Rivulet about Sad Tides

…we remain silent, at tours with mirrors, or migrating to self: this subtle exchange, those winters for summers or by arts, a clairvoyant whisper: our sky-slopes, or metaphorical wigs, where likeness becomes this riddle: such mystery malaise, alike to wetlands, and so close by wings: our freshwater platypus, our salty-water crocodiles, and muddy reality weighing softly: this music our minds, or aquatic membranes, or aquatic anguish: those pushy insights, this palm of vitamins, and prehistoric emotion—where days are thought-castles, while yawning systematically, or tapping into extinct feelings: our evolution, our right brain, while reality becomes hostile to instincts: to topple sideways, as if golden-wheel-spiders, where wasps are implanting seeds: this shorn agony, as thought to confess, this planet of rain: at sunshine weeping, at daybreak tugging, to find this hope for day-fall: our dry imprints, or vocal radiance, to find this gaze associated with public presentations: as sad scorpions, or grumpy scorpions, to sing of pure venom…. 

…feelings carry toxicity, or transparencies, becoming with variations: those thrusting variables, or meditative nights abed, appalled by riveting snores: such inner motion, or predating emotions, leaving our souls to wander: this joy in others, our clinging natures, our wells bubbling forth: as jasmine lizards, upon jasmine deserts, or to vanish a nameless specious: our wonder at wars, or our hearts at miracles, or our minds thinking as beautiful vultures…such terror, to state it plainly, our battles with depression: this intrusive creature, this invasive warrior, at shearing our guts: such as undertakers, or undulations, forcing self to unravel: at times to fit, about something literary, where it feels perfect to fawn: this English Reality, or Latin Rules, where two sit patiently….

…such literature is subtle, while whispers are ignored, where imposing emotion is examined: our papaya and cheese, or those amorous elks, or this sudden observant essence: those dragonflies, their mating styles, or majestic hummingbirds: or acrobatic feelings, or casual compositions, while readers agree with silence: our running shrews, our chasing rattlers, to witness pure agility: this leaping force, or such distorted heaters, while adrenaline races through brains: those sharp turns, or moonrise ambitions, while singing an internal tune…. 

…as sung our glory, such godship radiance, while observing mystery: our sky-pirates, such caustic souls, or to awaken seamlessly alone: this threaded ransom, this odd way, or emotion leading to irrational analyses: those graves winking, our sordid attraction, as we forgive such timeless infraction…our patterns needled, our miracles with slight, or hours to sunrise: such wing-like texture, or our casual reminders, where one may nigh that page: thus, was channeled, or broken into living, while inanimate reality poised with grace: our foolish hives, this reckless honey, while idiosyncrasies become plaintiffs….    

Elevator Inhabitants

I bled life, this midnight sun, this room of ghosts—those bleeding begonias, this wedding in jails, or paranoid/schizophrenic nightmares: this psych drilling, this insolent curse, or those rabid feelings: to get so close, this brain in Jesus, or those release dates from hospitals: our rapture, our ecstasies, or this mystic investigator: to slither in mud, as becoming this bark, our branches dangling apples: this winter’s apes, this cape with gin, or granny dying asearch for freedoms: that black moon, this benighted castle, or brains screaming at Kanye: this Kim enterprise, this J.Z. dilemma, or Beyoncè at tender bridges: to fall about tales, to rise about daughters, or this mestizo blinking into a frenzy: our carved hopes, this woodblock city, or this terrible vixen providing comforts—to die as womb driven, this dayfly gravity, this zest zeal and chorus. 

   

I push harder, fleeing into forests, at trials this ghetto meadow: this brook shining, this diamond breathless, or guts to sunshine: to crutch with vengeance, to prove agonies, while fretting for foraging butterflies: indeed, for game, indeed, for rain, while Love felt anguish to cheat: this crafted cymbal, to cipher through psychs, or to intuit a subtle intensity: this radical habit, this knitting with courage, to invest in venom this devastating outcome: those fertile blotches, this black aimless, or persons screaming at Bipolar Disorder: this inner Jesus, those grandiosities, or this field of nonsense: our trips to France, pitted at computers, where such was terrific: those days at tears, this ink fretting his guts, this gallon by miracles: to love and adore, this precious being, this palm of babyhood: if but a halo, or trickling divinity, where mother is reluctant.

I felt Ghosts, I saw Demons, I became as losing this arm to violence: this feeling, this treachery, this remorse: as screwing our worlds, while ashamed of such blaspheme, where apologies denote this intricate deception: as trying for beacons, or living for perfections, while gramps discerns a web of vipers: this millipede crawling, this swan dancing, this miracle laughing: such fruitage vibes, this undergrowth undulation, while mother succeeded suicide: that wonderful soul, that insidious soul, where it felt good to have breakfast: if but to live, where others have died, this pitching of balloons: this kettle screaming, this human failing, this father at grills: (it felt good, this puma talking, this cougar at diamonds: this inner genius, this genetic curse, or more to lights this immortal humility: to cut bones, to garner sinews, to become this army of warriors: our Ezekiel habits, our Jeremiah sadness, or this fantastic, Lamentations: where cousins drip, as flooding guts, to ruin for tortures this feel-good entourage): our brains, Love, this portal in skies, this dimension those years at prisons: this mental jaguar, this city of pheromones, or this elegant pantomime—insofar as lethal, this plate of visions, this ant speaking tongues: this soul-equator, this irresistible woman, or this fragrant rehab.

I spoke hospitals, ashamed of treacheries, while looking at dementias: this fool to pains, this reign as dying, or this perspective achieving insanities: those bleeding plums, this formidable apricot, or this man speaking to widows: as screaming, Jesus, and looking at Jesus, while Israel forfeits it ownership: this gutted trial, this fabulous loss, or our daughters attempting to discern: this passage by rites, this miracle firefly, and this Mental Rock: to live that reality, or die hurling reality, while discarded as demonic: our rosary prayers, this granite earth, or this tale by Rooks: those splaying mantis, this sandstone catastrophe, while seated at internal wine-rocks—as granny laughs, to feel her youth, while a bit too one-sided: those Baroque Pearls, this golden lantern, or this pendant that anklet—where mother is serious, to sense this healing, as becoming this leviathan: to drill brains, at such brilliant value, a man to his cursed wars: this intimate creature, this first matriarch, where psychs laugh as dying going for battle.              

Swan Replenishments

(greetings & linage, Love; this adored castle, our sky-parades, or thoughts by guts flying gravity: this whirl-fire, this endless firebrand, or this feeling where Life is corrupt: those angry drillings, this chance at redemption, or this granny speaking miracles: our flakes with strawberries, our potatoes with honey, or this sandwich with butter: our tuna melts, and radical cauliflower, or such hankerings for bacon burgers: at voice with laughter, at realities with pains, or ashamed too far into futures: this brilliant magnolia, our powdered donuts, or this fast lasting into its feast: those orange lights, this wave of spirits, at courage this feeling while sprinting).     I magnify at times, a tear shorn to games, at chess at flickers this reservoir: indeed, by customs, or radiant costumes, or unbearable habits: our fumes with ravens, our trails with cadence, or our comfort foods becoming repellant: to sing with siblings, by rights to dance, where solemn feelings seem trampled: this gutty emotion, this pile of trinkets, or this creative ritual—as fused into Life, this examination, where thoughts picture our countenance: that ravishing quiescence, that luminous excitement, where onlookers shriek with retractions: as marvelous cooks, those exquisite entrées, while fretting ingredients.     …to break ice this wave, or shadow paint this flame, at seconds feeling quite interrogated—by inner geese, or inkling leprechauns, where many need encryptions: these mental pieces, as they come into courts, where reality must assist our allegations: if but by crocheting, this knit system of feelings, where insistence becomes reviewed: our core banshees, this jingling by chains, this early category: those brave lullabies, or this chaotic dimension, while holding to clamps: by tyranny’s remorse, or affection’s affliction, while portraits by brains relinquish responsibility: those inner scents, this past-Life fragrance, where chimneys appeal to soot….

