom’s Appeal: this inner primate, this blatant shoebill, this soul as undercurrents: this quixotic abuse, this open toe, or more, this woman feeling reused: our cavities singing, our lungs restricted, this curse becoming morbid: as heinous feelings, at heinous negotiations, while inverted a notch too close to tender blues.  (…we laugh to outwit pain, while clutching this avalanche, while seeping into rivers: this tragic Love, this tragic carnival, this tragic smile: if but this gnat, as gnawing at conventions, to love afar as he benefits: this want for esoteric, this hard won disciple, this female apostle: our Thecla’s, this inner picture, this outer temptation: this woman named, Debra, this contemporary named, Huldah, or this mental voyage upon our First Queen: at damsel brains, at sheer Rihanna’s , or more, at sheer perfection: this crane to hearts, this welt to souls, this blood blue purple: where Love participates, at this castle ordeal, our rugs resenting footprints: as wrestled eyes, trespassing ballet, while singing Sia’s Song…). 

Sky Softness

…this subtle melancholia, eyeing this sleeping vex, attending to this imposing angst: or dancing before crowds, this boisterous laugh, this hidden feature: as pleasing humanity, while dearly at currents, where fresh air seems dusky: this orange/yellow, this florescent green, or purple majesties—those ribbons with signification, this radical frequency, those early morning prayers: or restless but asleep, or asleep but restless, where hours pass with amazement….  I ate life, before I knew her dream, whereas, these days I watch existence: this feudal participation, this sighted blue sky, or this turquoise crush: as kids pass letters, as teachers intervene, our embarrassed legacies: this old world, this old feeling, as emotions have forfeited uniqueness: this bounce in music, this feral vision, this evening’s allegories: to suggest a review, while having another’s scream, our cantankerous underpinnings: this pump for oxygen, this water for coffee, or these images as nonsensical—that daring star, to arrive at midnight, where Love, plus, I, indulged in promises: this touchy feeling, this moment’s sincerity, this brief explanation: to surf frequencies, as confused by life, to realize this hidden feature: our Dear Maria, this clean but filthy miracle, or this metrical riddle, or eyes too pure, for rapture’d souls—our graves at Sonnets, our airs at Triolet(s), our passions as devastating literature—if but as sung, this trenchant Tao, or those sunrise blues…those hazel jeans, this cocaine blouse, by secrets appearing as un-captured or uncaged, or lost for dreams, while agaze’d by living imprints…this tall tale, this unmoved motion, this redeemed feeling slipping his grips: that achy monsoon, this tugging at guts, those dusty particles: if but this rapture, to lend such resonance, where strangers become indebted: at long doubts, at terrible realities, while skeptic concerning pure decencies: those old reports, driven by Christianity, while snatching courage to breathe slowly: this man at feelings, this ghostly miracle, this source pushing particular emotions: our Dear Theresa, this glow with penalties, this life with growth-spurts: this ageless sensation, our bodies falling to decay, our minds, if captured, increasing at alacrity—this swift attraction, this familiar uneasiness, where infatuation becomes this casual interaction: our earth at blossoms, our tulips speaking this language, our perceptions becoming intricate: at tensions with facts, while attending to practical matters, where flights attend our imaginative spheres: this sky rose, or those cloud petals, or our personalized phoenix: this fire-land, this watery clear pond, or our attitudes seeming frisky: those purring kittens, this barking puppy, or this vivid landscape: our castles coming lowly, our realism appearing grim, while fantasies seem to flourish upon empty winds.  (…such exquisite insights, such radical concerns, such at life feeling inadequacies…this coyote’s trail, this jaguar’s cave, or more, our beating drums: this tribal sophistication, this revving pure energy, or better—upon a glance lost to existence: this bowl of grapes, this shared walnut, this apricot with teas—where today becomes feelings, while tonight becomes bearable, where in secret, our feelings become familiar: this steep impression, this confusing fact, this dissipating reality: at certain thoughts, playing tetras within, or prescience with dice: this baffling reality, this rapturous essence, or better, this person retreating from pains: as darkness ruptures, as alligators hide, while bats are at stations: this cooling breeze, this warm sweat, or this need for impartialities: this calm distance, this game for rules, while neither party are all that concerned: this imposing intrusion, if but to stir deserts, while this lizard runs crazily upon hind-legs: our seconds with clarity, or this perfected craft, while wrestling with disconnections: this ravine soul, this falcon spirit, or better, this part human animal: our mental positions, as ravished for sacrifice, while staring too intently at blurry horizons: to dine upon aphorisms, to feel in deep awe with writers, where our legacies have become immortal…).

