Glasses

…love is pastel, or guerrilla warfare, as esthetic as resistance: this nameless creature, this misnomer fantasy, this school of finishing horizons: Love is Scandalous, an art in science, this space few souls dwell: such by slumber, or Rodeo Drive, our ghettoes with screams: our green eggs with ham, our tornado taste-buds, our liquid science: while moving forward, too concentrated for breath, where Love exhibits something risqué: our cut neckties, our interior feathers, to witness her name: at curious extremes, yearning but distant, at tear-cave tattoos….

…we insist upon integrity, while flying dreams, at something too delicate to address: our glamour simmering, our souls aching, our bodies as delicacies: those bold red eyes, that California temper, those New York Arts: while moving upon thunder, at kitsch about strife, or kneeling in repentance: for love is crying, this immoveable matrix, or numbing agonies: such blueberry trauma, or rolling into apathies, while entrenched, rift’d asunder: magic music, Metropolitan, or damaged diamonds: such critical souls, escaping evaluation, haunted by ghosts: at Love but shapeless, our desires overrated, our souls under-discussed: as men looking, or women touching, but a spark those darker mornings: while love is beautifully sick, or this loving abyss, our milky cries as tiny sky-droplets: where blue jays watch, our pentacles upon rivers, while motion slides into crevices….

I die to inhale us, this passing vapor, our world promising challenges: such vernal, brown, grassy blades: such zephyr and worship, such gilded emotion, such glamour deaths: as souls sliced, and opened for surgery, to find Love’s face: this fresco design, this penchant voice, as proving indelible: those mental lamps, this shift in destinies, our hands reaching for what was missed: those rusty basins, as rented from Bethlehem, or those Egyptian lanterns: our eyes rolling, our spirits puffing, our senses leaping from rockets: if but to touch, as but to die, to arise with life mere that apex: such ethic born, such dis-ease unshorn, while walking about with this leprechaun: our abstract sighs, our ink-pelted souls, or to pause failing our salvation: such etching for paradise, our bedroom murals, our Father’s Collage: to sing in purple, as stenciled in jasper, or to lunar by insanity: this beige man, this solar lamp, or incredible island eyes!

…acres of love, a shadow gunning, at irregular midday feelings: or thumping loudness, as souls by chambers, this hallway screaming at curiosity: our inner allusions, our interval reason-scales, our schemes, rhythms, and aborted stanzas: to tone guidance, at parental emotion, our terror that glorious ballad: to believe angst, to culture anxiety, while leering into cauldrons: as, thither, we live, as, thither, we cherish, while apprised of our losing trillions: such agile rain, plummeting our souls, skimming through poetical segues: those winning hips, those winning cries, if but, this winning death: to paint a verse, to sky by scrapes, to touch something too deranged to ignore: that cache of graces, those etiquette principles, or hell for reach as behaving badly: this life by circumstance, to reality so deeply, our souls renewing majesty: our final plea, our begging lights, to adjure Love: this frantic image, those frantic screams, at terrible concerns: our minds running, at tender reeds, our palms filled with soil: our utmost joy, our utmost pain, whether weather is fair: this mystery in life, to ask for silence, our bodies walking towards memories: at so many it hurts, at such experience we can’t decide, at such life it’s hard to exhale: our old-school cloaks, our newfound excitement, our impeding flatness: at cryptic cries, or cryptic eyes, or muscles pleading deliverance: as sails a soul, at sullen awareness, or glasses flung at dynasties….

Rebuilt Clouds

It became existence, particular thoughts, albeit, deceptive thoughts: or self-interests thoughts, roaming this small planet, barely peeking at mirrors: our tummy notions, our gut indoctrination, our works seeming valid: at rocket instincts, as opposed to reflecting, while better decisions played flutes: our best manuscripts, seeming askew, our best thoughts met with opposition: but this was life, our fragile resilience, our hurtful hearts, while longing for answers: such assurance, such difficult analyses, while reflecting upon others: immune to good days, adverse to certain feelings, seeking solace in strangers: (this sad stature, vying for agreements, at tyrannical thoughts): therewith, this sad aura, or this penchant for compliments, our mornings a bit outspoken.     I exist in us—this precarious nature, while afraid of losing us: this seemingly fount, spread where souls gather, a bit too fragile to hold ground: our allergies raging, our indoctrination imposing, while resistant unto falling forward: such endless blueprints, such walks searching turquoise skies, at evenness those seconds reviewing maps: such dotted frenzies, such homesick Jazz, but deeds strike our grapevine: if but to sing, this difficult task, our voices crumbling: where rivers mimic motion, around ambivalent cages, our dreams seeping into smoke.     …those years were harsh, our ways to privacy, while acts slithered out of our boxes: such running fever, such redemptive acts, such drastic measures: our inner spirits, reading collectively, while drenched in glitter: such rich repute, running from old dungeons, recounting our fairer deeds: as good souls, wafting into battles, re-listening to old tenets: to jettison something antisocial, to replace it with something humane, as following this painful sequence: our souls at charity, to possess this one star, while something pokes our interior: our sad eyes, peering at temptation, wanting while resisting: thereto, this building block, this inner fever for rightness, while following certain rules: as reversing injustice, singing something glorious, while existence carries a sullen coat….     Such rich existence, this feel-fervent-high, our thoughts in transition: to possess sadness, but better, goodness, rebuilt and gunning: our quartz glistening, our mental mica, at sequences redeeming existence: to float with passion, to escape certain feelings, while sentenced to explore those feelings: our eyes with gravity, our song with clarity, our collars loosened: but a teardrop, but sweet melancholic music, or but a special dream!        

              

Padlock Treatise

I giggle softly; I chime with ghosts; it’s getting dreary: this bold enterprise, this key in phantoms, this wild-haired daughter: at church laughing, fettered to shame, to worship akin to fawning: this overthrow, this apparition’s robe, those gold faithful(s): that tender canine, that ruthless feline, at chills bleeding liquor: oh for inhibitions, to battle a womb, to caress a flower: those tall lies, as acorns laughing, this trail of palm trees: to cut with silence, to thrash a vixen, while held in rich contempt: our bedroom cries, our public eyes, while chided for honest existence: this pistol watching, this monster controlled, this envelope waxing with conceit: those feral emails, this taxi to God, while Love sprinkled a young stallion: moreover, those curses, this tender amore, if but to claim embarrassments: this flock of professors, this internal hawking, this external sigh—to try with rabbits, to incur violence, while too scientific turns our guts: to need for worship, this mutual character, this froward behavior: so ignescent, an ankh by coffins, our spirits beat and bruised: those burning daffodils, this flagrant afflatus, or Love unbeknownst as this roaring fulcrum: to die with action, to passion existence, where arms touched while dropping forward!

…more dialogue, more profanity, more dear at deaths: our thicket concerns, our evidential lives, our present situations: this man as dreams, this future as screams, but ever too close: to sneak to Vegas, to roam New York, to invest in every cavity: this flying sun, this reluctant moon, those tides rising into tsunamis: those dreamcatchers, by this infinite pendulum, to attack airs looking at invisible souls: our features, Love, as realer than insanity, but focused on domination: this office war, at non-participation, where Love has diagnosed a phantom: this see-through child, this feature when it cries, this poison to sense this need: but Love is richness, this interior sculptress, while it felt like hell to unlock: (this true tale, to ponder as deeply, We aren’t open until genius crosses our paths): indeed, this furious knot, this furious frame, this furious curse: at prose with silence, but ever so vocal, while Love watches bleeding her courage: to grit with deaths, this itchy balm neck, those ferocious balm lions: if but to convince, this world to senses, while some are captured by certain sentences: our oily scalpels, our fables in platinum, to sale a man a dream twenty years chasing: to love and adore, that foolish soul, while terrified of giving him respect: this need to be captured, if but to break free, while a family is hostage to careless frustrations: our minds as puppets, our confidence laughing, where Love adored a second visit….

I’m a ghost, or something knitted, or something, thereunto—this inner basket, those marbling eyes, to become yeast inflating bread: at manikins with pride, at roots un-vowed, at Love leaving things alone: this feral being, this ruthless being, this violent reject: as men doctored, as women upon a last experience, upon psychs pleading forgiveness: this inner sunshine, this warm heart, those sinister angels: as needing flesh, this body encapsulated by spirits, as tugged for spinning, while souls are coming into existence: our human frames, this lascivious fount, this inequality: to ghost with insanity, to lies with profanity, to dwell in hostility: those blue vines, those red clouds, those burgundy skies: as aroused to rise, or to arise feeling disgusted, to engage in sex while fretting pure blackmail: this treacherous feeling, this scar bleeding, while unbeknownst to both parties: if but this life, or but this game, without reaching repercussions: as desiccated souls, or log-less ambassadors, where Love was sick for something impermanent: as not to hold violence, but simmer unto silence, where it felt tremendous last Christmas: this friend with deaths, those outer ladybugs, or splendor so loud we must possess life: our shatterproof souls, our notorious armor, while picking God’s Padlocks.