…we try through damages, we die looking through grime, and we exist making redemption: this peril in traumas, this elation found forgiven, or this preparing our own travesties: this alive feeling, this trenchant sorrow, this psych’s war-glance: at tender memories, or explored by tragedies, where colors blink into havens: our shared perceptions, as millipedes running, while morphing into those fantastic gorillas: our deep essence, this gland flippant, or trails for months that become small: those leaky eyes, that gracile miracle, or charms that become treacherous: our inner avenues, our crushes upon unreality, or this ache to retrieve something as thrown back: those long essays, or this feeling in memoires, or this undulation while meditated those states: as gunning mermaids, or sirens nearby, where ships clash with resistance: this tug at honor, this person at anger, as before those days of pure ignorance: to laugh in private, where one felt love, while agony becomes slung into vengeance: those tiny cakes, aside French Vanilla, to awaken with this rich fever—those taste-buds reaching, or aquamarine atmospheres, or this intimate ceiling: as cut in pieces, while living as wholeness, where secrets re-seam relentless….  

     

I drop tears for Life, and ponder your nights, while fleeing this turn for blaming: as chiseling harmony, while tugged by cadence, and at converse with this phoenix: our tales as evasive, our guts as microphones, and God as this friend in alignment with our customs: this fretted reality, this tale on cultic compounds, or this ashram ruined by sexual activity: this lust with Life, this tale with tinges, or this radicalized dissention: as nibbling protein, or counting our grams, this same event with Love: as thugs fall apart, while teaching through insecurities, where aguish appears as normal: to re-event aglets, to retie our knots, or to unloosen our trenchant passions: those carbohydrates, or good fats, or terrible feelings while anchored is sure shot decisions: or a bit to fantasy, digging nostrils in Europe, or celebrating in fresh green waters.

Faceless Etchings

…it lives by portraits, this heart-picture, this waving network—to suggest sunshine, as alive by roses, this flower petals as one garden: those mind-readers, this key inverted, our moons crying, Jesus: those occupations, steep in gravel, our dusky skies dusting concrete: this matrix swan, this lively ferret, those meerkat cautions: this bird chirping, while disguising voices, to riddle our ways back to earth: with broken rules, for threshing clouds, this attic leaking pheromones….

I need remorse, I die agonizing, I remove self from this imagery mirror: those gnawing bones, this floor fan, those cranes as timid chandeliers: this diamond art, this core insanity, to remodel an assignment with lent.

…it comes with exhaustion, this fair ability, to intuit something rebuked: our bleeding drum-sets, this present corruption, or sights scraping our inheritance:

this cryptic delight, this immortal shadow, those dark wings—as alive dying, but far with breaths, to achieve this voyage: our guts ruined, our livers at dynasties, or this lake up to sides—while born fleeing, as running through wombs, to set as fair within this uterus: these reckless feelings, this mystery as burning, to chirp an emotion ten years into traffic….  (…those magic magnets, this heart fretting concern, or this woman but secret these eyes that run mortar): our inner axioms, this posit for reliance, or those midnight shows: this glowing window, this welted blanket, or odors that become comforting: indeed, to enjoy our views, as close enough to resist, while tugged by feelings that curse solemn pain: those born reflections, this inner film, this reloaded debit card: where Love sits as perfect, my eyes dying that sentence, or more this fragmented reality: to cuss while laughing, our Hispanic community, to sip Coronas and die over carnie asada—this inner enchilada, those cheesy nachos, or this remarkable chicken salad: as to cut with life, this freezing mentality, while warmth pours through ghosts….

I became upset, looking at this vicious nonsense, while collect calling my Conscience: this revved personality, this insolent psych, or battle to souls strung for arising—those cliffs in burgundy, this secret as essence, those bars as internal: to push with intentions, while holding for dear life, to freefall into this ocean: those whales laughing, this Judah diving, as allowed by greed from friction: this purple classism, this woman deserving distinction, or this reversed feeling within its receiver: those acrimonies, or pure deception, to flee as becoming oneness…this man laughing, this cheetah laughing, this hyena feeling with passions: indeed, to concerns, this rabid friction, as alive but seated at council: those rivers incited, this thirst as unquenched, this soul laughing by ills.

…with swans our dance, with ink our graves, and with pains our release: this funny fever, this muddy lake, or prayers to panic while screaming easily: this beige green, those darkened highlights, this blond swan: if but this agony, to want straight hair, as this seed planted so early…to chant with Buda, or dine with Spirits, as thrust for retrieving while feeling unstoppable: those endless chimes, this endless patience, or this man forced into submission: those green eyes, as pleading those parts, while deep a cut pushing reality: this dead light, this beaming light, or courage to embrace Lights: as granny dies, this secret to guts, while gramps moves sensing shattered oceans: our moving earth, this crust as excited, this mother as darted—if but to revive, where pigeons are damp, this black insistence freaking our inheritance….

Turquoise Actualities

…we create dreams, too young to discern dreams, as unlikely our fancies—or terror our concerns, or feeling manifested, to win through loses: this inner Pacific, this ocean of memories, our tides seeping into our inner courtyards: this man losing, this dreaming feigning, and lies crafted internally: those beige eyes, those blurred laws, and our fuzzy circumstances: where Love is blue, or mildly opaque, or dripping into abstracts: those curious concerns, as one so grounded, to feel as sodium this seasoned atmosphere—at crying mornings, or winning liquor, while eyes are critical with advances: this puppet insanity, this puppeteer’s tragedy, or relocated inner transcripts: our Congo souls, to witness our miseries, while cleaving to something disdained: our animal souls, our poetic witness, or this scream where all becomes forgiven: indeed, our unlikely adventure, our shorn crops, this internal museum: as written pictures, our deep inconsistencies, or this need for exoneration—as poodles glance, while babies reach, and mothers root roses….

We knew by neediness, this greed in eyes, where ears tire of listening: as contradiction, this posit in Ecclesiastes, or our ecclesial manuscripts: as tainted souls, this search for redemption, at concerns that humans are naturally religious: this need to worship, while outliving disappointments, or more this passion for community: those myriad tenets, this principle in print, or this reason to exit our turmoil: (those laws for suffering, this reasoning through sorrow, or our resistance towards un-vetted authority: as simplistic/complex brains, or critical philosophers, or apologetic theologians—at cities churning, or losing control, to feel partial by enforcing laws: at Draconian instincts, pushed to force beliefs, while tending towards pictured love: (to lose ourselves, or to find our travesties, wherewith, those endless, internal skies): our mental rapture, this need for equanimity, or this cry for equality: at internal rebukes, or pure racism, to clutch for survival: at radical dreams, to give as dying, where icons serve as reasons to persevere).

…by caressing petals, I evolve slowly, and I ponder this feast of dreams: that dry-grass, this inner ape, or this ability to examine ethos: this steep challenge, this casual existence, where ears are correlating with analyses: our deep undertones, this pile of wood, and our years creating those impeccable projects: as souls flying, or memories harassing, or mirrors talking back: this flickering flame, this magnet fire, or magnificent hopes: our radiant sky-cliffs, or this outstanding mind-crate, where Love articulates doctoral material: this floating reality, our best as merely pastures, while consumed to present concrete evidence: this link in guts, this song upon ships, or this infinite doubt those eyes our dreams: to live as Reason, or die at Logic, at inborn ferns...this raid upon sentiments, or this silent structure, where professors are waging concern….

…stars are churning, babies are weaning, and pelagic arts have sailed our lands: upon waffles and grapes, or eggs and muffins, where Love sections reality: this lethal chase, this leaping hare, and this marvelous bobcat: our years with feelings, to have as few vetted, while our childhood becomes this compass: our adoration for mother, our needs for examples, or this instinct claiming evaluations: as strategic lawyers, or chess by default, where psychs are esteemed for wrestling: those linguistic crayons, those remote artesian(s), or years perfecting flame….

Speculative Wings

It lives as mystery, or tugged by reality, our perplexing experiences: our morning cloves, our midday sandwich, or midnight juice: at departure points, afloat within dreams, so close this abstract scream: while flying through mirrors, to sudden this life, where we forfeit our inclinations: for it couldn’t be senses, as unprovoked, while it must be senses.