Outwitting Inner Primates

…this inner soul-carpet, this red rug, this violet fly: our waiting hostilities, this thrill-me-now, to curse upon lemur wings: our leaping lutungs, our flitting geladas, or hell to dynasties this love for mystics: our burning hearts, this foolish wish, this Skinny Popcorn—as sifakas scudding or black widows spawning, this inner parade at travesties: this swan-lake, our dry Australia(s), our moist fires: as blindfolded blinking, this charging Leo, this retreating Libra: at flight with foxes, or spinning with aye-aye monkeys, or eye-to-eye with furious women: this dream so subtle, this man so ecstatic, this calm disposition: as ruled for outs, this baseball frenzy, this sketch of feelings: our Raphael portraits, this maiden in perfection, or this hunting animalistic nature: at dehydration, rummaging this cactus, while singing with dung beetles: those trenchant waters, this trenchant tale, our queens ambushed amongst our wildlife: this romantic kiss, this Peter Pan rescue, this mermaid daughter—as men fall to Precious, this hellish contempt, this repeated argument: this scissor’d universe, this perfect image, this want for that perfect performance: our steaks with onions, our potatoes with gravy, or broccoli with garlic: indeed, this night, wrestling at Natalie’s, or hawking for languishing upon this Australian beaut: our jealous frenzies, our Jewish gorgeous, or this man pulled with aesthetics: this harmonious grave, those years screaming, to cut silence with scythes: at dry thunder, at somber sips, at radiant mystics: this yogic charm, this yogic harm, if but to find this world of immediacies: this fire devil, this warm sauna, this flaming tepee—where Love was ambivalent, while teary to deaths, at curses screaming innocence: this diseased fool, this pushing frenzy, this sudden realization: this pendulum of vibrations, this inner tetras life, to piece pieces while confessed as one distorted: this humorous life, our leafless oak-brains, this cedarchest filled with mother’s memories: our cobra infatuations, as meant to hold composure, to find with lessons this midday catastrophe: at nomadic thoughts, at nomadic feelings, while tugging backwards to explain essence.  [I met pythons, I died laughing, I came to senses this ointment to scars—our days at poetry, our nights at reflections, this quadrant of flying souls: those kilometers, this rapping frenzy, this cut to mid-brains: this never-for-life, or our women wondering, while spewing venom: this fair game, our bowels with blood, our guts upon pavements: this monsoon existence, this gust of morals, those ethics sacrificed: those tarsier eyes, those perfect bangs, this ache for one that has lost appeal: at terrible confessions, this inner macaque, this outer academic: as so careful, while losing life, to sit in abeyance: that instant ruined, this lose as chiseling, if but to drill an ocean’s ridge: that blinding sulfur, those blue ice-cubes, this whale flopping upon desert grains: our hearts smiling, this infuriating high, as natural as one emitting through substances: our tamarin fruits, our mandrill hostilities, or more to existence this want for amoral creatures: this philosophic, as built upon temperaments, where one ponders their best interests]: our vervet monkeys, this aesthetic glance, this astute breed: while thinking nature, to realize primates, while hovering over this monogamous sentiment: our Aristotle(s) at mind, this high reasoning at skies, or better, our children up against this warfare: this violet hamadryas, this sharp instinct, or this passive long nose proboscis: if but this life, or to skype our ambitions, if but to love as perfect at every second: this curse for humans, this ability to compose, this capacity to follow monopoly: as riveting acrobatics, or daredevil daughters, or mothers longing for a perfect history: this crazy thought-process, to mourn this misunderstanding, while cleaving to perpetuation: this feud over standards, this Maria dancing, this energy at wants—to misguide feelings, to rapture at cloud seven, or to possess a perfect session: this rapid machine, this rabid ache, this feeling where souls die as unachieved—those highbrow gazing(s), this highbrow theologian, or curses separating our sentiments: our baby-boomers, this seventy’s braw fire, or more, our writhing consequences.

Consensus as Normality

…at terrible conclusions, at baffled genetics, at reasons to forgive: this primary vessel, this mental castle, this Polaroid image: our aches cemented, our mid-fuses captured, this sudden volt returned at mid centimeters: our balanced sorrow, our melancholic alcohol, at guts laughing while teary: this cryptic outlook, this mystic microphone, this internal beeper: too much pride, while wearing Glamour, our seconds inhaling dust-mites: those miracles fleeing, those cameras re-fusing, or brains to Xerox our frontal lobes: at tragic concerns, this daughter’s testimony, this shot as lethal: our bellicose rivers, our bellicose attitudes, or better, this woman fuming hell and acting with courage: this bride of scale-damage, this father of delinquents, this mother her mile disappearance: at lakes laughing hyenas, at church laughing hyenas, or at graves falling forward: our roots to guts, our palms to soil, our minds to concrete fonts: to hear it screaming, this inner dungeon, this essence yearning by deconstruction: as constructed miracles, our ghetto portraits, this museum picturing insanity—this inner clock, this feudal machine, or art to shivers this voice: at chairs wheezing, at lungs addled, or torn for afraid peeking at mirrors: to glance for seconds, or stare for minutes, to then wink with satisfaction: this red panda, our mice gated, our women mating….  {…our cobweb-skies, this bottle of spruce, this liquid rosebush…this old feeling, this weaving Penelope, this man his books: to read a section, while jotting notes, to imagine blacks etching our margins: this rude soul, this need for control, this river of aged manipulators: this retired nun, this new Abbess, or this confidential Confessor: as lives our lies, as abandons our cores, to realize a forced situation: where nurses guzzle, and barkeepers guzzle, and Jesus guzzles: this heaven-wine, this rich licorice, while Mary pushes a son’s debut: our latte mornings, our late noon cabbage, our mid-moon-catastrophes: this mule laughing, this fool to mimicry, this ambivalent essence: this middle world, this quadroon reality, this mean father: while father should acquiesce, for daughter lives through rugs, while stepfather says less as days pass: this matriarch position, this granny musing, while private conversations speak to deep resentments: but more to laughs, and less to outbursts, while behavior must be suited for priests: our aerie pirates, our aerie hunters, or better, this aerie heart-crane: to shift with thoughts, this purposed agony, to feel as eye-droop: this tiger moth, this spider bat, our waves as becoming prolific: this intelligent countenance, this scientific response, or those persons specializing at calm composure: while father cringes, for laughing out silence, to rent a documentary on foret flies…}.  *…serenade winter thorns or cry summer anguish, where autumn is deep reflection—this complex simplicity, this angle bleeding, this fool as nothing but conversation—where butter could drip, or oils could simmer, while hell to longevity: this brevity life, this brief anything, this tale for our father’s royalties: this daughter to memories, this sister to animosities, this difficult position as thinkers: this land of loneness, this country of writers, or this cul-de-sac of poets*: to dream for essence, to perfect that style, while pilots fight for venues: at extra-concerns, where nothing is sacred, while others are stripped of innocence: this Federal passerby, this State Official’s laughter, this Anti-Presidential Election: our brethren dying, our kids in cages, our Jews in Concentrating Camps (1942-1945)—this Japanese Detention Camp (1942), this Black Diaspora, this inner slaughter, or this present day Mentality: our years at substances, our years as Communists Suspects, our Heads Drilled to Read our Thoughts: this trusted adversary, this need for insistence, this pardon for all but glory: our cold glares, our evening apologies, our morning cigarettes: this latte with bagel, this bagel with cheese, this cheese as striking mucus: our shaves with liquor, our women as spectators, our psychs as seeping into consciousness: (while others rarely enter, this furious observation, at wonders concerning mental telepathies: this American Lateness, this India Capital, or more, this rice with sardines—while attempting at laughter, too worn for wear, or too abused for normality)!