Personality Tests: Musing upon Kidman

…such two-toned spiders, hanging into infinity, such hazel-green antennas: such fair flesh, such ruthless psychiatry, such attic/antique ghosts: by steep allure, pictured in perfect facials, at terrors this private persona: our daily graves, our pills with juice, our banana nut muffins: as souls gunning, to pause through motion, our lips sky-blue pink: our sultry blankets, our dotted entries, our positive this for that: as one ambitious, as one aggressive, or so passive it has become anger: this field of meerkats, our liquids with Hawaiian Bread, our liquor but just a taste: at Dior perfumes, or Gucci socks, infused by raw interaction: our manipulative rites, our African furniture, our jewelry from Haiti: those in office secrets, such femininity, or ruthless antics: to become Tiffany, so deep we can’t reach it, so engulfed our home-base is running….

…at beauty reporters, a friend of science, but too detached to breakthrough: at rational intimacies, our glasses for attention, our seduction for selections: such ivory mandates, in this ivory-dominant-electric, at fears concerning spacial reality: our hydro-planet, or conglomerate beauty tips, while at panic this essence by love: our granny’s cooking, our Diesel Denims, our provocative this for that: as souls gunning, or soft spoken, while life has become its stage: this age of pomegranates, our oranges with plums, our sugary worms: to watch in fury, this flaming tug net, by just a smidgen by ankles: to ponder anklets, or rosary-beads, or donations to Latin America: our southern/northern personas, those flies, those cries, our eyes dripping mire: as radical this for that, or demanding thinkers, while poised just enough to bleed….

…watchful for damaged hair, thankful for complexion, or concerned about existence: our inner Sartre, our reckless Camus, our God Fearing Kierkegaard: indeed, such limited feelings, abounding in deep meditation, to unlock soaring into hemispheres: those days with shamans, our Elvive Elixirs, or such wrenching pain to witness an elephant passing: those lemur instincts, those macaque eye-prints, or becoming passive-aggressive: as years swoop into focus, our similar cheek structure, or years to deeds in order to fly….     We come to conquer, this misprinted intention, or weeks recounting lashes: at jest with feathers, at laughs but self-conscious, while yours is blueprints: this twist through churns, those rebuilt antennas, this life with children: as one wrenched and wretched and willed into tortures: this place for lower chakras, this area of concern, where some would rarely extend such drastic sky-squares: as mere souls, searching for fuller and thicker, or at tender mercies peering at our soulmate: indeed, creativity is motive, this poet’s need for muses, while comfortable to remain grounded: this life of high-rises, this slop through dungeons, while still at normality claims: our potent, sour candies, our Sandies with pudding, or our nights wafting a grape….

…our serums with vegetables, our sensational boosters, our running, or jogging, or skating in spirit, if but too frazzled to dream: this slant into mystics, this grave seeming so proper, or merely a batch of spoiled strawberries: as words mean so little, or words have roots, where such by stars our souls reverberating: this global mystery, as carrying more than wings, while we distinctly sense through variations: our moonshine with prayer, or maybe a cynical glare, while so skeptic it feels good to conjure energies: at slight distances, applying Neutrogena, or tanning upon an exotic ocean: either/or, or maybe both, we exist as passing by….      

Magnetic Forces

…such rubescent shocks, such colors by lightning, while observing morning thunder: our bacon over satire, our trillion dollar screams, or awakening to exhaustion: this sad poet, at existential prose, fretting over possibilities: alert but sluggish, stitching something unique or reknit reaching for opalescence: images waft away, sound becomes silent, and irritation bubbles while typing: those mental films, trespassing old feelings, where transgression becomes agile perception: our needy tentacles, this cross about manhood, while agonies part oceans: this fair rose, this fairer fight, while desperate to claim peace: such misfortune, at epistemic cries, needing more than what we see: such raking sickness, at midday coffee, where images reappear….     …such dignity, or radical sophistication, while treading mire: this salsa dance, our aching bellies, our bodies moving in tandem: at random noises, engulfed but balanced, or whelmed and released: that other personality, these stems laughing, our souls disputing fires—at new adventure, our mazes unlocking, our allergies but haywire: to appear to mirrors, mocking inhibition, and so rapture’d by profanity: those days languishing, as smaller accounts, where reality seems restless…those apples seeming edible, such reeking happenstance, where it takes days to readjust: that dismayed glow, those parted lips, our purest penance—climbing into quarters, our eyes moist with stoicism, our souls reaching at invisibility: as becoming rubber, and bouncing forward, to glance at particles chasing: at embarrassed quarters, as held to yesterday, while some need our despair: indeed, such lethargic feelings, or academic rain, while singing sorrow….

…something’s in motion, this feeling equation, this iridescent calligraphy: but days are numb, or days are overloaded, where flux becomes walls and mirrors: our fragile egos, our fragile souls, our irritabilities: as fortunate creatures, tugged by insistence, trekking through seabed anxieties: at memories with joy, or running fields by elation, where we must protect our inner adolescent: this carefree giant, but changed by experience, but altered by literature: our simplistic needs, in this simplistic world, where reality has proven itself by complications: our deep release, our loosened clutch, our swaying harpoons: at fussy moments, our complex laughter, stirred by eclectic motion: nonetheless, our daily giggles, our sworn loyalties, while wrestling with agitation: this crucial creature, this mental crook, to realize something about ourselves: be it pleasant or sticky, we hold our dignities, while cruising our deeper sanctums….

We find ourselves, this extravagant life, so fraught by animosities…our losing winnings, our winnings losing, our subtle music—as thieves running, or confined by morals, this thing concerning wrongness: such adult rubbish, or frightened of living, at our minds debating consequences: our drawn curtains, peeking at this open wound, while harboring bandages: such moistened cloths, such leaky faucets, atop a moon at public features: our brain powers, distinguished by sunshine, while gravitation is monitored: our daily occupation, as reformed sailors, knitted by ethical bars: this need to listen, this want to feel, as one reborn but captured by insistence: to condition self, as alive and well, while, nonetheless, experiencing tugs: this garden of bugs, our dearest repellants, to nurture a silent daisy: as found but captured, or captured but debated, where noises fall gently to seas: our wonderful traffic, our wonderful souls, at something so wonderful we peek into silence: our leather boots, trekking railroad wilderness, to sit as one exploring nature: to chase a taxi, this midday mirage, while observant about our weather: such deep sophistication, such challenges to preserve it, while knit to certain realities: our reaching souls, our next office, our occupied origins.

Serum Truths

I die looking at life, this miracle gem, this sunrise epiphany: to presage, Precious, to realize disaster, this mark in gravel stating forever: while cement melts, it returns to solids, where irremovable passion sings about deaths: this silent guitar, seated in Gucci, or blood bruises sought after confliction—this man disappearing, this slimy language, as grown men laugh while embarrassed deeply: to flourish in traumas, at dusty lies, while Love flowers and looking incredible: at tears those songs, to remember burning excitement, while God knew our destiny: those beige foundations, this Maybelline catastrophe, or bowels gunning for terrific!    

I totter indecision, feeling a tragic defunct, while reading through encyclopedias: this daily chase, to become wise, where chatter discourages this pace: as candid lairs, so impressed by soul, to die so long it begins to feel passion: that sallow rose, our bleeding intestines, our milky white fluids: at tomes befuddled, at tombs blurry, to exit running into desert lands: at prayer with strangers, as rarely with mother, but deep emphases upon this Ghost: to hone particulars, to hone excitable(s), while presently churning large sounds: our guts listening, our thrills penetrated, while most giggle for unbeknownst reasons: those big planes, those extended wings, to land while admiring human technology: at deep psychoses, reading spirit-physiognomies, while our psychs come to focus: at blood blue ripples, or infused for living, where tomorrow we drag our beds: our flaming cauldrons, our minute potions, while spent so high it comes to life!