I fiddle a pebble, lost in miracles, and abased by old beliefs: those weeping perceptions, our clingy impulses, or our jumpstart religiosities: as realness was ever our issue, this wealth of gravity, where it felt remarkable to re-explain our earrings: our bold force, those seven junctures, or our five dynamics: those feelings spiking, this shy sky-haven, or those incredible axioms—where nights appear, while chasing our pillows, where critical thought divorces our wagers.

…if but to breathe, this mortal’s infatuation, as we perish our immortalities: this waxing sensation, this close reality, or this ability to fly: those screams; those tentative perfections; if but our needs by existence: our relaxed heart-caves, while pushing towards rejection, where sudden this gratifying leap: this required puzzle, this mental flesh, or our itchy dry-grass: to soar this reunion, this coming into mirrors, this inner person communicating signs: this mountain of sunshine, this Promised Reality, or such beauty those cubs cleaving to mother….

…if but to achieve—this essence in reservoirs, or iridescence becoming concrete laws: this fuel for realities, this inner rush, or this sight as moving in stillness: our atom spirits, this heart’s construction, where something scientific had been utilized: those terrifying nights, this unveiling of mysteries, or our avalanches reducing enigmas to systematic applications: if but to presume, as internalized creators, while some things are hard to kaleidoscope….

Color Inversion

…faceless dungeons and growling souls and thunder at imprecise seconds: this sign for angst, our sunshine skies, our sparse clouds: to flee into Yahweh, this Jewish enterprise, this cosmic entourage: our disagreements, as never vocalized, to come to realities this cultic device: our phantoms to strangers, our Jesus in rafters, or this feeling that destroys our intimacy.     …i died so young, at terrible beliefs, assumed in brevity: this feeling there, this emotion here, plus, a house filled with strange glances: this taboo language, but addicts, nonetheless, adaptive and chaotic: this mother at Ghosts, this father too aloof, and dreams that proved as falderal: our clingy, stingy cries, our anguished parked for summers, or bars to a child twelve years of age: but this is invention, this karaoke ventriloquist, or this palatial event determining a child’s glory: our elders laughing, our uncles to success, as brilliant this Street Life: our souls by yams, our greens with sauce, or boiled chicken wings: if but to contest, as livid this storm, where professors cringe to meet another one….

…i explored those eyes, those rubescent gems, this floret fever—as dying your mouth, to cut Jesus, as hanging in gang-lore: this man to visuals, this smile as contagious, this man as losing ownership: to dance with ice-lands, to feel as unreal, to hit traffic a chest beaming: this ghetto mania, this fool dynamite, as accustomed to wild dreams: if but to panic, where days were low, to enter homeroom devastated: for mother couldn’t speak, and father was lost, and granny was screaming at walls: this dead soul, this steak at noon, this angst at midnight: to scar an image, while trying for courage, where phantoms approach closet doors: this blue moon, so late in life, to assume that sorrow meant loyalty: this curse for souls, this death for men, or this glory for one close to grief: as flying hard, too hit this country bank, while fleeing and filled with bills: to cut left, that wrong turn, at years this prison life….     (…we needed your wisdom, this flippant nature, this gregarious ruler—where life was good, or determined by strategy, while, nonetheless, this secret stigmata: that countenance, those energies, or that psychotic woman—while inner a dungeon, and running from images, and dying with reality—this fool for years, this conflict as ours, while professors were pointing indexes: this lawyer peeking, this laundry leaking, this grandpa born by pains to resist: our bleeding mothers, our dying fathers, and this realm held up for ransom): whereas, it felt for good, this significant motivator, this woman at her business: to float in traffic, headed to quarters, but stressed for this famous dominion—as cursed souls, and feeling Ghosts, while born to siphon glory: those broken glasses, this shuffling gait, or this strait cliff blinking insanities….

…i come to silence, starring at mirrors, or clawing our infant wall—to appear as whispers, to dig into sanity, while to remember another brain is open: our fair child, this living miracle, or those years to hating our guts: as mother wonders, as feeling complete, where reality has gutted our existence: those wayward winds, this flight to passion, or our reality that none are pursuing: this ignoble position, or our wants for longevity, to fall so steep with pure expectations: as bulbous creatures, our run through savannahs, and this trip to reality: those broken lies, our broken kindle, and this lonely frontier: where children are parents, as parents are infants, while our kingdom is ran by a three year old: this sound to paranoia, this fan blowing incense, and this ceiling close enough to push: as civilized manipulators, or casual sociopaths, while granny is pure at investigations: this grape pudding, this vanilla coffee, and this long dark journey: to hide for years, this camouflaged secret, while aiding corruption: at blue harvests, or red grains, where it felt ecstatic to believe that Love would fly….

Achy Universal (Versace)

We live discomfort, those flares by foreigners, but aligned in sensitivities: this squeaky knot, pitted in guts, this lion’s guitar: to adore pictures, as perfected with grime, as sensed a magician: our open doors, our closed skins, or this valley of bone brackets: at skeleton horderves, or blood tinges brine, while broken so deeply we face mirages: this child screaming, this woman to mood shifts, this freezer leaking: those orchids dying, this song suffering, and those tulips spacey with concerns: whereto, this infant feeling, those beady buds, or miracles engraved in sky-tones: this old maniac, this new human, where mother laughs as fraught by tears: this year to promise, this tale of old, and Jesus blessing our pianos.     I grabbed an anchor, I sought earth, I became scientific: this burning phoenix, this comic tragedy, or faces painted hardcore resistance: to pant her brains, as disgusted her voice, while too tired to retire: this living curse, this disobedience, and pants sagging pavements: this Smith artistry, this Hilary mansion, or this Kerry picture perfected: to silence intestines, while courage’d to exist, albeit, this inner James Brown: our churns at ruins, our women dislodged, where trees bend playing our cellos: this baby’s violin, this Beethoven enterprise, or bright lights screaming about Stop Signs: if but to live, feeling some type by goodness, while money purchased Love: those wailing graves, this cemetery of living spirits, and our days to Levert and liquor: this budding tear, this daughter’s legacy, or this feeling screaming, I’m Right.     …have life, Love—this fortunate discomfort, this bleached reality: this plural postmodernity, this color in trauma, our edgy cinemas: our radical maestros, our clarinets internal, our blue-black musicians, and jazz becoming the new tomorrow—wherewith, our vivacious souls, this vivid vacuum, or dreams so entrenched that God is wrestling: those candles flickering, as lit by ghosts, to become this livid mediator—at crosses, or laughing at lakes, to feed a tiger: our oily palms, our musty scents, and nature fleeing but dear with courage: this infinite fear, this driving force, where father adores his precious angel….

I saw a pharmacist, I thought to life, as once too young for consequences: this bold darkness, this memory curse, and miles to our friendly liquor bank: this trenchant ‘essence’, our tragedies in mega-sunshine, or remote an undercurrent as remembered in an instance: this charged force, this raving instinct, and those mega-geniuses: to pick a flute, conversing with ants, or at tug-a-war with a mantis: this memory feud, this wheat grain, or that old box of Cheerios—as Love is laughing, to feel this moon, where it reels goodness to exhaust promise: this lavish fool, those cold distractions, and this FedEx package.   

 

We live as phantoms, this family curse, this wide spread legacy: our days in Lafayette, our nights on Bourbon Street, or this evening to Texas: this Scarface enterprise, this piece of terror, this empire at Rihanna’s knees—those daisies as symbols, this symbiotic as graces, or this resistance becoming buoyancy: our physicists flying, our mental-metaphysics soaring, and this noetic apparition—where daughters chime, as speaking game, to flood a particle: but mother laughs, to feel a bit good, while craving our local news: this old maniac, this living priest, to take a volt and scramble: where father saw damages, others saw deaths, while one believed in voltage…this dream, Love—and utilized with slants, to induce a cryptic response: this telic cultic, this ghostly flame, as moving in radical circles: this beefy soul, or this soul to planets, while granny bakes lemon pies: indeed, to majesty, or majestic stars, while mother speaks this existence: (such by absence, too cold for language, and dying our decisions).     