Terrific Cries

…our introductory to chains, this flying miracle, as came from mother’s stomach: this slice for brains, this gut for shames, this gunning insanity: this physique, as cursing Jesus, this Magdalene tragedy: those bold hips, those remarkable calves, those lightning teeth: to scythe Ghosts, to flame profanity, this harlot queen: at gusts with passion, at tears with independence, but cleaving as dying one last miracle: this form of essence, this lesion for academia, this class of religious pursuits: those fair questions, this slight undercurrent, or these confused analyses: (to live as bubbles, to pop as whales, our blood seeping into seas: this affiliation, this enchanted mafia, those screams about Vegas: as pure psychologists, or radical psychiatrists, our years decoding encyclopedias: this membrane attached, this neurotransmitter at mystics, this lagoon bleeding lemur eyes—as cried those months at tetras, to arrive those years in dungeons, while caught for captured prior to meeting arms: this mad adventure, this cursed adventure, this woman cleaving to treasuries: our bowels grieving, our stomachs rumbling, this vein popping at encouragements: our blessed bodies, our behavioral silence, or our behavioral belligerence: to dance as ladybugs, this pollen for bees, this stinger once upon a strike: where Love was vacant, at core travesties, while wrapped around pure venom: this man running, if but those charms, to die as livid this curse of roses): this American Oxygen, this filmed glamour, or incredible upon a scar: this tale for souls, this laced sunrise, this stippled moon-cast: our daughters laughing, as it felt for goodness, to arise gentle with those loses: this granny bleeding, as gutted at wars, our doors pushed by insanity: this sensing element, this cold November, this push into regions: this dear resilience, this deep resistance, if but this father our arms reaching helplessly: as gramps shutters, while shunned by intestines, to bleed as one sliced: this bowl of morals, this plate of ethics, this feeling where good is disgusting: our sights to actresses, our deep distresses, where imagination becomes chemical: this surreal universe, this birth of beings, or this cathartic road to home.  I say at things, as a soul watching, to remark gingerly upon beauty: this sensing woman, this shaman soul, this mystic yogi: at tears to lose, at rivers contributing, or at brooks with endearing wonders: this tale for conscience, if but it lives, at gracious galleries: this inner museum, this apostolic fire, or this mental apocrypha: our Eucharist feelings, this living by realities, this convulsion wrangling our guts: this sleeve of vomit, this waking woman, this tribal affair: as those dying, while living heights, to seethe as ruined this balcony: (our minds, Love, this Isley Sensation, this moment with tomorrow’s consecration: if but that feeling, as living while churning, those fair brains: to ask for harmony, this body as mine, this soul as indebted: if but for love, as Love waltzes, as Love ballets: this symphony upon wheels, this clarinet screaming majesty, this drum cutting insincerities: our seconds by health, our moments by clarity, our minutes for ravished: this sexy tattoo, those discreet thighs, this tale as not a rumor to vocals: this wonderful person, this reckless loyalty, this velvet silk—where Love is patience, or dead upon living, to cross with lights listening to Isaac Hayes: our love for Maria, our souls to Aretha, our passing(s) through Jennifer—if but strawberry eyes, while hung in Theresa, while thriving through Avilla: this Gertrude arc, this Mechtild lark, where souls fall as arising in pure Belief: to give as America, or to blink into insanity, while granny captures a son’s inclinations: this rebuilding universe, this beating heart, or those stumbling clarities: our gannet sights, our leaping cats, or this meerkat privacy: to push harder, to taste fairly, to manipulate for dear life): at further a mission, as torn as last session, as loyal as satiations: this man laughing, as retreating from games, to embrace this nunnery by faiths: those grappling eyes, those grappling feelings, this time to harness inhibitions.

Color Us Senseless

…we deliver ponds, becoming rooks, gazing at queens: this red creature, this dying creature, this rare intervention: our accordion churches, our ankle high dresses, our indiscreet hearts: this playful banter, this reckless carnival, this game of billiards: to undress causality, to picture something practical, while raving over metaphysics: this deconstruction, this reading with purpose, if but to ruin this philosophic dissertation: our reality dreams, our reality screams, to insist our eyes are open: this lab of rats, this centimeter deep incision, or radical butterflies—as lives insanity, peering at chiseled arms, a bit tragic this second for mourning: this space at cramps, this raving instructor, or our moments alone seeking vengeance….     I perished our daughter, this cynical madman, this academic skeptic: our telic catastrophes, our daughters becoming warriors, if resilient enough to plummet forward: this ridiculous curse, where one attacks father, while assaulting their seeds: this damaged garden, this rotten loquat, this strawberry worm: our brains at mirrors, at love for freedoms, at others to feel special: this terrible cut, this terrific rudder, this place as mourning embarrassments.     I lace time, this foot of abrasions, this heavy throttle: our blanket picnics, this vertical forest, our trees 50 meters high: as Maserati maniacs, leasing this treasure, staring at starling shows: this intricate shadow, this web of darkness, our pickings winning strategies: or off by scales, this altar of hells, our throats slammed against vocals: while defying gravity, this leap into forgiveness, to know this heart as vicious: our tragic fireworks, our linguistic firebrand, this fare fight fleeing forever: as mandarin guinea souls, while our senses fail us, where hearts have cherished our common ancestor: (at primitive Africa, or Common Day Ethiopia, our hearts upon this Egyptian Dynamite: this winter at lusts, this summer at stupidity, this autumn at redemption: this tender canopy, our animals dreaming, to capture a picture of sleeping Labradors)…those rosy imprints, this savvy soul-impression, or more, this frontal lobe voiceprint.  