…it was good to meet, it was good to close doors, while it was better to open widely: to bilk ourselves, to exhaust an entrance, while remembering those intimate seconds: as coming easily, this thrill with many, where ours bore a child: (but ponder shelves, this tremendous lie, where God ensured disaster): or more to science, to feed with negatives, while positives felt secluded: those itchy necks, our nerves at battles, our dreams in fury: this Precious Moon, this flooded heart, to run so long it feels perfect: indeed, but a second to flee, but a second to recluse, or but a second to seduce: our whiny friends, seeking something worthy, where real life burns: those velvet carpets, those velvet islands, this velvet disposition: while men are doubting, as questions are hurled, where souls are hurling our brains: our beating chests, our naïve fathers, our mothers where certain seconds seem unbearable: this insufferable need, those potent feelings, while expecting abandonment: this daughter’s legacy, those mental troves, as deeply discolored: at saddened miracles, to flip into existence, after years of misguidance: our pillars rumbling, our guts laughing, our eyes looking like three days of unrest: to passion with venom, our stepfathers needing clarity, if but to sing, if but to dream, where drinks felt good….

…get it early, Love—despite anguish, despite ostracisms: those spirit-undulations, this inner yoke, this garth about our psyches: indeed, this old treasury, this old languish, this icy-warm existence: our mystique essence, this mystique swan, or circuits to sprint-through and disappear: those soulprints, our neighboring paws, or sounds so precise to Eternity: if but to whisper, those clear images, while gutted for ruined upon reception: (to adore a flower, as flowers perish, upon a scream about resurrection): this fair distress, this beautiful pain, where it felt good to feel passion: our Guardian Angels, our bioluminescent nights, where spirit is rapid and ranting and running through hemispheres: those thunderstorms, this feral creation, to land so far-away from healing: those fruitless fears, as everso real, while mandolins spring into memories….

Empty Fullness

I felt illumination—this feral animal, induced by inside/outside forces: our screams bottled, to open and faint, at deep influx: such crucial reality, such rustic intervention, such cryptic dialogue: as one saddened naturally, to ingest happiness, our days barely at literature: as needing more, or losing what’s passion, to invest in soothsayers: our carefree souls, involved in motion, searching for buoyancies: our physic insights, our powerful thumps, as confusing aid as intimacy: this atypical love, this sense that days are crucial, where it felt good to shift dynamite: those pantomime mines, this mime allergy, to hold a daughter’s palm: as music lightens—this vest of decencies, while sensuous thoughts are directed: otherwise, crucial, as thereinto, our mirrors chasing our running spirits: indeed, to your soul, at ridiculous conclusions, as if to suggest you aren’t human: this novel dangling, this novella shoving, at night silence: our courage to listen, our daring energies, while saturated in concentration.

It was you those years, it was us those days, and it was others in-between: at torrid oceans, our faring sea-smiles, our trips to some island: or bitter reality, on a bad evening, filled with strong anxiety: as pacing our minds, at love our lots, at inner manipulation: such calm motion, such rigid arks, at something devastating: if but to fly—our flowers at sunrise, our souls cast to invisibilities—those singing songbirds, this swooping hummingbird, or to sudden upon wings: this small/vast galaxy, such deep remorse, while seeing something sprouting by delusion: but based in facts, this drifting stem, our clumsy infatuations: therewith, this rippling fear, to have what souls possess, to hold for life this charm: where arts are rules, as politics are flares, while passion became cruel intimidation: those running halves, as chasing their bodies, where a good session brings wholeness: our screams snaillike, our sounds to crashing, our hearts thrashing.

…such lifelong brevity, such dusty dry lands, such arid airborne feelings: to stir emotion, to fling emotion, to enter skin and rumble: to pray by differences, to live an acrimonious existence, or to become too holy: as much to life, staring at similar beliefs, or wet but empty: our deep convergence, our taboo secrets, our rushing hours: as sprinting into majesty, alive with humans, to trust with soul this galaxy: our rushing rivers, our faucets dry, our respect adjusted: if but to live, while serious our conclusion, our minds at swords our guts at lances: if but to rebirth, this incredible resurrection, while days vacillate by intensities: our epistemic eyes, our stoic landslides, if but those seconds showering depression: to take our course, to seek out succor, while too prideful to perish: as but those deaths, while chiseled calmly, at rusty pillars….

Orchard Flies

…those mild thoughts, conditioned by experience, alongside existence: our hushed thoughts, at pure concentration, filmed by silent mirrors: to meet resistance, examining our hearts, or wheezing from indifference: at battles within, or seated quietly, our souls squeaking for revelation: as mere eloquence, disputes behaviors, while with reaching embarrassment….

…we exist in pieces, our selves scattered, our wholeness found at seconds: this complete feeling, while entering public life, while tugged by inquisition: our rounded personalities or something pushing our surfaces, where lights seem fragmented: (this beautiful existence, this ugly existence, such paradox scraping inner seasons): to run while seated, to meditate why abandoned, where life seems inappropriate: but days are vacillating, while mundane airs are pushing, our souls daring to seek excitement: those smaller spirits, offering pudding with joy, where something requires something else: those fires by lights, those lights by thunder, while aching for something tropical: such senseless tides, or radical times, where thoughts resort to adolescence: that story, therein, those adult trials, or something by comfort we can’t escape towards: at baffling cries, or harmonica reasoning, plus, preparing for our love one’s departure…. 

I find resistance, in this pool of profanity, as not by language: but secular existence, a bit too evolved for religious existence, while realizing this world of philosophies: our wants for power, our desires to rule, at pace to realize our qualifications: at tyrannical displays, or deep insensitivities, or so nice others are taking advantage: our midbrain agendas, our sundown wars, our jackets stressed needing adjustments: that raspy conversation, that raspy voice, our fangs on edge: to speak equality, to speak religion, while removed from both: or alienation, cornered by thought-flies, while wafting through smog: that foggy atmosphere, those foggy lamps, or those silent pictures: our deep perception, as dearly our frontier, while needing absolute science.

I paused, lit a cigar, and examined this existence: our running manna, our cautious diamonds, our sappy flowers: our mental contour, that intricate aura, or those crazed ideas: at furious ideals, or laid in corners, while attempting public gatherings: our silk realities, our silken (winter) sheets, our textures a bit cultivated: at fiction for comfort, at literary giants, our dreams concerning our endeavors: to gain renown, to fly high with eagles, to wrestle celebrity: this misfit by souls, this nail to our coffins, or this exhilarating creature: (at something gorgeous, at something fruitful, but too possessed to maintain passion): our mother’s lockets, our father’s resilience, at war with temperaments: our moments with peace, to shrug and move forward, while pinpointing screams.

We ought to live, this ha-ha existence, this casual profession: our cluttered desks, our cluttered souls, to sense something deadly and impetuous: but desiring its essence, desiring pure elation, while something dangerous has appeal: this thing with feelings, this purpose with strife, those moving particles: our brains with mercy, our hearts with fire, our concerns with reaching elder-hood: those old chances, those old memories, and our reliable souls: as giving for love, while out-casting love, where love has become first companion: our rifled souls, singing our silent address, while nudging our existential eyes: at concerns with knowledge, a bit skeptical needing familiarity, while promising upon matters requiring more evidence: but sanity is clear, this essence of redemption, that is, we must accept some things at face value: if but to function, instead of living mathematics, where every number is perfect.

Sky Swamps

…we used to laugh, it felt good, and now we cast glances and smile….     …it was earth those sights, to step sideways, to act with intimidation: our degrees, our theologians, our psychologists: as running into traffic, bare ass naked, while our world finds laughter: (it was heaven to meet you, this pleasant creature, our darkness settling in humility: at terrors, Dove, to imagine our eyes, to know our history: that radical feature, as creeping forth, while bones saluted a dear neighbor: at guts giggling, this salty phlegm, our days roaming islands: our closest Love, our best friend, and still disconnection: this horrid feature, this grandiose feature, this feature turning necks: our blood blue horizon, this swamp dripping, those fifties at tables: our sex-life different, our glow this mansion, our guts fueled by thunder: our essays, our nightmares, or daughters too distant to reap benefits…as young magicians, listening to Sia, or carefree listening to rap: where Love is watching, to sense something different, this freezer so warm with reality: those books speaking dreams, those havens too claustrophobic, while riding down souls that passed away: our mother’s courage, our father’s soul, as gunning for something speaking humanity: this stranger's face, as so electric, to jump, fall, and land in terrors: if but this life, to meet at Wing Stop, to pause and find redemption: but life is good, and life was ruined, and now so heavy it becomes apparent): those broken shards, this perceptible quietude, as murderous in this Bastille: our ups for downs, our courageous partners, to invest everything in something finding its galaxies: those few, pushy and damn near abrasive souls—fleeing as it arises, this fool with pride, this capital maniac: (at lengths to ignore us, at tears to resort to us, while so close our distance is evident): those letter vales, this alley of kittens, our connection with apes: this mafia mentality, this casual, perfect, inner mistake: our psychs feeling pains, our psychs feeling features, our files so riddled as needing Ritalin: indeed, pushing towards defenses, or listening to therapists, afraid that sights are correlated: (I’m breathing, Love, I’m alive with caution, Love, and I’m indebted to forces struggling to maintain It)….