Timotheus: Rooted & Built Up

…early our gifts, with souls to accomplish, a tear spacial this flame: such edification, eliminating herbs, while attempting poetic glaciers: our moonbeams, our rooftops, and this hankering for Precious: at lighthearted rambles, feeling Disorder, as literal and meta-gristle: this metaphysic, this roaming storm, or this body building Amazon: our lusts winking, our souls slinky, and our women fond of spaghetti: this mule in winter, this Don Quixote, or this powerful essence named, Cleopatra: our years as bipolar agents, or anxious observers, while Haiti produces irresistible angels: this flight to Congo, this lyricist explosion, to meet one similar this hidden self: our telic splayed, our hearts melee’d, and this vicious creature our bowels….

…it dies softly, asearch for edification, while looking and laughing in disguise: this dead river, this flowing antipathy, this Anglo-Protestant: or Catholic Souls, angry with causality, and angled towards submission: this rich beauty, this deep simplicity, or an entire life reading few scriptures: our base as bleeding, our funerals our observance, and this resilient mouthpiece: as cursed with fevers, or rambling in Siena, to perish born alive this anxiety: this running liver, our souls liquefied, or those days sniffing this cue from orchids: this sin he loved, this woman too but vapid, to adore as living God’s curse: our brains to liquor, our arms to reaching, as granny would die claiming normality….

I sense Damascus, this road paved in gravel, or this dirt patch amidst our city voyage: as cries destiny, this morbid creature, our hearts speaking some language: (to amble your guts, eating Satan’s desserts, to want this feel slighted womb: such frigid warmth, such watery furnaces, or this sky bleeding beneath earth: as cursed and driven, to infuse a legacy, to open an Academy: our seaweed flights, our desert ambitions, or this conversational camel: where mother laughs, as preaching prophecy, and strictly rebuked by our prophet: this one eyed man, this limping through corridors, this prolific artist: to cut bone, to drain this cactus, while terrified this mountain upon high—our fluid bowels, or guts set to ruins, to fly abroad laughing with Jesus): these tales about moonshine, this image so close, to awaken gripping this mirage: this small creature, those sable legends, to kiss with time awakening to dusk: our borders cringing, to invite a lie, as to realize love is at Love: this beaming meadow, this galloping mare, as enveloped in false betrayals.

Let me live or courageous this death, where father knew and forfeited make-believe: to ravish church, to angle our graphs, or somersault our inventions: this conscious crowd, this dying crowd, where charisma becomes inverted: at blue music, or tender skin, to crawl to one disenchanted: at raptures dead, at curses living, or at lagoons sipping dung-leafs: this miracle in blood, this feeling as dying, this other as invading: our hate as sippers, or observance as aphorisms, while grandpa has clutched for falling into pure acidity: (at riverbeds projecting, at estuaries debating, or at Mecca drenched in pure ecstasy: this craft with reason, this ache with treason, to assume countenance in fleeing eagles: our managed courage, this scientific, to slice with religiosity—this essence in concrete: those flaming arteries, this flaming chaos, this biblic drunken sin: this empty crib, this daughter carried, this lie I failed to exist: if but this woman, to attend to better days, while a fool relies upon pure audience: to evoke one promise, these open wings, or this farm of chicklets: as mother screams, this falling for grappling, those walls as pure indifference: these short sentences, this revving insanity, to ignore this person becoming a monster: our brains shivering, this sleet withering, where ice-gloves have evolved): but time to goodness, and dreams to fools, to realize this Paulic Reality: this vest of tongues, this answerable cherub, and this pull towards something mystique.

Cosmic Phoenix

…we’re speaking to frustrations, those habitants, this language seeping into realities: our dearest cries, our estranged children, our deranged categories: if but to live, as but to perish, while feeling good: this avenue singing, this midnight ecstasy, or mornings staring at plush rugs: our inner gambits, our gambling natures, or better, those thetic guitars: as mothers scramble, our wayward child, or this need for relaxation: to water his eyes, to die his soul, as music becomes symbiotic: those long cellos, those accompanies, or more to life, this sip of Folgers: (our bold dynamics, this uneasy permanence, this black sunlight): as hearts scramble, moving to internal tunes, while flipping through cartoons: such screaming compassion, accompanied by harsh realities, our throttles thrusting through traffic: this young feeling, or those monster realities, while seeping into darkness: this bestial substance, those lyrical liqueurs, or mirrors yelling nouns….     (…it becomes ghostly, thereto, immortal, while wrestling this mortal domain: our rites in literature, our souls in liquor, our fathers stressing heavily: this need for perfection, while absent for perfection, to claim disappointment: this abandoned arc, this miracle feeling, or this cascading brilliance—as mother laughs, where life is radical, to clash with imageries: this internal clog, this external jam, as more to days struggling at an impasse: that terror at mid-seconds, or such joy for mere minutes, as it becomes this chase for plural hours): wither, this feather, as plucked mid-winds, or dangling so closely we leap: our living guts, this angry countenance, or those unapproachable attitudes: to protect self, this steep reality, for life tugs as pulling our breaths: such fumigation, to air-out our corridors, while chasing brightness—this dark escapade, this winter’s travesty, or summer by feel good elation: indeed, this daily death, as alive in Faith, where increments lead to leaping….     I fell into thoughts, a tear curious, where daughters see compassion—or souls cross lakes, or feed ducks, or chase geese—those hungry creatures, this eighty dollar book, or that fifty dollar pen: our moments as proletariats, or our seconds as parents, or our boulders following through kitchens: this milky cake, those fluffy cookies, that foam atop coco: at increments this life, this saga incomplete, this episode for offspring: as seeping into justice, this rapture by evidence, as our cosmos induce situations: to forgive as being forgiven, to rinse those trespasses, if but our trespasses released: this exchange in life, but truth to arks, this person that rarely trespasses: this innocent Existential, this black crying dungeon, or this metaphysical winner: at highs laughing, a tear aside, this month to beige.                            

Mirror Walk

I picture glasses, I picture psychiatry, I whisper, Psychopath: as one uncertain, for stigmata screams itself, and positivity dreams of positive qualities: this fear we possess, while living our curses, to crawl into closets: this drug called, Existence, or pragmatic hassles, to realize this epistemological lagoon: to know by certitude, this rude disposition, while reevaluating old philosophies: this tender death, this warm execution, this father’s guillotine: to comfort passion, those psychotic features, to anger our Judges: while psychs explore, to become this reflection, and to utilize such inheritance.     I picture this woman, explained in concrete, but too abstract to fly: or withering slightly, an inner mercenary or too by liquidity to become peanut-butter—this spacial genius, this negative enforcer, this prophetic jelly—as men to women, singing this instrumental, to arrive as peeking at something growing: those hidden discourses, this churn with life, or armor melting where resurrection becomes normal: our childhood stories, this certified extraordinaire, or this penchant for something so powerful it remains disdained: this cross with reality, this perfect intake, or this perfect distance: to adventure closely, even enthralled, to lock loins as strangers: our mothers pictures, our inner mystics, or this resistance pleading its turmoil—where jingles appear, as cribs spin, while Mozart becomes our memories: this man pushing, if but to succeed, while therapy pleads as clouds dissipating: this inner picture, this overseeing nightmare, to soon disenchant authenticity: America Screams, trespassing our inner tornadoes, where Love types as pursuing a different angle: this slight discomfort, this Dream laughing, where souls rush for branches—this social leap, to congratulate a leaf, while slipping a worm in his tank.     I picture psychology, this stressor of souls, or this cosmic countenance: that scientific awning, those literary canopies, or this boat floating upon abstracts: this running essence, this pictured man, and those un-vetted suspicions: It must be insanity, or It must be magic, or this Feature has become dominant: to go further than prayer, to actualize participation, or to feel life by engaging in preparations: that small secret, that in-crowd elation, as nothing to venture but, We were arranged: this man running, as leaping through Africa, to arrive in African Americas: this soft sailing, this recharged historical, or this man running for files have become too thick: at wars with self, those binocular brains, or philosophical remoras: this clutching for cleaving, where we never operate as equals, while, nevertheless, equipped to outwit our pitfalls: those steep canyons, or steep battles, where issues are addressed by selection: this moon-talk, this pillow-grease, or this ability to discern when enough has arrived: our voices, Love, our inner accounts, or our bodies displaced: those ventures with courage, or to sit in loneness, with this false claim that life is perfect this way: as never adventured, our lives in castles, where everyone is under evaluation.     I picture assumptions, to believe through inexperience, or to vet through years of training: this lot of souls, as sensing by countenances, to realize we adore certain reflections: or to examine closely, to conclude upon self-interest, where clarity scribbles its riddles: this inner motion, this floating emotion, or those internal feelings: where mirrors crash, while projection exhausts, and reality becomes this, Perfect for me!: indeed, we get closer, this internalized intention, to get near enough to find faults: this need for faults, to feel for comforts, while hell has arranged her course: this dying wilderness, those hidden realities, this frontier of scientific concerns: those sky-walls, this mystery unraveled, while we demand our second kiss: those floors speaking, Picasso, this concrete associated with abstracts, and our certitude becoming a palm of sandcastles.                      

