I Sought a Hermit

I love this ideal, so romantic in it, such communion by it; this travesty, so close to roses, abandoned to adoring you; this hard hell, this glen city, this ruminating maniac; so effused to die, so infused to live, staring too long at mirrors; our broken delights, our delicate comforts, to look over and drop a tear; to need full love, to desire full acceptance, while roaming an endless community; our lights with films, our vim with patience, while ancient emotion stems a river; so caught in us, so captured by remorse, reaming and railed, staring into confusion. Those desperate encounters, this deliberate hex, while a dead man knows for glory; at ails and aging, at cliffs confident in casualties, or running followed by cognitive dissonance; if but those years, as young and vibrant, to imagine with time this cheerleading congratulations; our arrythmias, our sudden firecrackers, to adore something too aloof to capture; such illustrations, such illusions, so ill and forgiven—thrust into gardens, forced to prune feelings, while something zin is transpiring; those kleptic advantages, to rob an innocent soul, where one possessed good intentions; our congestion, our confabulation, our congruous delusions; as impatient creatures, running for freedoms, with hounds so obedient; a fatal scar, a field of cotton, plus, a white fairer queen; such dissonance, such inadequate love, while Passion brought ointment for the wounds; chasing ideas, longing for freedom, within a Douglass environment; so contagious, Love, our daughter wars, Love, while afraid to love as Juliet; this fairer fool, this dynamite luxury, so captive inside; at years with glory, at secrets so cultic, while pantomimes melted sunrise; our arcs, Psych, our dreams, Mystic, this fretted ink-battle, Husbands; our delectable sorrows, our needed tragedies, our favored miseries; to tell a secret, to die a rose, to believe despite this rung; such fair science, such incredible religiosity, to gleam, but a seam, or a radiant clenching scream!  

It requires craft, this raft of science, this rust and gust and fusing; to need one this moment, to drop a tear, realizing I’ll come through but more isolated; this dependent self, this independent perusal, while ruse and gut and rut and star; abrasive realities, conjured from afar, while madness becomes a certain category; our thoughts in ink, our blinking bottles, to come so close to evading closets; this truth, this goose, this golden library; where love is groves, and pain is ingrained, and nouns are so important; this irksome habit, this rabbit interior, while Bugs seemed quite arrogant; this Daffy life, so pure an incentive, while condemned to miss this landmark; at tears those days, so lost those graves, at slaves in me, at silence in me, at sailing for me—to drift or drown, to die or detach, while survival comes with losing something vital; this idle self, as but a title, flippant with such disgusts; looking like lost, gangly those grounds gunning, or penchant a pail of pain.

I sought a hermit, to rescue this albatross, for I killed something holy; I loved like crazy, I amazed for a short time, and I got lost in a dream; our needs scraping gravel, our comely forms, our arms so heavy; letters spelling issues, tissue splayed in membranes, our courage waning heavily; so removed by you, so innocent in you, at forks in terrors by cognition; such travesty, such tragedy, while comedy becomes terrific silence; this dying in me, this love in me, to divorce everything she couldn’t teach me; this wild running, this rustic ideal, while railing against human treachery; to relive in us, to rustle in us, to bustle in dust, to trust while cleaving to something protecting egos; this dead soul, repenting for father, while mother is singing; so drenched, so dreaded, and so dreary; this formality, this foregoing, while framed in fragments and feelings; our guts giggling, our minds rushing, where it feels good to forget with life; searching for one cacophony, but listed as an intruder, while Love saturates a particular vignette!       

Wound Match Watch

…does it bellow, born in chains, racing for freedom; so much so, it aches, it screams; abandoned there, spatial and redeemed, but lower than a turtle; that mischief water-cave, those terrible calls, but a phone, but a demon, but soundless cries; such raw suffering, a long time whistling, a longer time galloping; to arise in beauty, thrust by glamour, abused to witness it; wobbling senses, retrenched and amazing, by touch so terrific; burgundy eyes, a bag of snow-works, so alerted by action; crooked lines, straight abbreviations, reevaluated diamonds; as but a child, running through projects, pausing at camps nearby….