I adore this mind, I fret this mind, I find solace it repeating these brains: to hear throats, to thrust through madness, to become a bit off-putting: as buried inclinations, rewriting Initials, looking for defeated for Love has conquered: our fair creatures, this wonderful ally, this incredible front-board: our deadly rehearsals, this forward interview, where at seconds it’s a second run: at bumps skipping, at feathers blackened, or ravished for feeling this racial connection: our parents in graves, our tables with plates, to witness ghosts nibbling: our daughter’s trestle, our daughter’s armoire, our daughter’s credenza: at paranoid seconds, looking at something foreign, to evolve slow to fathom: this old terror, this old damsel, to flex for fluxed figuring upon our last kiss.

I built a tussock, this clump of existence, to sense eyes running into rivers: this deep infraction, while breathing, nonetheless, to feel guilty for having something this embedded: those cries as laughter, this fool redeemed, our glasses fogging with pressure: at back havens, or wilderness frontiers, to whittle an entire encyclopedia: those lissome arms, those debated wrists, or granny so intuitive to tug our grits: those sound feelings, that curious smile, as often it came a whistle: our nectar wire, our Ezekiel Wheel, or this vest crying for something that has life: but hell to phantasms, and more to reality, while daily it comes laughing at resilience: this small night-bear, this occasional influx, to retreat as looking at bars: this fool to needs, those treacherous hangers, this resplendent Love: at purpose with feelings, at veils uncovering, at thoughts so dear our islands have perished.

Strawberries & Grapes

I relax a bit sullen, to ponder grandma, where hams befriend memories: this turkey for junior, this stuffing for mother, this teleprompter for aunty: our pictures as if alive, our stepfather’s discomfort, at oldies and blues: our black home, our greased sayings, our clichés: at a small puppy, at drug addictions, those trips to our rooms: this funny odor, those stars on television, at animated responses: our loud voices, at granny’s sophistication, while under-breath cursing granny’s soul: those Thieves in The Temple, our dark embarrassments, our challenges to remain Black: this deep rift, our paper bag tests, as children of granny’s legacy.

It felt goodness, this fair damsel, that light complexion: as felt arrival, or tragic midnights, as felt that one order: to outwit Naïve, to grin with venom, to continue sex-grunts: while holding back, sentenced by years, to flee but captured: this bleeding runt, those nostalgic feelings, or paranoid as under surveillance—this inner city, this country cop, or days to running from terrors: our blood as green, our souls as cyan, where mother appears after years those tombs: to destroy innocence, to overwhelm healings, while some are deeply insync: this russet purple, those times to your name, while gunning through traffic: at straw and mortar, sentenced as slaves, where our God is almighty: this mackle imprint, those earth imprints, this silent, noble, distrusting imprint: as hurt several times, to land upon something fitting, while at needs to protect our dynasties: as chewing grout, our spidery eggs, to realize this likeness to beasts—our shoe prints, this invisible phantom, our palms held by unsighted figures: (to die rapidly, as if you for me, or nothing this walk upon cobble straw: our bricks at mercy, our cities at pyramids, or this soul running into father’s mirror: those long marigolds, this intimate humming life, where lutes sung by disaster: our papers moistened, our weeds claiming imprints, or holograms in father’s closet: such remaining children, to outlive death, while Love needs a baby: this future athlete, those rabid concerns, to realize damaged genetics: but life was good, those phenotypes, those features—as one with high cheek bones, a strong chin, and hair damn near his groin: our losses, Love, this woman a pistol, as this bad flame Black woman: to fill his guts, to glance when life happens, to resolve in picture perfect strengthism): our blurry magnificence, our angular women, to get so close it hurts to burp: our dreams shunning reality, our minds stripped of respects, if but to open feeling Jewish rage: this perfect mistake, our union in terrors, our families stressed to destroy—this jasper flower, this jasmine flower, or those saffron souls dealing with self-hatred: to long and cuss, to fuss and fight, or terrified that death is inching closer.

I shift mentally, this sky-swamp, our religious eyes: to pagan something deep, to cross eternal wires, to excuse this messy kitchen: our cooking castles, this frigid fire, as vacillating through temperatures: those flecks of damages, this wreck of insights, those specks of delusions: such lux for illumination, such brass instruments, at winds and wings welted to existence: this offbeat feeling, this sudden realization, as too concerned with names: those courtroom trombones, this inner cell trumpet, those arcs zeroed into this continuum: at steel with feelings, at feelings with imbalance, to need something so uncultured our bizarre cravings are satiated: as but a young maniac, for Love was so gorgeous, as mentioned her mind in previous prose: at afield thoughts, or afield promises, while wandering inner domains: our amiss funny-bone, this funny life, at something so funny it devastates: to frequent soon, this mysterious legacy, while many suffer disappointment: this fleet of goats, this freshet of rain, this brook to hillsides—to gallop bravery, to barrel into mortar, this curdling fane!

Everyday Behavior

I damage gently, peering into cartoons, asearch for something by wings—to fly conspiracies, to float at swans, or giggle a tinge near breaths: our days at grit, our women at patience, to possess a second screaming about love: at maniac empires, at mental Machiavellians, or at soldiers demented in other minds: our treasures, our islands, to preach sawed asunder: this arrow to hearts, this torn body, while proffering Jesus: our souls, Love, so meaningless to most, at inner demons speeding for racing Infinity: our outer caravans, this mixed President, those unidentified claims: as freak evidence, by sensations, or uttering slime disguised as Republic: but back our lives, this daughter roaming, this valley of ivy—those ripples laughing, this water giggling, those leaves accused of being criminals: to need America, to die in America, to build a legacy in America: but freak everyone, our knitted, homogenous behaviors, our resistance sipping puce blood: to dip this life, to aid a swan, to grit with pains, or faces tatted with agitations: our behaviors, Love, to ostracize Trump, or to ostracize anything speaking different values, or to die at high tides hooking our bottom moon.

I’m born political, a scoop of knowledge, but fervent a creature against inhumanities: to know our words, Love, to dig beyond graves, Love, while so at illness it’s hard to exhale: those diamond furnaces, this inner introject, this thing inverted against darkness: or goodness trampled, while outrages are conspired, where some are racketeering—as pure vehicles, or slanging for eternity, looked upon as decent souls: our neighborhoods, our strung out babies, our mothers near, and meditating trash bins: those rubric needles, this rubric chase, or blasted by pure Peruvian—but your days are cherries, apricots and dreams—at tragic reasoning, going too deep for some, while women in Zimbabwe are dying from depression: this slight tear, those inner psychs, to realize this deep imperfection: to ask by God, this mechanical question, while outraged at Job: those tears racing, this day to appreciation, to wonder about history: our behaviors, Love, as all we possess, while seeming abstract: our words like secrets, our pledges like loses, to adore so richly Love was trained: at guts laughing, our stomachs filled with passion, our acrylics giving ease to pseudo-addicts: at barricades whistling, at hospitals appointed as deputies, at Africa a bit concerned: *We’re losing our race, We’re chasing our attitudes, where death becomes centuries by unfruitful behaviors: Our cries at dissention, Our disrespect for challenges, or these New Founded Friendship Benches—at dear God, our passing our waves, at swans those kites, or laughed upon for seeming brighter*: we decorate this way, our dearest insanity, while hating those running their race: our octopus personalities, our alien frustration, where Africans are redeeming America: our hearts, Love, to read those inscriptions, Love, to flute different behaviors, Love: (as young beginners, distracted and gunning, or home with dysfunction: our tennis with eggs, our spinach with deafness, our grits with lumps: those churning silences, or running for food, at one opportunity to succeed: but criminal ways, or animal lights, while threshed freezing begonias: our last cries, those bright fuses, our face-to-face encounter with Prose: that lethal ending, or cherished for assertive, to measure heart-meters).     I ate a lemon, I dined with alligators, I became something caiman—chiseled by failures, determined for wings, agreed with silent intuition: as hatred concretized, or loathsome behaviors consecrated, our years screaming at desert-cities: by sheer abuse, to utter love, abandoned to figuring our private languages: or aborted to agreements, as too much might render a punch, or too little might render a barrage.       