Reminded of Mirrors

…it’s a similar summer, this moist rose, this sunshine tulip: those grunts, as positive feelings, our eyes seeming awake: this color tone, this splice in spines, this treasure as fully polluted—our granny’s cake, at mystic sunrise, to fiddle a koan: this lively anguish, this feel good cigar, this yogic heartbeat: our noisy oceans, our noisy ships, our evening naps—where Love was jubilant, this three a.m. water, to realize a new day: indeed, to push passion, or to read silence, at pits feeling uncomfortable—those pine scents, this morning’s celebration, as children unravel gifts: those hopeful eyes, that innocent reply, or such courage to sing to Jesus: this pith inward, this song at brains, this rope tugging our actions: to laugh and flounder, or to purchase a fifth, where inhibitions were imprisoned: this code of ethics, this polite guidance, or this frittering of normalities: such music, Love, this inner design, this inner purpose, or this need to feel as one: those disjunct feelings, this cube of depression, those forests returns: as inner messages, or hard-pressed opinions, or better, our lullaby reputations: this sad taste, or this rich sweetness, while acclaimed as lava….     I dance with music, at times feeling pillaged, as taking this inner hut: those tiny grains, this windy sand, this inner obedience: as small vessels, or large marines, or sub-earth mystics: to float with chimes, while admiring flame, to fire with pure humanity: our last chances, our first mistakes, this lance piercing our moral compasses: at tender lies, or tender abeyance, at moons screaming this inner pigeon: those tensions waning, this person praying, this soul unlocked and soaring: to notice routines, this similar war-game, or this person choosing to agitate conviction: this need to repudiate, while, nonetheless, we need an entourage, if but to silence this losing feeling: our brains at arenas, those lions sniffing armpits, or this cat agitating her loins: as men running, while coming full circle, to arise at eyes dripping our childhoods.

…it becomes similar, this stalking mental, this island soul: those insecurities, as pure in Love, to aggravate this tender resilience: those brown rivers, those sunrise and jasper whys, or this need to agitate pure conviction: but oh to season, this need for an entourage, else this losing feeling: those confident souls, pushing through sludge, to arrive at vocal mayflies: our beige gloom, or chipper excitement, while something seems familiar: that treasured silence, our treasured drums, our irritating cymbals—to awaken at midday, to find self sewing, while running for pausing a bit simultaneously: those shivering arcs, this inner quake, or this blue/jasmine essay: those hours, Love, this cold coffee, this warm feeling if but that voice: our carried cries, our legacy feuds, where something calm was treasured: this milky galaxy, those fiery cosmos, or this body enveloping our universe: to settle pain, while sensing mirrors, as one dedicated to existence….

Chasing Chastity

…we felt ugly, this celebration, priding our guts on ignorance: this absent friend, this absent advisor, or this demented mentor: to slice brains, our electrical guitars, or this trenchant voice: our mystic shivers, our mystic towers, or this trefoil blue blaze: at terrible harvests, this winnowing million, at tears sold to silence: to yell at Jesus, to condemn this spider, or to talk with patience: this resolution, or sheer myth, to exercise with Gertrude: our account for rain, this meal near toilets, or this last river….     I chase wounds, I die with Christ, I live as one sentenced to years: our brains, Love, this gut, Love, this long range clarity: to push a gallon, to carry a ton, to court a python: where mother giggled, as gramps shook, while granny could barely amble: this could trigger, this long grain, our souls braiding Africa: to need for Europe, if but this iron, if but this angst: reading into nothing, to feel a bit of something, while Love exaggerates a good feeling: as treasured for passions, or hated for confidence, where one exhausts particular beliefs: this need to rotate, this scorpion dinosaur, or anxiety feel for fevers—to laugh with pains, to pain with laughs, while one examines this treasure: to cut Jesus, to curse Yahweh, or to climax laughing and screaming, God: this terrific curse, this old soul, this reckless courage: to strip thoughts, or re-screw perspectives, while one asks a simple question: (it must be voodoo, for mulattoes are warlocks, or misinformed Christians: indeed, to giggle, this Baptist with rights, this man taking to vocals: at lieutenant anguish, a speaker for ghettoes, without a damn claim for impressing Cinderella: this venom dripping, our fangs extracted, to make us all a bit fluid: that odious countenance, this sameness through eyes, to reply to Jesus a false account): this witness, Love, this Comforter, Love, this internal visionary: as fantasts living, or cookies baking, to feel a bit close to treasuries: this Colossians Book, this in-for-reality, or stressed with pure conjecture: this Us for Him, this dream about all things, or this muscle becoming a tarantula—this trapdoor spider, this infant adder, of this radicalized firefly: where Love was green, this mid-wave attraction, to experience so much that feels good: those held palms, those mental trails, as mother cries for feeling good: this black horizon, this quadroon pride, this granny educating a young warrior: as mystics dance, this parade of adventures, while a psych shoots a fireball: this fire in tanks, this swoosh and release, where mother screams, I Told You.

 

…it becomes observation, with this need to doubt, while disenchanted by mirrors: to remember souls crying, as needing guts, while days feel a bit lonely: our driven bowels, this inner purgatory, or years mentally in Avila: those ruthless sages, this ruthless artist, this ruthless mystic: at powers but hiding, as never to utter metaphysics, while swans soar our higher seas: those removed shackles, this address to indifference, or this person lacking this ability to feel: this fetid curse, this frigid insanity, while able to cry, nonetheless: our chastised hearts, our false chastity, or this holy sinner: as far too evolved, or stranded to coldness, at miracles bleeding this secret by few: to curse one for entrance, while discouraging reality, to assume that one associates with general news: this mystic carpet, this mystic rose, this mystic insanity—as sane before times, or sane afore God, or too evolved to see tragedy—this steep concern, (but what if I were white), indeed, this revealing enquiry: our days to corners, as protecting success, where true colors stream before our audience: this inner music, this playful yogi, this reality they can’t receive: as born this way, where everything is a threat, even a man feeding the homeless….            