…it appears as proposition, or something viable, or a series of suppositions; our suggestive lakes, our skiing miseries, so perfect a dream but rarely attached; to sit in memories, looking at those culprits, where a mother proffers an excuse; this dead feeling, those killing gazes, or drenched in a teepee; aloud with radiance, held forth in measurements, while reeking above average; our days trying to forgive, our years as moral agents, our evidence requiring healings; but pain is intimate, plus, a reservoir, so cold to me, or so enlove with me; an opalescent casualty, a willing victim, while art paints tragedy in big black pictures; a tidbit for deaths, a telephone to Jesus, or a plastic article floating near seas; an ocean house, a unicorn tree, some sort of fantasy—this rain in dramas, this edifice cemetery, or walking softly waiting a divine nudge; fitful ants, wildflower hormones, or underpinning hostilities; to have become this station, to have lived such violence, snatching nicotine truths; ashtrays laughing, a young sinner without sins, or an honest man carrying too much literature; where this is life, this is winning, those screams afforded a dying rescue; hail-fire, rumored souls, and days since choir rehearsal….

…does it scream, this intense singing, to look at naïve souls; has mother come, has mother cried, has she plead to change—to resurrect, to be the best stranger, to renew something delicate; this fierce fire, this fiercer lunatic, while awakened at 4 a.m.; that ensuing argument, those disastrous occupations, or plain deceit angered it wasn’t believed; as damn the deception, as damn it’s blatant, but such and such called me on it; that damn fool, that radiant misery, while I need a certain level of inclusion; and please listen, society has rejected them, so they need us to redeem self-interest; this painful existence, told for more trauma, while receiving demands more deception; this furious flame, our terror with tragedy, while more pain becomes our gripping death claw; indeed, so low there, such fury there, while peace and quiet means, I’m losing you….

…wrenching deep denial, as never you could, and so debilitated; this fraud life, this discouraged existence, so perfect in plain sight; to ache a heartbeat, to cringe a thump-call, where leaves are falling deciduously; henna illusions, statuettes in turpentine, our bodies washed in melancholia; this man-fool, this idealist without suitability, cooing but reckless; cards speaking poetry, mother ten years pregnant, a griffin at this alley-wave; rigged beauty, to know for lies, while needing something it couldn’t exist; from where this life, agonizing blue shivers, at tremors with Job—so cursed for goodness, so blessed with dejection, praying for Anne Sexton….

…but never us, our mail in clouds, our disease killing our souls, someone those intimate groans; so dead in me, so close to me, while flippant and transference; this familiar cut-link, this psych a bit those channels, this alien needing more currents; afloat a night-scare, tremors and guts, fueled but dying; this crazy adult-life, this old diary, our sin and worries at bold confidences….

Meta Realism

…pavement roses, and ruth creeping, so heavy, so silent, looking like suspicion; those days at feelings, those dreams with violence, where a man unravels his soul; alumni sorrows, illuminati Medicare, or syndicated miseries; such dissonance, those cognitive thoughts, while a man synthesizes; antithetical thetics, a melic voice, by hoist and rain; Rome as meme, to thrum so hectically, to arrive by theories; our pain, Passion, our grief, Laughter, at rage cage and slaves; according with wilderness, flimsy or cryptic, so delectable a pure fire; reimagined, at core principles, fraught by both trespass and transgression; that dissonant voice, this dissonant feeling, or ramped cacophonies—at air-caves, or acapela, fair those triangular circles; to possess until—this rising rave, where rules became apparent; so coarse those agonies, such a push into madness, plus, Lauryn, as ever sadness—this mystic lake, this mystic meadow, this cryptic shadow; so religious in you, such a portico for you, those white bells asunder for you; this store run, this filthy wretchedness, at final-call—those laughing eyes, this fool for perfect, this moment we created; so incumbent, upon mother and father, to snatch mid-winds; accustomed to costumes, revving against apathies, such language between two so close; assonance in spirits, searching for vowels, vowed as one value; our courage to battle, while kneading dough, at doubts, but don’t listen—this growing into sulfur, this surf, at ruff occasions; too grown to submit, too old to war Christ, while too sacred to ignore silence;

such a journey such a journal such a heart-cymbal; at terrible treble, enveloped for you, so tamed right now, fearing that old hyena, where we feel aggression rising unto venting;

this uncaged feeling, this wheel spinning, at dice and vice, at vim and stem—abused to fly, this trap in seriousness, our eyes

            so variegated;

those longer stories, our children excited, and it feels like winning....