Dawn Seeps into Sunsets

…it took lives to ponder, this immortal swan, this lake of cold involvements: this addict jewel, this blue haven sacrifice, this manta ray: our flippant concerns, our households vying for forgiveness, or this argument without clinical resolve: this person feigning, this person honest, this fleet of tetras blogs: our natural wonders, this swan swimming, this mother asking for reasons: to sense subtleties, as bats feel features, to cuss with venom this web of mirrors: our shorn reflection, this taboo swarming lights, this firefly preparing her thesis: our mechanical alibis, our deaths as tear-prints, our hunches becoming blue whales: if but this liquor, if but this excuse, if but this planet as demented but understanding: this war upon minds, this clever gestalt, this mystic at umbrellas: our casual goodbyes, our years at sheer disappointment, or this surreal feeling that times get better: this luxurious mystic, this spawning yogi, this philosophic psychologist: at jaguar brains, at coyote determination, at cages seeking entrance: this trancelike fire, this diluted water, or more, this flogging particular thoughts: while alone with seasons, but moved with seasons, to look around without a soul to emit anger: our piccolo guts, our crocodile appetites, or this state of affairs argued in steep philosophies: as embryo contestants, or trespassing schizophrenics, where pain seemed so sweat our second adventure: this werewolf passion, this vampire delicacy, or better, this bearlike approach: those gorgeous scientists, this intelligent countenance, this hint as mystic those horizons: as bit to bone, lavish our encounter, to realize that hatred breeds for ownership….

Building Rosaries

…our Pope anthem, our drained mornings, this almond creamer…those passion dreams, this flying feeling, at trapdoors a young magician: [to invest guts, ruined by nine, at irregular thoughts…this field of dungeons, our temple warn calluses, our rough in-prints: our chins to chests, our miracles waning, our years to weaving experiences]: this philosophic, this occasion for laughter, this Cosby program: our normal folks, this normal home, this inverted reality: our hopes with dreams, our cadence trying hard, at staircases climbing upwards: as empowered ripples, our ponds and algae, our toads and shamans…those days scraping memories, those days confusing reality, where agony seemed appropriate: to birth our poets, to give life to philanthropy, our benevolent crossroads: our charities with music, our worries with honey, our attractions with vinegar: (this radical shift, to treat one as dung, while angered those walls and cages): our fuel with breads, our coconuts with pineapples, our strawberries with daiquiris: those demanding features, this demanding soul, while expected to reach majesty: this iron-hold, this wire with grits, this deep indigestion….  {…if but our tales, our river stories, our soul-folks: to witness reading, as to mimic reading, where reading was forbidden: this legacy tool, this sport for women, this shared experience for Douglass: our days at cemeteries, our wines with apricots, our years mimicking behaviors: this trench as inverted, this drunk-fest holiday, this miserable morning feeling: our sins with patience, our ignorance with luxuries, our powers as demanded: this terrible feeling, this woman’s flesh, this deceit as if one has arrived: these nuances, this new drilling, this sore realization: where apples are haunted, or grapes are trampled, where one lives underfoot}…this wheezing gut, this frozen temperament, or this luster springing into empathies: that driven concern, this home in Mississippi, this battle in Tennessee: our plummeted brains, this deep incision, this asylum for research: wherewith, this lone soul, treachery’s disciple, as thrown into caves: this woman’s sincerity, this slice needing its icing, this pie laughing with satisfaction: at torrent seas, running upon torrid oceans, while petting this killer whale: our miracle eyes, our urges to integrate, or our fears that reality destroys our perseverance…this trying couple, to have this reality, while feeling like strangers: this hateful essence, this inserted presence, those lessons conditioning genetics: to wish for ignorance, while confronted by anxieties, where forests are screaming such trenchant sorrows.  […we’ve lived humanity, sensing this growth, struggling to ensure commonalities: such as breathing, or this struggle to succeed, or this wrenching need for affection: those brunette leaves, this brown/green vine, or this bark too thick to hug successfully: our minds dreaming, our writers flying, our teachers at patience: this doctor at kaleidoscopes, this physician unbound, this scientist studying chemistry: our bio-differences, our bio-similarities, or more, this pink pill and its effects: if but to sing, if but to dine, where sex becomes something meaningful: this realization, where our futures are chasing, while we feel alerted to antiquity: this trek through patches, this rosebush watching, our palms soaked in grassy mists…this soil sensation, our filthy mane, our tender showers]…to sense decency, to die through injustice, while culprits laugh insanely: this feeling for auction, this auction for feelings, this feeling as driven to ensoul: our kneeling hearts, our voltage through wilderness, this loss as something that became mandatory: as eyes wait, this terrible delight, where it can’t be genuine: for such causes pain, [while] we must be justice, if not, than Reality chases: this treasury our mistakes, this forgiving nature, or this deep understanding: as everso close, while kneeling afar, where many wounds are treated with vinegar.               

Maserati Rose Swan

I feel insistent, this distant vagabond, this swami massacre: this river at love, this pond at hatred, this mixture freaking brains: to adore this Love, while haunted by insistence, where withdrawals ensue: this pyramid, this bleeding index, this poetess memoir: this gold shield, this helmet blood, this miracle demon: as gramps scrambles, as granny bakes justice, as women invert becoming men: these strange faces, those fragile reports, this agent scraping her conscious: those ruby brown eyes, this comforting measure, this sneaky swan: our mothers blatant, our fathers reserved, our souls flaming at tribunals: this tribal lake, this inner Buddhist, this atmosphere executed: our lemur pets, this Mercedes brain, this inner lexicon: as men seeping, this pull dragging futures, this past leaping forward: this mystic amble, this mystic delight, this mystic as never those lagoons: our geese laughing, our ducks cheerleading, our hummingbirds courting: this purple parade, this violet breastplate, this auburn autumn: if but for ruins, this ghetto father, those appreciated habits: this inner respect, this flagrant sylph, or more to life this outer cranberry: where mother laughs, to know for insights, while addicts rule our universe: this bright teardrop, this linguistic silence, this feud redeemed by sexual tension.     I gambled for winnings, I lost that table, I spun dice where snake-eyes floor insanity: this mother giggling, this psych giggling, this therapist musing: our guts with Ana, our trimmers with Huldah, as geared towards passions too immature to claim excitement: this brutal force, this lonely psychologist, this home-felt encyclopedia: as fathers whistle, gripping for tugging, while mother laughs as falling forward: this bed of treasures, this sullen disposition, this awakened lightning: this atmosphere, that churning heart, this swan as locomotive: this train-track, this inner Pencil, this thunder born eraser: to write as livid, to cuss with pure nouns, to live as one desperate for existence: this musical symphony, this mental maestro, this wand this stick this insistent discomfort: (I tell for mercy, I laugh at concerns, I thrust as pumping this gas tank: [I thrive as bent, I giggle at insanity, I love as torn by raptures: this mentality, this soul-battery, this extravagant confession]: this woman asking questions, this fool at answers, to sell as diamond dreams: our aches upon plaques, our tears to mother’s face, our stepfathers imagining their situation: this gut at liberties, our clocks spitting venom, this fool as thug as academic achiever: indeed, with hopes, this white world, this quadroon participation: this mulatto mashing, this face disgraced, this soul capitalizing: this moon angry, this snake repenting, this world claiming participation: if but to die, if but to live, if but this gut-rupture exploding into Jesus: this psych peeking, this man drifting, as wanting a pure intoxication: as opposed to liquor, as opposed to mystics, as opposed to reality).     {…it comes with hells, this spellish invention, this daughter heavy at penmanship, this ghost, this angry father, this fool as one day a mentor: to sense this undercurrent, this firebrand, this undergrowth: our winter in Main, our summers in Europe, our winters in Asia—to dine in Africa, laughing with grit, at terrible warzones: our steaks with onions, our dreams with gravy, or better, our hopes with reality: to flip an outfit, to drift in Nikes, to placate in gators: this remarkable mother, this insistent friend, this yogi a mystic unbeknownst: those blue rivers, this red meadows, this breathing core insanity: our brains upon Crosses, our Ankh blasting racism, where some participate in hating for lost to deceptions}: this fair gristle, this bone lit, our fathers at thoughts this terrible catastrophe: if but to books, while seeping into literature, to arrive as thought a villain: our mahogany graves, this set by rules, this man sick for insane for Love: this cuddling nightmare, this mystery trickster, this vest a child with passions: this scythe with tissue, this gavel with persecution, this father as hating this gift: those dreams at raptures, this mother at sons, or this feeling as gutted for tragic!