Was Aching Love

Indeed, this career, this longevity, this swishing swan: our angular curse, this black moon, or benighted agonies: this storm in brains, this psych becoming turtles, or our sunshine sprinkling flowers: those scented petals, this mystic lake, at courage to defend our rights: abandoned to existence, but called for termination, where passions are cheerleading: those tight realities, this present tug, our inner carousals.     I action Life, destroyed and flourishing, where restrictions serve as harbingers: this winter’s meadows, this summer’s forests, and this popular squirrel—if but with blindness, stressing another’s disease, where flame has enthralled guts: this mental camera, this living room film, or our days to studying manipulation: those subtle glints, or otiose defenses, while knitting in purple cinema: as born as bees, protecting honey, to find this need to share.     I’m exhausted, and pulled so early, and drained by extra-realities: this mid-brain, this monster’s wife, or more, this abusive addict: at stigmata, this social curse, while wired for nonchalance: this angering vehicle, this manipulative essence, whereto, souls are collecting ghosts.     (…you’re a warrior, Love, this infinite quadroon, this interior princess: those exterior senses, this empirical genius, this aesthetic dynamite: to gut our feelings, to rev our sanities, where granny is living heaviness: this word for souls, this gilt’d gorgeous, or this casual creature approaching existence: our deeper aches, our flying castles, moreover, this Descartes enterprise: our artificers dancing, as enjoying this capture, to realizing this loosened recital: our pyramid queens, this aggressive swan, this Asian intrigue): to flee through grays, abandoned so near to justice, without a word holding strength: (this life as strange, our society as webbings, our addicts feeling ostracized): as soldiers too soon, or young warriors to early, where father felt goodness to flee heavy weights: as foolish caimans, this crocodile brain, or this vicious piano—where mother inherited deaths, as passing confidence, preparing a son for unlimited wars.     It came in months, this second for infinity, this curse as bleeding oblivion: this radical agenda, this distorted face, our present reality: as learning nothing, and angry with appropriateness, demanding a city of mind-readers: this trenchant plight, this arrow in Jesus, this typical black enterprise—as minds running, to defend Sadducees, where love cleaves to resurrection—our blue passions, or this red woman, as saying No to passionate poetry: those coals dripping, this sooth whiffing, at times this sacrifice: as pure Europeans, or hostile Africans, but rarely as serial this or that: our brainiacs at violin, our guts at symphony, or this trenchant disgust: if but to fly, or but to recite, or but to speak as we do in private: (whereto, this tragic swan, this magic swan, this graphic swan: at music chirping, at dinner with philosophies, or tears to joys to understand our dilemma: this rising glow, this infinite trapeze, or this realization that something is missing: our brains, Love, this thread in hybrid souls, or this refusal to mimic pure deception: but yours is game, this tale for mother, this cautionary for stepfather: indeed, to jest, indeed, to fly, indeed, at Hell’s Kitchen: this man searching for investors, while frustrating superiors, where they need for numb and dumb clients: this soul at Edith, those souls with Vivian, or this heart leaping towards Brenda: as Tamara laughs, this heated name, to wonder concerning our linage—this flight to Jesus, this rain at Yahweh, or more those experiences we can’t reduce: this auxiliary loser, or this mercenary winner, while many are unfamiliar this language: as fools loving, to need possession, but so far that reach and chasing: if but this woman, if but our souls, if but this swan): wherewith, this medicinal flame, or our medicinal curse, where a paragraph causes others to spas as if naked: indeed, Excellence, this quasi-charm, this semi-innocence—where lyrics kick ass, while knowledge causes enemies, while a friend died headed home: this torn gift, this petrified gift, this deep resilience—

Precise Thunder Becomes Signet

It spawns hostilities, this craft by calendars, and those year-in excavations: so subtle by arts, this test of wits, or, moreover, this temperamental genius: to know our contender, to analyze our adversary, where unsaid Fern is acting naturally: this need for conflict, this life-giving merry-go-round, while tried for trueness: those preparations, about something induced, where realization becomes partial: this foolish man, this angry man, as never to address his mother’s intimacy: nay, just more for rampages, or something physical, as to enforce this five year notion: to cut with intonation, or to shift Legos, while, nonetheless, venom sounds so insincere: this ambivalent essence, this man with psych, or this man alone this pitiful office: our cages screaming, our timidity with the word, Heaviness, or this collage of subtle frustrations: to ollie when good, or to manage while cringing, at something intimate for I confessed this mother: (our homes to membrance, our missing but present children, or this soul-keeper failing those duties: this palm of pills, this malignant pool, or our days misconstruing feelings as pure reasoning: whereas, it felt good, this no-all buffoon, up against this twenty year veteran: those membrance hospitals, those years as a child, this countenance so smart it disturbs acceptability: this abnormal-normality, those friendly hostilities, or more to arts, It shouldn’t distress so deeply: this insidious belief, as charmed to die, where one tells its receiver how he ought to respond: this deep dismissal, this sworn craft, while comfortable to resist until one falls enlove).     I can’t see it, this love for something disrespectful, this tale through ages: our frigid bones, or more, this curse, where one senses that all is lost: so steered aggravation, for He would never love me, especially, someone dying: this light at temperamental(s), this stage as pure confession, and this project for pure catharses: our women threshing, while winnowed by pain, as infused by something so neat: this life as an investigator, this drug for insights, or this God she would near to scream: or left at Avenues, this old loser, or better, this immortal seeker: such brains to ruins, so perceptions to esotericism, plus, this strange reality concerning this obsolete creature: our love for one, as possessed by another, where clairvoyance screams for acceptance: his hard countenance, this milky professionalism, or better, this woman feeling rejected: but hell to violence, as rudiment silence, for one is afraid of pure intimacy: where Love saw passivity, I saw humility, while Love suggested that this ain’t living.     I take liberties, I fabricate existence, I speak in presence concerning events from my past: this tragic receptor, this instance with aggravation, or this woman so gifted she missed my reality: this man needing fiction, or that last project, where animals were linked to dementias: or better as told, this shifted tissue, this link to shoebills: as a rapid writer, of a lost child, our courage coming through frustrations: this driving fire, this mother with rain, or more this psych tripping our cords: to die that rug, or to reject those couches, while surely at takes this private picture: as overseers speculate, those thirty years at meditation, to realize that something seems out of line: (this prison-soul, this poet-soul, this theologian: at graphic arts, this sentient wit, this radicalized experience: to tell his story, as partially read, where maybe our psych has jumped the gun: albeit, perfect, by perfect calculations, or stressed concerning this cross-cultural mirror: to see a child, speaking of mother, where mother worked her inheritance: this shift in spirit, this camouflaged empathy, or this ocean green with anger: to ask that question, concerning, Princess, where resistance in fluffy and cuddly: this man admiring women, this soul enthralled by radiance, to peek at a sudden disposition: this claim in mother, this womanly countenance, to find with essence another angle: this self-conscious reality, this dying calamity, or this need to fire as but to live): those alienations, this steep mountain, our days counting our minutes.

Black Out

…stressed for islands, or dead to feelings, while, emotions, nonetheless: this alien creature, this trenchant wound, or that eldest child: our dreams for perfection, our galaxy nightmares, or white//black distortions: those mobile cries, this ghostly heart, this feud with differences: our strong concaves, this enclave of experiences, this bear-cry: if but to liquor, or passionate wines, or more this curse where reality must bend: this crafted person, this inner violin, or this concrete crooked exterior: our pages scribbled, our essays leaking personality, this professor as dared to die—this ache limping, this anklet chain, those cuffs scrambling through brains: this push for mother, this elusive permanence, this casket blinking at Jesus: as souls receive, to grieve its audience, while Love becomes some sort of demon: at arks with friends, at years these thoughts, while, presently, too aloof to reach: so more to false pleasantries, or bull-crap converse, while angered his lips haven’t reached our butts: this cigar screaming, this peddle-dungeon, or more at aches this treacherous mother: to have for lights, this innocent respect, while underdogs go through hell: this cold cabbage, this exploration, while perpetrators exact evidence through losers: indeed, our bones, or riding as Jesus, to fret for seconds aggravated through rage: this cut in aces, this realm of ghosts, but never so far as to cut an adversary: this old existence, this touch with truth, to fear this yelling mirror: to age as dying, or to forget those climaxes, at whims fleeing into forced reality: our brains laughing, our fires coming to naught, where such was so uplifted by new-beginnings….

I sense with Life, this film of portraits, this mental photograph: as once a jewel, while harbingers were lurking, where age became this torment: those wild ceilings, this reaching Jesus, this birth as cut this island: our earth falling, our skies demented, those clouds scribbling prose: as dead men, or women fleeing, as returning to graves: this small curse, this adhesive glue, or this sick person disapproving of this life we cherish: our broken concerns, this husband laughing, this child thinking for what ifs: our bowels dripping, our guts dingy, our jasper celebrations: this high for soldiers, this black ship for warriors, this man at crowds—to source with violence, to shock a nation, or born for pure survival: to laugh with Jesus, to hold this anger, to cross eyes feeling apathetic: this apophatic, or this cataphatic, or truth to guts this silent maniac: where daughters are apprehensive, while psychs war for mothers, despite such treacherous satantics: our lives up for review, where others offer discourse, as if we pleaded for their approval: to cuss and laugh, to praise and die, to resurrect looking at something demented: as begging for peace, but trapped into wars, as one feels chosen to outline their position: this moonlit womb, this jazzy angle, or angular those lines screaming at midnight: this octopus mourning, this mother protecting her child, this father feeling secure: our arms scratching, our dinners at vomit, our guts failing acidity.