Interior Legacies

…if but our souls, our axiom eyes, if but our guts: such long cobbles, such splayed relations, to win by drastic cries: our ghosts giggling, our sins whistling, our cloves one last rebel: at warrior passion, our years through seas, our years for anything but worth: as behaving—this misguided portrait, those misdirected inclinations: sipping at a.m., crazed by noon, ignored by five: our puppet instincts, to feel ice melting, our turkeys seasoned and baked: at this type for texture, those round marbles, those jumping jacks prophesying….

I lost grounds, I peppered insanity, I lost something easy to renege: those glamorous cuffs, those cufflink eyes, those diamond sharp heels: our women in tuxedos, our soul in pearly white blazers, our intestines re-needled: at knitted sacrifice, as abandoned heart-care, our kidneys running to water: at cages laughing, some type for Love, where remorse becomes remora transgression: this typical cleaving, those typical reigns, while crocheted into a frenzy: our souls select sorrows, if but to unlock wells, while most are desperate to flee.

It become terrifying patience, whispering to gusts, our messages carried airborne: those ruby raspberry cries, those turquoise decisions, or better, our murky, black nights: to dredge up incised, ionized pains, or treacherous mirrors, where love was alive enough: our walking deaths, those boxy tails, while Love felt secure: at deep control, frantic to exist, while pouty about less attention: our couch habits, to lean into madness, to intentionally tug at buttons: or heart thumps, this season for caution, for Love wrestles these months: our last prompt, our fallacious zeal, while unwarned eyes believe in salient sights: as men at surgery, those fluxing affects, to readjust particular agendas.

In terror such laughter, at orphic survival, to peal our discord: that rising fire, this inner loss, or at something so close it shakes: our minds looking yonder, to want something by redemption, at ripples enlove with justification: those airwave nubs, this interior crux, or late mornings plucking berries: our mental shrubberies, our gut living-rooms, at water so rich we seek rebirths: indeed, it comes for poor souls, it grows yogic in rich communities, it becomes Hindu as a vow of poverty: such electric, christic cries, this philosophic gash, while rapt’d in trenchant concerns: at black positions, moving for ruined, our oaths carrying limitations: but peace be gentle, our graves, our latches, our veils and spells longing for courage, or resistant with gratitude.

I’m sipping Line 39; I’m deep in Pinot Noir; I’m drifting through currencies: this bad ass magician, this cryptic mystic, those remarkable esoteric(s): at inferior feelings or interior mercies or so enthralled our days are shorter: our silent Bodhis, our living Koans, at tears building dams: to pant as deer, lurking at synaptic turnpikes, a bit skeptical about sources: those mystery energies, or this bad ass Yogi, or those few occurrences dispelling doubts: as cultic souls, running through vignettes, if but this purpose with pudding: our flogged hearts, our foggy insights, our grogged intellects: as fire blazes, our last séance, our village has departed: such deep concerns, those terrible cries, at yonic powers: if but to announce, this fleeing frenzy, as fair circumstance: our swans laughing, or feeling contempt, while roller skating successions: our sobbing spirits, or mental acrobats, at intuitive gymnasiums: those few souls, that have reached deeper, where our guts are indebted: But was it always for good, this mountain high dilemma, those few months acting in riddles?         

Bought & Sold

I adore you, for hating you, for this mystic moon—our bowels tacit, our synthetic machinery, or casual dreams proving in-casual: to boogie with pain, to adore sorrow, if but this execution: our screams into cotton, our pillows into damages, our brains cooking intelligence: at balls flinty, at backrooms puffing, at bars breaking vodka: those other women, looking for prevailed, while admired for grit: our last purchase, this nickel plated diamond, at Rihanna spent but focused: this inner interior, this chain linking, our guts speaking Spanish—at tongues daily, at maneuvers weekly, while dealing with pash monthly: as never would, indeed, for curses, but dwelling in psychical energies: to have for minds, while sick with police calls, so sludge refuses to motion: our granny’s wits, our mother’s surprise, to have both living in audible membranes: those synthesized approaches, this naked remembrance, while sex has become a bit tragic: at rivers with Buddhists, at lakes with Hindus, or running for twisting with Sufis: our Turkish Rites, our Jerusalem Faces, at Love a bit remotely: to pull his grains, to tug his harvest, while prepared to entreat: those powerful horrors, this reluctant incision, to float about a crucial impasse.  

…it’s always those eyes, so cruel for sensitive, our banks going through motions: our gears thrusting, this Harley revving, this six-by-four machine: as losing insanity, indebted to perfection, where secrets have haunted graves: such beautiful sin, peering at tribunals, a bit too relaxed to feel guilty: those blonde hairs, those rubric lips, to grip for deaths were purchased: our itchy brains, while Love was ruined, to sing at treacherous our resurrection: those silver noose, our bare feet, our naked primrose odors: as men gunning, or flipping fences, if but a moment with something terrible: this lonely, naïve, Begonia, this incredible bail release, at travesties making for what was called, Love: thitherto, this stab lane, this gutter lane, about 70 miles per hour—to thrash Crenshaw, to bump a dime piece, to engage in fevers that evening: our strep and ammonia, our ninety year old virgins, our years thrust’d into religiosities: or foreign gowns, laced in foreign jewelry, our belly dancing maniacs: at tears grinning, this sight for damages, our guts giggling while death has emerged….

…turn our corners, churn our dynamite, look into our women: that damsel in blood, that damsel mopping, our babies flushed and living: this sewer feeling, this pup manure, our aborted seeds at our tribunals: to make it easy, this pantomime, as vocal as last rites: our ceremonies, our inner lawyers, to ask of God a simple question: this Job Empire, this defensive, eager wife, where Job was want to renege: our phantom brains, our crazed Cardi B, or this method speaking Swahili—at gut wars, while needing something mental, while ghosts slither into bodies: at itchy flesh, at broken sinews, or flushed by ruby plum pigmentation: that second with Kim, those seconds with high praise, while realized something inferior: to build a mansion, to clutch a feeling, where damages seem prevalent: otherwise, at delusion, or long-tailed blankets, our sheets with spots: this human instinct, our women demanding devotion, while subject to slip pieces: this tetras enterprise, our rappers cutting sheets, our elevators filled with tigers: at passions laughing, at cognac beast’n, at Beyoncè intimidated, or revved for ruined abandoned to destroying nativities: those cold breasts, those warm breasts, this thigh as alive as wiggling: our legs churning, or Chinese techniques, or calves bleeding pure profanity: those ravished hips, this crying spine, our napes speaking Hebrew: indeed, at flights, or cocky for involved, or running to endure three loses: our Trinity Costs, or Trinity Coasts, at Pacific Oceans laughing in German: this fool in Filipino, this lavish old school European, to hit tracts, scraped unto Africa….     

Grumbling Sounds

I flicked a feeling, aborted to silence, filmed by never-ending motion: I saw an image, a naked flower, at rivalry cliffs: this station in men, laying flags to land, our dearest contagion: to fix a problem, perceived by few, where life becomes abrasions.     There’s deep emotion, house noises, sirens and barking canines: as visions drift, as odors waft, where deserts secern native curses: those smaller figures, tillage soil, planting feelings: our cypress, cedar and oak, our guts, brains and fears, while captured for overwhelmed: those delicate eye-sights, our marvelous overtures, our paranoid beginnings: this thing in souls, to grip something indelicate, while hoping to maintain those fires: at baffling heights, encouraged to leap, where life was distracted by pleasures: our fuel with cheese, our dreams with violence, our minds soaring!

I toppled by ear-fuss, those crevices in man, our screams escaping our palms: as longing creations, our souls to debates, our hearts tugged by lights: those fairer assortments, our wrangling swords, or bodies tangled in receptive webs: to retrieve ecstasy, where fantasies become life, while threads motion through darkness: those contagious flirtations, but life is stuffy, wherefore, daring men win existence: those impossible feats, laid bare before cosmos, as souls longing for greater resistance: this furnace in souls, such unkempt furniture, buffed and established by strangers: at lively lakes, wrestling bears, while answering leaf-phones: at earth by destiny, at dear sensitive souls, where midday seems esoteric: those deep perceptions, our battles with time, while fused by sky-pockets.