Mystic Violets

I filled glass-water, this clear bear, this red wine: our suicidal*s, our massacres, our blood-work: our livers, our kidneys, our bladders: to face God, this church as children, this Mega Adventure: whereto, this predicament, this angry man, this resistant future: this evening struggle, this mystic juice, this inner cultist: our charms by cigars, our grandfathers laughing, our grandmothers shooting darts: mother’s insulin, father’s insulin, this pot of gumbo: this secret affair, this haunted house, those buried jewels: this seething bank, this running lake, this palm held by Jesus: this Clairvaux Kiss, this steady uneasiness, this Sienna Manic: our Jewish Communities, those priests with dreds, by codes of attire: this mystic faith, this mystic gate, this mystic unreality: our diamonds with liquor, our Crosses with fire, our onyx with grandmother: this weight pendulum, this healthy face, this narrow jaw: our perfect women, our immortal daughters, this field of yogis: this Buddhist Grin, this Buddhist Brook, this tragic occasion.    

{…at radical cheers, pleading happiness, caught for mangled beneath inches: losing purpose, but throttling faith, at this pregnant feeling: those red eyes, that drained countenance, this man searching for luster: while facing days, this faceless race, at sudden interests this space in Asia: this New York trip, this New York College, this sensual secretary: this subtle game, as testing morals, to scream at silence: this miracle for brains, this heavy breathing, this lonesome gym: our engines gutted, our running in reverse, our ignitions transferred to seeds: this inner lagoon, this deer with eyes, this woman too afar for gin: this fair minx, at laughs with guts, at terrible inner mirrors: this theologian, this need to profess, this pulling sensation: this curse with Satan, this grin as lethal, this too close for father’s comforts: this bleeding soil, our African guts, our African intestines…}.

…too much pride, this minute to second death, this trestle, this symbol: to rethink Love, while feeling repressed, while cagy but lost: that judgmental tone, that judgmental color, this anodyne absence: this thinking with races, as affronted with ease, to resist until one acquiesces: this feudal domain, this liquid curse, our enamored souls: this thing with scruples, unless rooted in insecurities, where glances become morning silence: [at rhapsodic hopes, or occultists mystics, where life could if troubles demanded less attention]: to unbolt, to revolt, to die rethinking: this hapless existence, while Love is at love, while theoretics are at metaphysical concerns: this fiery essence, this fiery soul, this seat at successions: our primal passions, our isolated inheritance, or better, this noetic warfare: those dusky skies, this ghetto by dreams, this mental trumpet: this gorgeous sight, if but our run, while soon to hate such resistance: this casual touch, this intentional foot sweep, this man a bit emphatic: to see that countenance, to know that grin, to resist this verse: this burnished marble, those Mosaic Plates, this prosaic address: this livid curse, this tell for such fluidity, our brains conforming our contours: that business look, that family look, that intelligent look: as feeling uneasy, as remembering Good Times, or faded for dizzy while spinning afore vomit: this inner portico, this mental churchyard, this fevered Bastille: our casual disdain, this life as lived, to return while frantic a nervous laughter: this fleece of roses, this fleece by souls, this fleece upon cosmic overcasts—as running backwards, to sense her grace, to plead forgiveness—as leaping dreams, this imperfect pearl, this grand indemnity: our souls laughing, our guts heaving, our chests wheezing: this pump for concerns, those asthmatic outbursts, or tender upon advice while disappearing….