I answer callings, where creativity has become suspect, while weirdoes behave as if I should care: this silent insinuation, as if All are reduced to daily dosages, or deaths to achieve something esoteric: this small creature, this velvet treachery, as one selected to ape for goodness: our cursed brains, our opinions for friends, or this life where money proves insecurities: this cloud screaming, this fool laughing, as if it was perfect those infant years: our mothers freebasing, our fathers pimping, and this radicalized judgment: as if his guts, or dear to God his brains, to feel as appropriate this disgusting ass disposition: as cut to destroy, if but a fragment—of anything that speaks to alliances. 

Black Dungeon

…greetings, Our Adored, this picture in self, this spin on reality: our dreams, Love, our aches, Love, or more this vehicle tensed with jealousies: our inner Noah, this flippant mentality, this flippant curse: at faces with evil, at glances with death, to flee as born to survive….  I slept as dying, to receive as inimical, while Love was angered with justice: this trained monster, this young lad, to enter wars face-to-guillotine: our broken vibe, our tragic loss, this terrific curse: where mother laughs, to fiddle such destruction, or at bars contending for reality: our birth, Love, our dirty illness, this terrific silence: those schisms, our remorse, this remora slayer: if but to ingest, if but to relieve, as cut for stamina: whereas, they need death, if but to channel, where each person becomes a number: this fretful diamond, this scandalous incense, where vision becomes intrusive: this hourly addict, this peace in subjectivism, or this radicalized lie pleading for objectivism.  We live effusion, scattered and dying, or laughing falsely—a dozen goodbyes: our tears hidden, this furtive celebration, this stealth creature: as never by trust, to ask for ass kissing, where inner persons cuss glory: this magnet force, this maggot burst, to realize this messy reasoning.

…we communicate at images, this inner personality, this dung too blind for essence: while poverty is thrashing, where death is colliding, while mothers are auctioning children: this traffic madness, this traffic curse, or more to hells this flippant tear: our destroyed legacy, our laughing mothers, this sick and psychotic sky fracture: to judge his life, as if born this fusion, while in truth, I barely tolerate such guts: this blank moon, this sexual frenzy, as if such denotes sanity: this fleet of addicts, plus, addict behavior, to reason through life damn near secluded: where issues become wildlife, or dreams become obscure, to ask this layout for swans: this must for peace, as driving this curse, to destroy this inherent sidewalk: our babbling arcs, this frantic excuse, to hate for he dared to ignore bull-dung: those rubric eyes, this rubric curse, this fret as beating into cosmos: our cuts and muscles, our vomit and cuffs, to die looking at false reality: this fret in men, this threat in women, this glorious travesty….

…its’ pushing, this steep resentment, this adult-crane: those greasy replies, this dung-like mistake, those treacherous formalities: this daily name, this hidden woman, this pure unreality: that root in mania, this blueprinted brain, and this tragic monthly curse: to need war, as but to lose war, or but to destroy self: this cage in silence, this rage in violence, this demented keepsake: as shifting, while moving, to realize this local destination: this wafting stew, this crawling ant, or this overseer passing judgment: as snoring wasps, or manipulative turtles, or better, this dam this beaver: as tides churn, to become straight vicious, asking for clearance: this metric beat, this treble incest, or symbols cleaving to sky-graves….

I return to, Precious—this bright light, this simple language: as fuming game, or releasing pain, to drift in chains: our hourly curses, this minute for chills, this second dominating ten tombs: this tome in graves, this thought for lesser, to admire self a bit falsely: this craving moon, this dying centipede, or casual words feasted upon disdainful plates: as positions taken, as it must by reality, simply because it crossed our minds: where father is an outcast, especially, for drifting, especially, for imagination: to curse existence, to find inner God, to become inner God!

Inherited Rain Guts

…sun-dew smiles, or paranoid screams, or quasi-flatness: these rifts with deaths, those angular charms, as crows follow sedans: this musical ballet, this inner syndrome, and foggy glass: our voice prints, our soul prints, or better, our thought prints: this cactus flower, at breath but a night, our bats siphoning nectar….     —we examine wounds, we muffle our guitars, while some wear head-foil: this major monster, this muddied sanitarium, or hospitals becoming by horror pictures: while charged with energy, seduced by windy hopes, wherefore, our dreams become romantic: this place for us, those realistic harbingers, or this Good News Frenzy.     I felt unquiet, I feel unquiet, as it becomes this particular station: this fussy life, this fuzzy portrait, this annoying ritual: wherewith, these butterflies, or particles of vomit, or cloudy with thoughts about waves: this water cousin, this depressed chimpanzee, or this process to heal something undefined: at plural locations, at plural screams, or active somewhere close to intentionality: those growling orchids, such beauty sacrificed, or such beauty eating our guts: our Venus Fly Trap, this bug eating plant, those metaphorical designs—as lost grappling, or found but a second, to suckle with death watching: our animal tissues, those desert roses, and those hypnotic water lilies.                            

…sun-dew cries, our arid Australia, our flying foxes: such dehydration, trekking this vast sky, and hoping for spirit-water: this vital power, this dry thunder, our wintry spy-brains: to awaken in thought, such leafless concrete, such nomadic realities: if but to live, as afforded one error, where Love becomes gelada glee: those tamarin charms, those tarsier glances, those astute vervet monkeys: as aches a child, laughing while retreating, or actively ignoring internal whispers: this clinic for souls, this generalized disposition, this closeness afforded by great distance: this normal reality, this normal existence, where one is subject to appreciation: this primate life, our antiquitous genetics, and this space in bones crying: as young helicopters, or jasper engines, while becoming junkyard transmissions: as purchased by arms, to rebuild oldness, while scarred one performs pretty well: this living sanity, this secluded cave, or public life feeling observant….

Ghost Marrow

…we seduce graces, if but through memories, by classified insanities: this wintry torque, this inner buoyancy, or clever this art of thieves: our rescheduled affairs, our brains in coffins, or complete resurrection—as losing self, designed to perish, where souls are flying: this May Dream, those frantic months, to come through wars shushing our souls: this grand piano, this mental guitar, or days at reciting our prose: this hard atmosphere, this ridiculous nervousness, this pitch in intonation: as wolves channeled, or coyotes howling, where our audience is structured by analyses: this radical brightness, this incandescence, or this iridescent moon: this fluorescent flower, this exotic peach, or thoughts to persons we haven’t met: this field of images, our Kings with Queens, as, nevertheless, we sit alone in ages: as prehistoric brains, this motion dinosaur, or this ethical shoebill: our human instincts, our human emotion, to find an elephant mourning over a dead calve….  I’m sipping early, reading this mongoose, while curious concerning Mongolians—this treasured cave, this telling petroglyph, this particular warrior: as Anglo Phantoms, or galloping into deserts, at years conquering perceptions: this moon-blue redness, this tank through frontiers, at armies discussing life with ants: this inner portrait, to confess those eyes, a bit to lakes those mahogany screams: or mother be good, this tale of dynasties, this immortalized adversary: to live in brains, at cornered introjects, to confess that souls are a bit askew: this wading frenzy, those old soul-folks, or this song bringing hearts to remembrance: where Love is golden, at tears these years, to confess a piece of self went psychotic: those porcelain veins, this eclectic philosophy, or theologians running for captured by greed: as built in essence, to need more of Yahweh, while ingested by particular occurrences: those Zen Galaxies, this Hindu Prince, or aches to souls this manipulative master: at terrible cries, longing for existence, to realize that deceit is often by justice.  (I met a mantis, We conversed for hours, It turned its head and I struck: I met a cobra, This living meerkat, We parted with venom: this crescent arc, this inner earthquake, or this silent, exclusive, atypical argument—for eyes seeing skies, or skies enveloped in eyes, our screams by our daughters arteries: this genetic spin, this genetic curse, as resilient children missing our existence: this web of violence, this deep camouflage, or this pantomime approach to trauma: our wellic and telic hearts, our clarinets bleeping with sleepiness, whereas, it felt good to flee injustice: this flying tern, this nasty pelican, or this list of bottom-feeders: our plankton highs, our human octopuses, where tentacles appear a bit offensive—but hell to arts, while beauty becomes prolific, our days at studying this feeling: this wet storm, this whet chaos, this siren too self-conscious for us to approach): hitherto, this slight undercurrent, this internalized stream, or wisdom to lights, if but to suspend judgments, while pondering this one jewel: at attic cries, or mathematic scars, while algorithms seem askew: this relic at arms, those jetted souls, this lingering upshot: our jimmied sentiments, our jutted feelings, or this insatiable craving for one that appeals to imagination: this jimpy curse, this machine gun frenzy, at creeks pitching quarters: those light browns, this cavy blackness, or trauma to souls a bit involved: this realization, as siphoned through tears, to imagine this slight indoctrination: those angry voices, this sheer indignation, to absorb something scientific: that lack of trust, this doubtful enterprise, or this realized savior: but deep our religions, or reaching our spirituality, whereto, our souls are ravished and catapulted: as tender our beats, this core interaction, this relished inter-discipline, as intra-minds, or intra-slaves, while Love agonizes of pretenses: this sun-beat life, or those European allies, where Jewish Laws erupt into conscienceness: as beige arts, or jasmine eyes, to invest life into a scattered dream: this fretted fever, this foreign flight, where Italian women appear by sexualities. 