I know your name, this is all I know, while snow trickles into warmth; this running fever, this blizzard ocean, our seas so high and rounder corners; to imagine light wrangling, deductive arguments, postulates and posits; empirical dice, laughing over silence, at some literary assignment; appearances worldwide, epic tales, or a blued-eyed quadroon; this blessing in me, this societal curse, so arranged to mourn unto glowing; our hypervigilance, our hypersensitivity, our planted peculiarities; reading closely, disheartened by culture, so dramatized; our trauma from life, our webs so critical, to give but death in order to outwit death; at convicted aches, probing delicacies, while tugging and pulling this centered sky; always there, always diligent, so cute, and so controlling.

…a young legend speeding a zenic design so caught by omic eyes;

swami pain at limbic tables accursed or sung as surviving our love;

           

mesto diamonds, this lea in veins, this mothership; so attacked to adore, to taste, to feel more than objective; this arable landscape, those trucks and tractors, or such courage to challenge our compass; jota dances, or cultic Shiloh, afoul racing thoughts; to walk with memories, to develop private language, to irritate those meaningful allies; our courage to divest but life, to rid those singing, while threshed and threaded and knitted by something irrevocable; The Lord’s Brine, The Lord’s Time, our captive and controversial scientific warfare; blessed by graves, uprooted by genetics, our meta-realism.           

Tragedy Bliss

Let tragedy be gentle, racing and raging and rescuing solace; as screams travel dreams and memes gather for lunch; our sacral daughters, our battling tides, at estuaries and ritual and pride; to arise Sunday yawning, to church as fire, to re-camp our sensories; as confused by love, while standing love, so cursed to presume love; confiscated from blight, given to plight, sweltering by measurements; so casual but actual, so manual as animals, and dearly dramatical; those droplets and inlets those reigns and losing control; our daughters at wingspan, our sons untangled and ramped, our poets most unsteady; this middle horizon, this space with divinity, as possessed and dispossessed; or there so here where days are care and swears are answered with tears; as ugly behavior, or enticing flavors, at triumph, trumpets and clumps of soil; our beautiful Swan, our equality in yarn, at rainbow leprechauns; such dreary bliss, such rich dismissal, where we caress those few hours—our spider-dreams, our love for this curse, while admiring better realities.

I raked a garden, plucking mortals, and fertilizing morals; our tragic cast, our white cat, or better, our socializing catnip; listening to whiny pups, or shooing a trespassing cricket, or pondering a majestic grasshopper; those few memories, moving apace, so quickly time was outwitted; our battles with youth, our flings with knowledge, while focused on stage characters; so removed, our huffs in grooves, our rare wrangling costumes; but we watch gently, at traits we mustn’t become, assuredly downcast; for love is eloquent, and love has names, plus, love is so coquettish; those magazine eyes, this aisle of favors, those gangway ideals; to dress with forethought, to sit with grace, and so intimate with garments.

We care but anger, adrift a clouded milieu, listening to catastrophic parlance; so draped as actors, or becoming science, where we carry an intuitive chill; or looking at tragedy, admiring characters, as stage life is better than actual realities; those debonair souls, those chaste souls, and our languishing calls towards remapping; moved to exist, applied to contemporary bliss, while estranged from everything we commit; those longer eyelashes, our better waves, or suspecting a hand in our pudding; this wrangling interior, while cleaving to sanity, those burning and smoldering logs; such infant dogma, older with sockets, while hearing a strong echo; listening to gravesites, or pondering ashes, while unsaid ashes are possibly at sea.