Infirmities & Mentals

…our report cards, our gravid parents, this liquor, this stench: our growling charges, this inner spirit, this remote feeling: as seasoned by deaths, or bleached in insanities, above a falcon mare: this soul-life, this blinking insanity, to remember years of freebasing: this small vessel, so at energies, pleading our Holy Ghost: this woman dying, beat into submission, and raped by gang violence: our days through gates, our fears through majesties, our reckoned hours by suicides: this ghetto affair, this eighties heartcore, this war to exist while collecting rent: this trick for treats, this treat for tricks, or music plat-forming sentiments: our lavish fathers, those mis-informed soldiers, this month to turning women out: this son with tentacles, this mystic with webs, our weeks to concentration: to shift another soul, to Adore ghetto fabulous, a bit frigid for academia: this blessing, this womb, this perfect shallowness: if but to reckon, this told legend, this mis-identification: to possess fruits, this inner person, to adventure where life has evolved: this centered light, this romantic ensemble, or by tears confessing something too gentle: as losing reality, dependent upon sentiments, where rugged appreciates concrete: our purple hopes, this forever charm, this you in me or nothing….     I space with ships, I dine with phantoms—I’m lonely for a Bipolar 1: indeed, insane, laughing at ghosts, while listening to walls: too crazed for daughter, and too mean for mother, this soul offending families: if but too normal, this clashing mirror, as told normal reflects Us: this radiant closure, this instant gratification, or this sewer becoming our Kingly Brides: to forget with love, to form pyramids, where behavior becomes paramount: as never forgiveness, for perfect doesn’t make mistakes, while we glance an image of this ceiling: our inner hospitals, that outer tower, and those brilliant escapes: this wounded woman, this cold stream, or this attempt to purchase realities: this vest with slices, this heart of mice, this florid invention: as mother freebases, as father snorts lines, where high-school became this tortured silence: this home of orphans, this widow window, this widow grief—while succeeding at deaths, this blonde teacher, those tremendous disclosures: to form a thought, this belly of beasts, gawking at horrid kangaroo courts: those wise souls, at hatred’s door, while pounding upon ghostly temples.     I took to pain, to expose such pain, where pain became normal: this horrific reality, this tragic mistake, or this life too ashamed of blacks: this pure perfect pilgrim, this musical mystic maiden, or rolling for riven as riding torments: our precise confessions, our closets as unseen, this remarkable future: our rooms with sex, our wives at work, or our husbands so enlove as so en-castled: to dream this reality, while chasing miracles, to spend eternity at love with demons: this form as loose, this gravel as insidious, this elucidation as tragic: where souls writhe, where souls grin, while many would scream, Touché!     (…at Love was hell, this constant reminder, as sudden upon pregnancy: I thought to pills, I pondered infection, I became silent: at terrible confusion, this nine in a half term, this witnessed excitement: this selfish, jealous soul, this world of vultures, this sudden eruption: our brains upon hangers, our shelves bleeding paint, as mantels craved this sort for insanity: this passive father, this passive grandfather, this passive reality: as jewels to snakes, as maybe his child, to erupt into sheer fury: this blue blackened moon, this rapper’s profanity, this R&B travesty...).     I watch inconsistencies; I think to this dis-ease; I remember pure delusions: to puff a cigar, thinking to cancer, while tugging, nonetheless—as met this psych, to ponder greatness, this pool of competitors: our jasper eyes, our jasmine garlands, or this jacinth horizon: where Love’s forgiven, this sinning miracle, this miracle catastrophe: this inverted paradox, this miracle child, as beautiful as stripped and mangled and uprooted our gutted concretes.  

Banshee Ravines

…life becomes pleasantries, or tortured roses, this gate of freedoms: our mantis daisies, searching for clarities, or abandoned to storms: this relentless clock, this grandfather cigar, while smoke cleaves to ceilings: our watchful crossing-guards, our insightful archeologists, well into our ancient-futures: this bridge of ghosts, this likeness to sin, such atypical forgiveness: our tragic trespasses, viewed with distance, even appraised with nonchalance: this existential wind, this epistemology rapture, or this uneasy understanding about reality: that suede armor, that vinyl helmet, or those philosophic breastplates: while desiring perfection, but tugged by caimans, to imagine that our primates stress over transgression….  I recite memories, seated in hostility, a bit curious concerning mindstates: this orange horizon, this black-knight phantom, or this clear light image: as pure awesomeness, those trembling bones, as closeness to something spectacular: our brains as creatures, or psychosomatic wind-benders, where essence churns perceptions.  Years seep into wilderness, where people drift through prisms, while behavior is often imperfect: our beauty leaking, where it felt for extravagance, while behaviors weigh upon conscience landmines: (upon a petal releasing, upon a dream capturing, where life knits its portrait: this self-imagery, faced by such impassivity, where a gentle gaze is plundered): this harsh reply, as perceived as unsteady, where conscious souls forfeit that adventure.     I thought to mudslides, this curious mind-train, as two that loved invert to hate: to carry such distress, while entering liaisons, where baggage and luggage and turbulence lingers in our shadows: to hope for newness, at practice such young beliefs, while angered at yet another soul: this cliff behavior, where responsibility is false reality, while embarking upon our latest adventure: but hell to reality, if but to have that moment, while plenty of fish are willing to use us: such carnival nightmares, this sea of endless wheels, plus, this gravitational tug: our likeness before us, our charms speaking riddles, our nature at love our extended selves: this replica of mirrors, as thinking just alike, while forgetting that we lack this insistent morality: to do as pleases instincts, while needing something impervious, where decent souls have pledged their existence: (this adorable lemur, those adorable mating birds, or this incredible Ethicist: those precise perfections, those longstanding confessions, or this endless wave of creativity: those prestigious parents, those alumni friends, or more, this insatiable craving for romance and appropriate responses: or better, that seed by ghettoes, thrust into reality, where strife molded this academic magician: such stealth by struggle, such wealth by courage, to stress with vital vehemence): our dreamy souls, our inner dreamcatchers, our metaphysical realities.     We’re moons afar, this space in China, our British Africans: this integration of souls; this distressed easiness; this need for something that wars at life: this grain of passion, this well of indignation, this inner agitation: our souls churning, modified by simplicity, where complexities are illustrated: this lens through perceptions, our shared views, our synchronicity: those welted and welded words, those rinsed and wet promises, or this ability to trust while receiving felicity: those rubric chess-pieces, this appeasing tetras design, or more this life that enchanting soul: to mayfly our swamps, to American Red Cross our storms, or better, to live according to idealistic principles: to have those loses, while changed for good, or becoming this rectitude creature: for hurt realizes intensity, where anger inverts innocence, while a trained soul refuses to practice thefts: this encrypted garden, this maze of screams, or this remarkable simplicity: our chase through literature, our philosophic well-prints, as aspiring human beings: this practical concern, this theoretical concern, or this theological art-frame: to love while distant, to aid while extracted, to dance where pain is widespread.                  