…we met by turmoil, our drastic hearts, our warming souls: we embraced infinity, or something closer, our mornings a bit chilly: our beating stillness, our mental atoms, those other signals: as racing through shadows, steeped in mire, but too addicted to visit rehab: those tales those souls, those thrills our goals, while so indignant it became unsettling: by foreign hearts, our foreign graves, where Love brought this measure to light: our furious passion, our furious endeavor, those furious cliffs—as leaping into arms, while held at bay, where promise seemed so compelling: this capture in man, this reality in woman, our bodies requiring oils: if but to sing, aborted to silence, while Love ached for intervention: those circling voices, our deep enchantments, at terrible reflections spent by beauty….

I’m itching for breakthroughs, or common understanding, this thing in man: at wistful intrigues, while rising through powers, a bit stronger those years: or numb to life, or channeled by ghosts, or mistaking existence for mere adventures: that inner harbinger, those wintry skies, or exotic encounters that meant so little: or foolish cries, absorbed with personal needs, as opposed to serving community: this selfish man, our selfish reflection, those selfish clouds—as men born to undertakings, as women guiding intuition, while destiny becomes a Country for Old Men: at crucial guidance, this style those entities, where moments would evolve into wedlock: those insistent creatures, have become resistant creatures, even career driven skyscrapers: our delicate, indomitable gems, so precious with intimacy, so ruthless near soul-cliffs.

…within brown tents, or ravishing blues, we sense a green horizon: those years with beauty, those months with pash, our nights so embedded: so sluggish and cloudy, so deep within satirical thoughts, or at something purely fantastical: such mythical miracles, to share with time, those myriad experiences: at flying coals, or dire passion, while Love was unborn…!

Thermometer

I flame silently, infused with grapes, fermented and dancing: this black blue mood swing, this incredible passion, those dying increments: to have addicts, to know parrots, to redeem sitting in limes: our brine with liquor, our turkeys with gin, our mothers laughing maniacally: as granny pushes, a bit for wisdom, or grinning no apparent reason: at serious complexes, a fool for Love, a maniac for presence: our Logos Empire, our nerves rattled, our cages unveiling: those tragic veneers, this tragic winning, to encourage daughters towards something relaxed: if but his brains, if but his body, intrigued for released: this battle upon islands, those ghosts our mirrors, this rag keeper: that boosting scripture, to boost a heart, while running for gunning insanity: that perfect dove, those reckless thighs, this maniac beaming: to die with envies, a jealous fool, at Love a smidgen with broken roads: therewith, our inner privilege, our outer embarrassments, to flip with dolphins: those dark secrets, this dark blanket, our years to intimate cotton!

I flame forward, a sensitive giggle, afraid of saying too little: this fuse-box, this fox-life, our chess pieces by strong hopes: at Courage with logic, at mother with distance, while waiting for appropriate behaviors: this pale psych, those pale rules, while needing something from scum: this loquat ghetto, those loquat wines, or spent with cigars: that puff city, our damaged lungs, at therapists minding particular concerns: if but for art, to decode Berlin, to witness walls collapse: at burgundy oranges, or jasper plums, while mother cooks a ham: old school rulers, to invent survival, a household of winners: indeed, or running numbers, our wives in treasuries: those blank lies, that stepping forward, to reverse as interested in one watching: those rooms, at granny’s business, where grandpa was a maniac: our inherited names, our problems with stuffing, our scalps screaming for oils: (as one lost, stretched into cosmos, where Love sits as stuffy as sentenced): if but penchant love, or apricot mentalities, or watermelon on Christmas Eve: as agony infuses, where one is lost, if misery abandons his guts: at Love angry, at Love impassioned, or gunning for myriad pleasures: to sense connections, to avoid rudiments, to flip a flipper: thereto, those 501’s, those turquoise hats, or Love painted for Sunset: such abandoned feelings, such courageous environments, at loud language or pitted in a tux: those canes, Love, those fifths, Love, this whispering incantation, Love: as foreign to losing, but, indeed, he lost, while myriad pigeons suggested dishonesty: at Lords blinking, at Kingdoms shattered, where Love was a Spanish Empire: at Europe dying, if but one ignition, to fuel an entire planet!

I flame thoughts, alive for standing, while impassioned to rethink our cultures: those long-held behaviors, to sense something dying, while unaware of such strong delusion: our mothers at a loss, our fathers going with traffic, to wonder while Lindsay had a breakdown: this smart winner, this losing Empire, or suffocating while looking pretty: at men with vengeance, at women occasionally, while her brains are influenced: this watching cousin, this scared husband, if but a day to miracles: our bleeding noses, our threshed livers, our guzzling but water: at midnight battles, our children sleeping, to hear a cry in mother’s intonation: this life as romantic, to abuse our guts, if but to perish at ninety miles per second: but (arts are good, passion is enthralling, while mother is deep at Xanadu): or crippling habits, this semi-dead-living, our souls at great grandparents: about our generation, this hell-hound, our official bankrupt intentions: at Love with every touch, at dreams forbidden, while behaving as if above notches: to split a Caprice, to purchase a Chevy, at hydraulic experiences: our android faces, our metal emotions, while bleeding in private curled in corners.

Garden Fire

I’m dead in seduction, this gracile woman, this mechanical machine: those long extensions, those curly eyes, or this playful person pulling backwards: if but to fantasies, to enjoy company, if but our guts realizing catastrophes: at low frequencies, our showered disgusts, while drawn to putrid scum: at fabulous hours, sliced by indifference, while Love tangled our intestines: those literary women, as filled with phantasms, or running for inviting apparitions: those flavored ghosts, this flavored nightmare, while so addicted rehab has rejected us: while singing opera, or laughing with arias, to live a concerto: our bowels, Love, as removed from lights, or running into plights, while children pick upon indecencies: our berries with gin, our apricots with vodka, or sweet grapes fermented for glory: our raging hearts, this furious fire, while filmed internally.     I’m sick for us, this miracle curse, this religious sin: to know for brick walls, to call for Jesus, while convinced that true religion becomes mysticism: if but to dine, as but to laugh, or crying so gently our birds are watching: this plural agenda, this psychopathic infatuation, those rosy brown crooning(s)—while life is psychotic features, and psychs are boarder that line, where psychologists speak about forgiveness: this inverted disposition, those lakes by our dreams, as if nostrils were raging for scents: our losses, Love, to infuse our sketches, Love, while Love was sick with violence: those angry do-goods, this angry exhaustion, to attract something just as livid: our purple horizon, our Mario instincts, or our Care Bear insouciance: as loving creatures, fleshed through with games, as if too close too soon means death: our acting skills, this woman claiming virgin, to meet with resistance and fall for excitements: as young lads, peering at adventure, our teachers susceptible to overt admiration: if but to hold course, as but to embrace force, where a man swears by damages an elastic womb: at needs to destroy, while sentenced to gristle, where Love felt certain sensations: at dying lesions, but purely at screams, to rebuke for falling while scared to lose.    

I must confess, this lingering obsession, while wrestling this daily suggestion: to imagine mental activity, this repeating of names, while holding to particular pictures: those enforced images, this tale concerning prose, this poet lit by sky-mystics: our yogic ambitions, this Ashram of energies, or this village of projectiles: to woodblock a feeling, to scribble as artists, or to seek something Irish: that holy marigold, those flashy airs, or light tiptoeing a woman’s countenance: as men running, if but to Love, where days and nights seem a struggling battle: for minds sway, as acorns accursed, where Kerry sits in diamonds: those fretting curses, this Jewish Nation, or this Amish nudging: at forbidden currents, our oceans laughing, our Greek Goddesses pushing at resistance: our local habitats, our local taverns, our Sufi exotics: (at foreign women, so bold so daring, and ever so possessed: those electric eyes, that tint by essence, that possessed aura: our local arcade, while deeply evaporated, to grip, tug, and die for hours): therewith, this sick sensation, this fluffy heartbeat, our galvanized mental-brains: as accursed unknowingly, or damaged beyond measure, while surfing towards waves: such deadly flowers, such rabid intoxication, such grip with pulls to tug a galaxy: thitherto, this infatuation, if but to adorn majesty, if but to outwit destiny: that crucial creature, our mothers churning graves, our memories disputing solemn oaths: as simple souls, or simple conundrums, a bit confused but caring: where music resides, at lightning forces, to strike, imbue, and shift our universe: those deep incisions, this tiptoeing of blades, or remarkable sins proving into legacies: those rendered secrets, those rendered jewels, while Love was so adorable—this feeling creature, those radish replies, or years to remaining by turmoil. 