Inverted Chains

I’ve lied to mirrors, such altered perceptions, as one catching up to his brains: this casual edifice, or such groomed deception, at this bridge claiming normality: to respond differently, or to lack responses, where normality yells at every infraction: this law by nature, where owls swoosh in silence, while prey runs this frantic race.  I walk mirrors, tugging at ceilings, avoiding this soul capture: or wrapped in seasons, to spin with excitement, or to crush upon living apricots: as miles return, where shadows have danced, our intestines dining at pure conception: this pitied friend, this winning artist, or gentle to thoughts this ravished damsel.  It becomes reflection, our babies raised by scorpions, our scorpions chased by gila screams: our latest clove, this trefoil for wishes, or more, this crawl attempting permeation: where smoke settles, reaching our nervous system, our charms forming habits: those bat-like warzones, this radicalized loss, to realize we attract by seasons: as but a child, looking at fair beauty, and moved by something inherent in dreams: our arts racing, our chase proving futile, or tears to life our exotic fruits: our muscles shifting, this acme peaking, or days to terror sensations.  I saw symbols, this wave of intentions, and this feeling for authentication: at reclusive churns, or repulsive currents, while acting, nonetheless: this party for feelings, this sad undertow, or more this elevation kissing at those peaks: where mothers become elaborate, or women want children, as to open a discussion: this wandering soul, this intrepid clock, or better, our reality confessing this warrant for unyielding trust: our restless nights, or such by morning secrets, or such by purity our mettlesome pains—this flying creature, this human head, or fire with brains this animal’s body: where Love is secluded, so close afar a scream, our battles standing in stillness—this river vineyard, this meerkat freedom, or our domesticated chimpanzees: as feeling morality, if but this game, where warriors blitz through while actions become chess: this arrangement of terrors, this ball midair, as it sits in stillness steadily spinning: those raining cages, our opinionated spectators, where in reality, I must live this Light: to dream as winners, this contagious outlook, this fueled controversy—as positioned souls, distressing our upper essence, or plaid with thoughts and confused about purpose: our aches reigning, our arcs as subtle, or this furious darkness so steep with existence.      

I’m critical with vices, I’m lost in speculation, and, moreover, I fret over potential realities: this writer’s imagination, this gorgeous creation, this versatile vitality: those evening discussions, those late nite intimacies, or, furthermore, our dreams wrapped in our progeny: this thinking man, this maturity becoming intrusive, or tears to life our cutting insights: those inner sentences, as present before birth, or this metaphysical resistance: to possess pure reality, our armpit axioms, and those few words permeating our vocabulary: this inner Ghost, this inner Chi, at tendencies reflecting upon heat: as confessed a flower, with such devious eyes, while, nonetheless, this weakness for this riddle: if but to fly, or but to sing, where at times, its us alone at seas: our trenchant warfare, this internal kingdom, or, notwithstanding, this internal hospital: our medicinal concerns, our reckless highs, as our present writer sparks a clove: indeed, such sensory, such insight, or at times, this pure afflatus: our meadow epiphanies, our ability to see, or this churning while at forest spinning a leaf: where Love is brilliant, this deep mediator, this prolific advisor: our minds in union, our care for two souls, and our laughs harmonizing in chains.      

             

We Pass Wading Islands

…we lose ground, filled by hatred, and fretting false explanations: iced at brains, bleeding at arts, to arrange something treacherous: those nape lumps, this goose city, our ruby wines:—to exhaust fantasies, at something fabulous, or casual this friction in men: those country rangers, this gecko dissertation, at millipedes discussing tentacles: those black/brown eyes, this green/purple mesmerizism, or mauve dreams repudiating Prince: our fair dynasties, this luxurious dance, or our seconds this vase became liquids: those blue eyes, this brave jacket, or those khaki imprints—at mothers un-graved, at diplomacy to fatal faults,  where Love gave a rats ass: indeed, such charm, at father’s leniency, while bent over toilets: this taupe vomit, this drinking at ruins, to feel this beating gut—our rowdy livers, our rowdy cognac, our nights with Richard Pryor—this ignorant exhilaration, those bashful blue eyes, this red interior flush—at treasures scorned, at miseries blessed, while infused for livid this luminous beige fire….     (…we fly this gray, gripping for ruptured, at tears trekking Santa Monica: those Malibu cries, this sinner about mischief, or rabbits crazed with sexuality: this deep fear, our men needing suppression, while women desire beyond this beating numbness: to arrive laughing, to become formed by women, at casual texts prior this alarming faction: our nervous grunts, this picture in 3D, our glasses performing in Pagan—at Jewish rudiments, at European ethics, to find with life this winning science: our bold passions, our cursed loins, to want for fever this absolute loser: this brimming diamond, this city in Sienna, this private female Confessor: as charged to brains, this electrical magnet, to want for fervor this arc: our women laughing, but dearly at pains, to lose so much giving a rats ass: that rubescent stature, this iridescent picture, those curves as too beautiful for existence: where souls gun lights, this mental portfolio, this swelling ligament, this gust of pride, this neighbor gawking, and our Love tangled for grounded in treacheries…): I run on, this laugh in crowds, this red-eyed catastrophe—to love guts, while torn this writer, at tears to escape poetry: this cacophony, this symphony, this tender Dear John Letter: our cowardly pavements, our pale blue miracles, while too dead to survive this lethal prayer grind: as cut and ruined, this pierced maniac, this vox too close to ingest: our scared brains, our forward women, if but to suggest this plural universe: this theologian, at tears with reality, at wars with inner conflicts—those gripping travesties, this queen in leather, this curious ant shushed in panic: our vocal stripes, this Baton Rouge cry, or strategies designed to redirect sour eyes.

 …let tears die, this frantic lust, and this bubbly atmosphere—this atlas born, disguising treacheries, and laughing at Love: this tiara kingdom, this inner allegory, this writhing mallet: this midsummer gesture, this notorious brooch, this language removed from concrete meanings: our orison nightmare, our William James—this treachery playful by interior tongues: our Brian McKnight, our Aaliyah castles, as brought to life angered by resuscitation: our cabinet tyranny, this nautical Malaysia, or gravel to spittle this tale of diamonds: such unborn romance, or intimate disasters, where garments become memories: this perfect curse, this throttled flame, and unfledged chaos—where Love becomes jasper, this hour of resurrection, while uneven a number called, Snake Eyes: as perfected dearly, those midday fantasies, to rev with arts that fire: this ghostly dust, this cloud of particle ghosts, indeed, whereas, we cleave to miracles: this tiny frame, that delicate voice, or moody a notch when tested: our green pastures, our burgundy art-crane, or peace to justice this irregular cloth....