Page Silence

…those purple cries, raked for perception, palming grassy sand: listening to bat wings, trekking through crowded caves, to stumble upon a crane fly or glassy skies, or a hundred beats a minute, or a hummingbirds manic lifestyle…this green/brown gator swamp, this existential texture, or that electrifying caiman: our sparrow-hawks, our compelling faces, or our aesthetic snakes: this outdoor museum, this neighboring marketplace, those peregrine falcons: our shots at romance, those meter long wings, those leaping caracal magicians: this man to stars, this Beetle Juice affliction, this sketchy individual: our odd responses, our casual nonchalance, or our failed attempts to induce realities: our albatross hearts, our birds eating birds, or this kleptic arc-glance: those trembling notes, this comfort as in seconds, or this sky theft….  I caught passion, so young and stunted, while fleeing those tugging ropes: sheer exhaustion; this house of leakage; or those dreams for one that couldn’t leave: this lifelong motivation, this song knitted to symbols, this tale by thoughts held hostage: these mental-go-rounds, this conscientious rearview, our blinkers for that length of time: such crowded pavement, our nameless humanity, those individual specimens: this slant as science, this belly of butterflies, or that heart of ladybugs: our souls a major concern, this philosophic discussion, this endless speculation—while closer with experience, to sense such motion, while communicating internally: those cape-gannet insights, or this raven’s intuition, where souls participate in sky-cloud displays: our minds reaching lakes, our outpour reaching clarity, or such as clocks aligned at applause. 

…it’s been years at vests, or days at chase, a warrior’s gutty hunches: to find with time, this agitating self-interest, or edginess seeming to have outlived its domain: while serenading winds, or winged for wheels, this tiger moth, this foret fly: those dreams we shared, those pictures we painted, or this king-bird we admired: our days as lovers, our hearts while panting, our ponds filled with geese: as fire pilots, or fighter ants, or fishing bats: this caving sensation, this wall of ornaments, while bogged intensely by responsibilities: our acacia sunrise, our walnut trails, or our chipmunk musings: this patient courtship, as gives those airs, while sullen our seconds to concerns: this scribbled house, this scribbled face, those wiggly lines signifying grass: our inheritance, as mother would scribble, even an entire page….

On Father’s Day II

I go for deeper, this reaper-ghost, this woven mother: our feelings, as slammed to razors, as split by repercussions: this wintry city, this autumn crime, this car for cuffs: to scream at Yahweh, to ask Her name, to retrieve symbols: this bloody blue nylon, this old behavior, this vehicle too close: this damn squirrel, this bag of popcorn, or that old Vice Principle.  I laugh with shame, too steep for clearance, to odd for formalities: this mystic wind, this inner valley, this opus concern: terrible mistakes, this adult enterprise, that sleazy motel: that bar of legends, this San Francisco Paradise, our inheritance a bit shivering: our daughter’s lot, those sophisticated elements, this night to purple science: this pop with icing, this icing with innocence, this father with wine—our days at glamour, to admit culture, while writhing this red monsoon: this treacherous fever, this treacherous behavior, this need for treacherous forgiveness: that oxymoron, this relic paradox, where a blink to eyes redeems a nation: our pebbles for mammon, our banks for chasing, our pistols for Jesus: as Peter died, this vanished miracle, to bleed in soul but forgiven: this lot as told, this church as ringing, our Mega Concerns.  (…those tragic years, those tragic realities, this perfect phantasmagoria: this jasper sun, this violet case, this brief for freedoms: our brains shifting, our years proffer forgiveness, our mothers too close to deaths: as feeling good, or feeling hope, our veins giggle persistence: this father with child, this father with streets, this father accustomed to life-wiggles: at creeks sipping, at coppice sipping, at sheaths laughing: this sheet of tears, this chronic fever, this epistemic concern: to want for classification, to ask this man Jesus, to redeem a flower spitting on behaviors: this gnat in jars, this pet-peeve, while our garden is flushed with insanities: this screaming gate, this screaming psych, this fretted introject: this man running, as slammed into pausing, this warfare with self: this frantic mirror, as melting walls, while difficult for clarity: [this inner bastard, this old scripture, this sign as always at difficulties: this dragon curse, this Pisces life, this deep infraction: this field of thugs, this laughing liquor, this grain as steep our cultures: this channel grinning, this theater whining, this losing as winning: this gee thought, this correlation, this manic at metaphysics: this physic design, this physic brain, this noetic we forsook—as regenerated consciousness, or mindstuff daughters, where granny felt good to break demons: this flood of miracles, this flood of patients, this inner man He couldn’t reach]: as heard a voice, to echo a thought, while seated for millennia listening for that repeated voice: this space in fevers, this space in brains, this soul controlled by fluid forces: this daughter amazed, this mother a bit shy, this man laughing at game: this inner psych, this inner therapist, or this jasmine green moon: to face Satan, as one alive, while cursed this sight of Elijah: this Kings Book, this Chronicle Book, this highly spiritual nightmare: as rounded a fool, sipping lemonade, at thoughts concerning potency: [this unfair reality, these knit realities, as infested by substances: or deep religiosity, or unsafe thoughts, where it’s hard to let down one’s guard]: this rowing mother, this baptized granny, this reckless Protestant: this young minx, this sophisticated sylph, this man pleading deceased: those grounds for resting, this school by affairs, this locker as mine: this blunt those years, this stabbing through traffic, this tale as won: our curses political, this feeling broke and disgusted, or rich and gangster: our eyes laughing, our cries dying, or souls to transmigration: these flying ghosts, this Leaping Energy, our eyes rising filled with contempt: that cold glare, to bat a feeling, while damn near at comforts: this feeling person, awaiting fear’s arrival, to sit in total amazement: this bleeding brain, this large estate, those historical pyramids: at guts a bit ecstatic, at thoughts concerned with lights, too innocent to remember that feeling: our agonies golden, our persecutions as tragic, our reparations as vicarious…).      