Beloved Swan

Love increases, this luxurious creature, made perfect by losses: our arms to courage, our minds to fair memories, if but our souls to phone calls: or detached sorely, imbued with anger, as one walks their tomb: at casual reference, spoiled by sorrow, but catching a glimpse from time to mirror: as mental creatures, sensing disjunct(s), or searching for freedom: our tragic voyage, pegs upon bolts, our core roots damaged by poisoned dreams: our ivy with syrup, our ivory with promise, at realization this life as quadroon: our mulatto fathers, our angry mothers, where men understand resentment: such bulbous eyes, such carnival feelings, our homes floundering equity: those remote cries, as senseless for strangers, but hearts yearn for normal realities: our souls at union, our union fluttered by truffles, or days so sullen our minds are ruthless: those few friends, those invitations, our crucial horizon: as women saunter, big bundles of laughter, where an instant second speaks to disaster.     Love decreases, if but buried in oak, as one distinguishes between rational obsessions: that crevice of ants, those indigenous turtles, or those domesticated platypuses: our parrots seeking advice, while torn with silence, while puppies vie for attention: as but to listen closely, our pampering souls, our bellies scratched and rubbed: our inner opera, those soothing voices, our kittens deep beneath our beds: to dig for hearts, laughing for critical, our crucial for pains: our livid lamps, our minds at intuitions, to read a bit curious concerning intention: those abandoned feelings, made worse by motives, where all we need is a little shine: those bolts upon pegs, this thrust to pavement, our sketches screaming with fires: at local parks, peering at squirrels, a smidgen concerned with rabies: if but those concerns, proven as irregular, would time persist in love?     …you’re smart like foxes, a bit extreme, and gifted by experience: you’ve played in mire, you’ve mirrored mother, and you have sentimentalities for stepfather: you possess a few friends, you sing in acapella, and you’ve become resilient: you’re countenance screams at nonsense, you roll eyes when irritated, and others are able to sense your cries: this world of primates, this thing with grooming, while you specialize in heartfelt reciprocation: you’re a dependable friend, you sound out syllables, and you possess an iambic spirit: our formative years, becoming something unique, while listening to crickets afar: these solemn times, those solemn messages, as thoughts massage our solemn instincts: our gifts, Beloved, to address assassination, to inform our cores, to laugh when under pressure: this unbelievable suggestion, to insist upon love, where years have spoken by absence: those tales untold, this movie in deliberation, or nights seated at edges: a solemn tear, or miscommunication, where a father must love mother: this true tale, this whale by facts, while some prefer to maintain distance: such critical pain, such crucial vibes, while swans need something normal….     …we sense something sweet, we ignore something feudal, we side with souls despite such circumstance: we pick through berries, while some are spoiled, we cleave to those few at our souls: this man with issues, this family with deep wrenches, our realities a wretched song: but why for mirrors, when something is blatant, where palms point at a deep distraction: our welts with salami, our breads with cheese, our memories conditioned by self-interests: at musical redemption, to shed passion through prayers, while turning from habits seems irregular: this praxis of thieves, this selfish empire, our grown, adult children: but yours becomes Infinity, and yours becomes tension, while education might enhance proclivities: that 3^rd eye language, this 6^th sense mentality, while numerology becomes intriguing: to move towards an exit, to adore genetics, while sensitive to certain behaviors: our days seeking perfection, at little concern for strenuous undertakings, while miracles require difficult work: to seize with time, this mental giraffe, or so beneath layers we dig ourselves to freedom….  

Ghetto Walls

I can’t spell it, such troublesome cries, at fevers bloated: our discomfort, our runny slime, as confused or anorexic: to slice silence, our guts inhaled, at pain by Yahweh’s nostrils: to fuel like justice, at bulimic women, or treacherous slaves, while starving freedoms: our legs at stillness, our eyes at shocks, while running, nonetheless: if but terrors, our pantomime hearts, at needs those that care: such spider webs, or internal movies, to ache for Love opted for freedoms: this fuse rose, our exotic begonias, and fleeing this exterior flame—as if to die, at lazy romance, to resist falling for passion: our claims to light, our 5 steps, our 3^rd eye: if but by ruins, this gracile agony, if but to respect oceans: thitherto, this maniac fly, those maniac fires, as never to adore as one dying: our kleptic arc, our kleptic ambition, while Love rebuilt an empire.    

…it seemed inconsequential, this floating daisy, at something internal: this small pond, those robust fish, this fighting frenzy: as one dies, another lives, while Love is playing banjoes: our orangutans laughing, our souls at notes, taken into something nearby: those damaged prints, this damaged hammock, if but fretted for damaged: our milky brains, those milky waves, while Love invented something treacherous: at rare rites, a second to exhale, while Love plays our genius guitar: this wealth about passion, this inner surrendering, while father took initiative: as precise violins, to adore quickly, where one is forced to carry our distance: our films at midday, our recourses at midnight, if but to find victory by daylight: hitherto, a secret, or plagued for scared, where too much too soon our avenues: to paint something creative, where souls might entertain, at young lives: that group of fledglings, that one acting grown, with little to no appeals….

…something crucial, or something noetic, as listening to ghosts: our guts, Indestructible, our brains, Mystic Giant, to flux with thugs, this acrobatic Caprice, stabbing through Miami—and lifted one stick, or sherm alley, while associates calm our winds—those gunning valleys, that last woman, a team of identifiers—thrusting as abused, or livid for addicted, while sipping this dramatic resistance: at old feelings, a quarter a day, or drowning in Erk & Jerk—this party motion, our granny’s exhibition, while knitting a young swan something groovy: at thunder appearances, while fused in pains, to break insanity: as landing beyond, or sprinkling damages, while Projects are runny by noses: this power move, this young hustler, our dice over ribs….

I feel allergic, those soil worms, this gristle life—at buildings looking high, at psychs a bit ashamed, at therapists a bit too much: our deep selves, to keep it hidden, for life can’t handle monsters: to love as fretted, to grapple as living, while Love undressed a sentence: to clothe a feeling, to give wings to students, or angry too evolved—as women diving, a hundred and two, racing down Crenshaw: to hit Del Amo and stab through Dungeons our eyes beaming with ecstasies: this exegesis—this hermeneutical—or red grains digging into grasshoppers: at Love with excitement, if but to see smiles, while fused or abused by liquor: this phantom, this Projects’ life, this ghetto empire: to Dodge big bodies, or Chevy outlaws, while yanking clouds.

…back to dreams, gutted by adolescence, at thunder paying attention: this chilled dove, those rosy emotions, to touch, laugh, and abandon doubts: if but for ruins, than purchase a fifth, or longing for a particular barbiturate—this upper with gin, this downer for writing, or infused and bleeding: those purple pigeons, this slanted thought pattern, at disease feeling a bit special: to grind a nickel, to perish by night, at a particular parish: those cool priests, those cautious deacons, or this atypical gravel.

Too Entrenched to Excuse Happiness

I bounce through logic, I’m a bit impartial, to wink at esoteria—this bold creature, those women at love, our dreads, plus, hang time: at remarkable fancies, livid as insane, or bowels so balanced it’s eerie: this starving mystic, this anxious poet, or prose too sick for science: to admire, Love, this prolific psych, our brains at energies: to back away, while pushing forward, those crafts afforded true genius: this interior genotype, those treacherous phenotypes, or running for chased to pause and give: indeed, with silence, our brains at battles, this housewife blasted: those Zanex lines, this morphine tux, or something a bit frowned upon: our secret closets, our secret lovers, as living this life called, Literature: those cold alleys, this abandoned kitten, as now a cat fleeing into repercussions: at laughs a real soul, to chuckle at nonsense, while competing for front row seats: at trillion dollar passion, for a ten dollar Negro, while dice felt alive though ruthless: therewith, that eighty mile grin, that undercurrent glowing, those resplendent eyes: at fools peaking, this tool with tears, to yearn for something he shouldn’t have: our colors raging, our attraction trickling, our daughters attempting to find solace: to feed by demons, to retrieve through grit, while father knew action: this mother-complex, this infuriated grandmother, at mallets slamming pegs: if but to perish, this marigold garden, this mystic flower—those cries laughing, at instant redemption, and returning to trespasses: this interior magnet, those interior tulips, at naval base insurance: to fly with essence, those dark hallways, this mental vestibule—if but to womb-arts, this incredible master, to give at tenuous satisfaction: at stubble groans, to happen upon scientific, or something stretching brains: this talkative novella, those acts by seduction, to whistle pulling forth butterflies—or deep at curses, this hummingbird omen, while water swooshes at earthquake powers: our graves goggling, while dangers are afoot, to become angry where birds escape.