On Father’s Day

I lost sights, this gee mentality, this dragging ghetto, this flourished insanity: those dark roses, this purple rain, this grit towards our church grounds: this old behavior, this tear to souls, this resonant heart: our captive days, our captive swans, this granny doing nights in purgatory: to sense this father, this pimp by screams, this man turning mother out: our years to cocaine, our armor to heroine, our skies to chronic: this vacation, to sense such doubts, as remaining this immortal stranger: at Jesus with Logic, at Yahweh with pleads, as torn this Holy Ghost tragedy: our psychs to liquor, our therapists to pills, this lowly creature aiding a psychopath: this frightened language, this man sane as torn, this river as hard to Digest: this remaining silence, this thrill for rollercoasters, this old friend at guts: our Mongolian Moons, our Mongolian Sun, or this Mongolian trespass—as built an edifice, this mystic mistake, this mystic ecstasy: our fathers dying, our men underrated, our shrills to boards that screech: this academic, this feeling with Ingrid, this lather claiming Theresa: this telic anvil, this loud resonance, this person shearing tendencies: this psych-shop, this woman at ends, or threshed for laughing feeling psychotic: this overseer, this mother cleaving, or this change by honors to a private mirror: to treasure existence, this tulip blasted, this daisy ecstatic.     I lost for game, this flimsy gut, this reckless portal: at Irish Literature, or Danish Rites, while grinning with this German: our Pollock grains, our souls controlled, despite, this history of chaos: (this immortal daughter, this immortal cheetah, those spots too engraved for freedom): this quadroon, this loveable creature, this step-father majesty: our gramps laughing, while sipping Kool-Aid, while mourning that first blast: our years backwards, our tyrannies as reserved, to feel by angst this inability to brag on daughters: this precious vehicle, this facing reality, this claim as sewn to dung: to figure passion, this inner Lucifer, this darkness as Light inverted: this dearth of goodness, this immortal lightning, this vajrayana catastrophe: those rabid dangers, this little vehicle, while Buddha churns laughing at hypocrisies: this great massacre, this inner Valentine, this mental Al Capone: this gee mentality, this ghetto as breathing, to lose with angst laughing at Jesus: our brains gone, our bars as identities, this game as floored but attractive: this sip with vengeance, this Scar Face Dilemma, or days to pleading Bugsy’s Resurrection: this Malibu House, this Pacific Reality, this Santa Monica hijack: where brains do infinity, dying those prisons, where years become this Muslim Sage: our arts to panic, our souls too graphic, this daughter too involved: this granny at cigars, this mother at ecstasy, this father at Coronas: where Naïve rages, while seen as baboons, living this fair fantasy: our mystics as beautiful, this yogi as terrific, or this man finding reasons to exonerate raw behavior: either/or,  this Kierkegaardian Pursuit, this Danish Writing, this well freaking at brains: that small fire, to illume with tragedies, this woman our guts before this audience—this mule laughing, this prophet kicking, this literature as ill-advised: that blackened disposition, this man to dungeons, this daughter partaking of this tragedy: to move with stealth, while retreating with grit, at love at women too to depression: this livid arc, to invade with agony, while combed for slaughtered and resurrecting: this new body, this cloud meeting, this dark illusion: to hate St. Paul, while to adore his literature, while to submit to such reasoning: this Episcopalian nightmare, this Woman Priest, at tears to realize our Aunties’ Realities: those alleys demented, this goat screaming insensitivities, this sheep becoming father’s shepherd: as tales speak about violence, as mothers endure rapes, while grandmother sprinkles hundreds: this soul running, this mother to detriments, this psych to reliving interior chaos: our grannies cooking, our gramps tickling, our daughters introduced to subtleties: this mother grinning, this mother laughing, this mother mourning. 

Bipolar Pendulum

I wine emotions, at days sober, at millennia sorrows: this writer’s fever, this deep electricity, this universal chi: our dreams as carpenters, our years at agriculture, or by architectural sadness: this rope connectedness, this woman eclipsed, this son by prodigal designs: our clinical depression, this game by make-shifts, where pressure becomes this forced greeting: or somber countenance, or energized fatigues, while jealousies ensue:

If to know this feeling, this man laced with spirit, this imaginative apparatus: those conversations, alone with Jesus, while reciting our prayers: or more converse, this one-sided dialogue, where hearts grow into resonance: this need to exist, this push to compose, this inner dungeon opening and shutting: this closeness to miseries, this mental distance, or this sudden avalanche: aggravated by diarrhea, these acidic explosions, while unable to complete a meal: this haunting malady, this friendless advice, or this picture painting partialities—as signs become transverse, or inverted deeply, to sense this need to fix dynamite: this gentle woman, those remorseful ideals, or academia becoming our melancholia.

I dine emotions, laughing at times, fiddling a petal: this house of mirrors, those influential academicians, those few psychiatrists that confirmed through silence: this scientific enterprise, assisted through lost electricity, to seize with irony—those moments towards extra-occurrences: our feral composure, this loud box-carte, this scythe speaking its demands: to need flights, if but to redeem sentimentalities, while feeling guilty those indulgences.

…it lives as patterns, this ecumenical carnival, this silent, intangible weight: this attempt to shift, this make-terror smile, this wretched, precise introject: this person dancing, as looking for approval, while guts are heaving intestines: this mental spider, this core gorilla, or this need to perfect a glowing countenance: our wines with agonies, our sobriety with agonies, while others are pointing at this rising catastrophe: those compounded, plastic problems, or this film by admirations, or this treasure too sore to enjoy: those achy eyes, this unison gaze, this humbled reality—to die a smidgen, while resurrecting, to acknowledge that an old zeal is missing: this garden of loquats, those ghetto fruits, or years to rewinding our parents trans-crossings: (this essence seeming sweet, this intelligent agent, this atypical class: as still a monster, shifting through glasses, sipping but too close to clarity): this participation, this inner sanctuary, this difference between persons: those temperaments, this treble-baseline, this aqua-sentimentality: by a sensed gesture, our eyes doing mystery, our souls filming humanity….

I grind emotions, at thoughts those loses, where a man must examine his image: this plight by far, this muddy pond, this filthy sheet: his days to lusts, his minds to angers, his tornado as something apparent: those endless chairs, those psych evaluations, this mental profile: our minutes by conclusions, our texts wreaking havoc, or more, our souls gravitating: this human demand, this tangled weed, this inner tug resisting its image: as missing pieces, but pressured for analyses, while one appears a tad bit normal: notwithstanding, sorrow, notwithstanding, abuse, or, notwithstanding, this zealot instinct: this soul as manipulated, that perspective as intoxicating, those nuances as tormenting: this mental car, this revving sphere, those revving emotions—as so close to reality, but sensed as ajar’d, while reality has become this adulterous concern.