We must forgive us, in order to receive us, or deaths shall prosper—those bellicose veins, those bellicose therapists, this bellicose baby momma: indeed, a bit cruel, but try to smile, while experiencing this manifestation: our ghost wives, that poker chin, those green lights: to vanish at notches, to reappear as phantoms, where Love was bright-eyed: our daredevil sighs, this woman reaching peaks, as right across our laps: to pause and grin, to push a bit further, to stand and undress: in passion a maniac, in trusts a fool, at panic this voracious leviathan: our blues come Christmas, our lost-love-powers, to christen a radiant pendant: our guts for liquids, our banana nut bread, at penchants rebuked but pushing forward: those old splinters, our New Year’s sewers, or trekking this interior zoology: at trenchant concerns, our mother’s lecture, while dynamics spoke alienation: as little violence, or small rages, at petit dreams: if but with cognac, to face our infractions, or else, to desist: our names chasing us, our groans speechless, our professors warning us: at terrible concerns, with our best behaviors, to maintain for months: but life is cruel, our eagles leaking, while a phoenix waits by luxuries: this maniac lover, this loud and rude friend, those pushy increments: to become aggressive, to intimidate a giant, where discourse seems too enchanting: our blood green eyes, our hazel latches, to unveil a dynamic masterpiece: this provocative damsel, too rich to capture, and longing while intimate—if but to resurrect, where size means little, if but our brains, our hearts, or radical intellect, coupled with spiritual-dominance: those creative forces, this exterior hill court, to appear before celestial judges: our conversation, while planting one seed, to redeem our first overseer: our dreams, Passion, our love, Attraction, to swim while dry and gifted by curses: those fumes so early, those ancient grandparents, or mother’s husband gripping her son’s throat.

Ugly Inversion

I felt haunted, spaced through agendas, laughing a sickly hue: our bones choking, our lungs at vomit, our brains seeking peace: those miracle images, to invest in memories, while sprung upon a nightmare: those vaccines, for every culture, while void for ghettoes: those blood blue scars, this terrified banjo, or Love seeming but perfect: at guts giggling, our last high five, before life became treacherous: at language arts, to fuss about words, where incentive struggles for breath: our sounds mingling, our hearts at cadence, where loins behold bars: those rosy, heart-shocked eyes, those strong, resilient thighs, at memories pushing through her womb: this cocaine giant, those fifty pieces, or white men needing colored survival: at ruins bleeding, at Love a distant memory, while parrots parade in practices: this inner fool, so enlove, as scorned by mother: to check for pedigree, to inveigle his terrors, while laid so close our brains reverberate: at time laughing, at horrors but frantic, to realize those husbands battling for clarity: our shy, naïve, even misthought women: at mystic revivals, at séance inclines, to awaken gripping for sheer deaths: our spoken clarinets, our silent drums, to approach Love sick but feeling goodness: this inner stomach, this blatant curse, at white women a bit ignorant: to Prada excitement, our dancing ultrasounds, while mother was Mary a deep secret: as never for life, but ever for life, while enlove seeking rationality: this irrational circumstance, those manic memories, as pushing a life their own: thitherto, this robotic approach, while fleeing this exotic brooch and cleaving fires!

I watched you, this fair flower, this misread demolition: to scream at sex, to laugh at omens, where silk became infatuated with velvet feelings: those round eyes, that almond seed, or seconds so close to enchantment—to fail horribly, at needs with purpose, to shift a man from zero to a thousand: our terrified intestines, this blood blue oval, or treacherous for endowed: our depth denial, as living through energies, as dead women awaken to heartbeats: such discomfort, or radicalized demons, while Love chugged a fifth: that old woman, that violent woman, as accused of misdeeds: to find Love, this remarkable man, as giving courage to breathe with fury: at crosswalks, lingering in guts, to withhold a fatal passion: to feel it creeping, even moving, to awaken to slime and beer: at mother but programmed, or existential mad-claves, this inner miracle cave: to fury with silence, those last cords, or organs so rich our favorites have reneged: to die this passage, at terrible favors, to love as adored but failing discourse.       

We met with treachery, a daughter as a peg, while claiming terrified love: this last line, this 55 north, or channeled for exhilarated headed south: those ties to proclamation, this faceless monster, at prose speaking longevity: this daft magician, those daft cries, at miracles to sense that one minute: as deep in omens, those graves with longevity, at eyes speaking tongues: this fair survival, if but that womb, at sensations laughing but inherited by loyalties: that shaky woman, those endless riddles, but never a thought to ruins: as men gunning, while Love is battling, where two for one this bloody music: our saffron daisies, our cryptic diaries, while death was sure to bless us: this inverted creation, those inner alphabets, or to sense for running this magnificent imp: our bodies meshing, our bowels at Jesus, to upchuck a neighbor’s lung: at refined heart pianos, or found cheetah bones, where it felt death to love at tyrannies: those relaxed limbs, those heart-shaped buttocks, or breasts longing for understanding: at furious lows, our noses runny, our intestines rewriting encyclopedias: if but for agony, or but for adventure, to thrust a night awakening in total aggravation: that small smile, alive in motion, where salacious arms grieve.

Oak Grove

…take it to soul, our Dear Beloved, at grapes and cherries and lush apricots: this foolish man, to designate wars, while pitied for maladaptive techniques: this wilderness for you, this tight rope for you, at tenses blended into furies: our milk with cakes, to coffee with creams, our lemons with sugar: this ghetto enterprise, this welkin sting, to float attached to mystic auras: our burgundy sun, our bleeding Infinity, as built around total silence: our warm hearts, this palatial queen, as never a sight and filled with panic: at tall tales, this allegorical, or swigging white havens: our tapestry yogis, our inner watches, to Fossil for ruined: this inner fugitive, those diamond glasses, to swoon with passion those quadroon swans: at miracles and running, at strife and gunning, to believe as one wrestling with God: this fine figure, this molasses woman, or asexual bouts with invisibility: that one song, to endear his heart, at waves searching for Ry’s arc: this inner pilgrim, those ruthless ships, or those rawer pirates: at insanity laughing, at psychs a bit passive, while alert to dirty laundry: this fool, Love, at maniac calmness, while adored for cultured: at beige mountains, at Desert Storm, while afraid to passion an Arabic woman: our castles, Frightened, our aches, Mystic, or this remembrance crumbling into misprints….

I don’t know us, but infused by us, this green atmosphere—those jasper lenses, those long legs, those interior seeking eyes: our couch lavish, if but with weeds, to sea our last cry: this Candy Man, roaming inner lock-wheels, a bit too young for focus: those radiant gems, this crime rate, those twenty until deaths: at casual screams, this sugarcane valley, if but for taken about this sky: our rabble artists, our gravel profanity, while reality appears abstract: at one confession, this partial part of self, at Love while wandering higher terrains: our guts, our feelings, but ruined if Love ached a forbidden union: our blood dripping, our bowels running, our avenues becoming that impasse: as Love watches, and Love fantasizes, but Love has concretized her name: if but to die, while gripped and funning, where Love gave life by an agonizing hypothesis: this inner theory, as elusive maniacs, to gristle an entire library: to fuse with passion, to feel as hearts lifted, while scooped by taxis: those crying arcs, this daughter’s accident, to lie in hopes of spacial reality: our guts slithering, if but one breath, while essence proves its intestines: this magnificent passion, this agonizing brain, or more to doors pushing for becoming insistent.

…it became clear, such deserted fathers, laughing for outwitted: or detached, feeling goodness, this plank in sea-forests, our arms screaming elation: as a casual thought, or a penchant curse, where abandonment becomes plural: our dreams by graves, this tomb by daughters, those slaves for money: to insist upon this emotion, for time shall invade, where sights become unsighted: our kleptic rites, our Greek horizon, our numbness becoming enemies: as floored by dumbness, this chase in men, while Love awakened a particular faux pas: this wellish ambition, those old songs, or this woman claiming virgin: indeed, to laughs, while acting perfectly, if but this deflowering curse: at bold enterprises, accursed for lonely, at one last psych: our music at tempo, our tulips as gazelles, or rabid this galaxy at tormented damages: to cry with Jesus, this inner feeling, while others claim for warped spaceships: this family of three, at short horizons, while grandpa wonders but saying little: this same ship, those similar bars, if but to arise preaching about balance: our inner cups, our bleeding breads, to need a loquat: at deep deaths, this path as it follows, at places her irrational faces: to die as lingering, to need such debauchery, if but to live where clarinets have forsaken’d existence…!