It was pure celebrity, those frozen flowers, or this table filled with dying petals; twigs and stems, gems and aglets, our shrubberies so bare this autumn; it was weaving our guts, going for wretched, to finally realize a certain cadence with pain; to see it manifest, to witness those returns, while one door is padlocked another opens with screams; our fairer antipathies, our graces in droves, or our propellers geared by darker nights; as curious to see us, this stage redressed, or this feeling where voices are sung; those cauldrons, those closing curtains, or this opening scene; while lost to this, those experiences, as never a second on Broadway; for less those cries, for less those dying ferns, for less this table of cringing gnomes.

Such redeeming circumstance, to see warriors in us, while watching our wilderness; captured in capes, at capital signs, so signaled, so tensed, so terse; our laconic skies, but a second with membrance, so often ignored; our tragic bliss, our poisonous joys, at terrible rejoicings—our  Psalms as witness; so influenced, so boundless, at horrific excitement; indeed, such softer metal, such brick water, such naturally sewn agonies.     

Hi Love—Where Determinants Reign!

I love you, for no other reason, but I love you. I adore more than me, sought in self and delivered near ponds. Such as deadlines, abused by privilege, while father fell for imagination. Nor did I silence, this ghoulish rant, so accustomed to converse. But those advantageous genes, those dreams scattered by fragments, our ramped arc, our heartless darkness, our scavenger bones.

I cuddled gasoline, while playing with matches, so inclined to visit our social mime; at casual screams, demented in parts, undergoing vigorous exemplariness; as a dear confession, so thrown into battle, so tethered to a manic episode; dying while taking breath, at war with actualization, but realized in something too weird to come true; asking that life forgives, where souls need incentive, if but to deign those high pedestals; guaranteed to sacrifice, even our voices, while clutched over vomiting out our lunges; those days with ammunition, this self-growing in age, while still I contemplate both entities; our psychological octaves, our metaphysical conclaves, plus, your heart as subject to attend sessions; seated in thumps, or feeling you here, while certain concentration happens those times; needing to unveil, this phantom fever, if but to swoosh a confident impression; as gifted a Swan, as seen in battle, where a tear befell a new dragon.

I feel psychic around-ness. Where an image arises. But it may not be true. This vague location, this mount in fantasy, while something unreal might be true. This bouncing ball, this hard board, or this wall with a tiny crack. Our dilemma becomes realization, or false actualization, while a mind is not concerned with facts; intellect concerns this mountain, and reason attends rallies, while intuition is subject to leaps of fancy; but Love was psychical, the timing was so ripe, something innocuous increased in mental intensity; while a Swan was motion, and a Swan is delicate, where a Swan sung so softly and died in silent disagreements.

I love you, for no other reason, but I love you. I adore more than me, sought by circuits, when Love is sensing freely; to know I struggle, to feel your indecision, or to reckon our eyes on this enigmatic Neptune; such Venus cadence, such Mercury candescence, such Jupiter wittiness; So Capricorn this moment, so Virgo those evenings, while carrying this childhood Scorpio; thinking about this Leo-Cancer, wondering concerning our exit, if not to die feudal and unforgiven detriments; those casual Sagittarians, this modest, undercurrent Pisces, while Aries are inconspicuous fires; where Saturn is melancholic, or this idealistic Uranus, seated by a philosophic Aquarius; Our mysterious Pluto, our whipping Geminis, at pure unbalance with Libras; but Taurus in designed views, rising into something florid, accustomed to particular rivers; but so annoyed, so bashful, so better than she realizes!

I feel psychic around-ness, where thoughts appear but veiled, while true intuition begins flashing; better or bitter, such blight to midday, while mornings are quite by clarity; our perception of life, our dusky horizon, or particles flipping into binoculars; but a daffodil, or mystic dialogue, or a daughter as sculptress; entertaining our ghosts, fiddling with a piece of candy, or hoping life is wrong.

I cuddled a young baby. I destroyed such innocence. But things weren’t built for longevity. Our gallon of unbelief. Our dreams in other people. Or this design for us to meet later; for accessories are existential, where one might need a thinker, or someone experiencing this existence; this ‘thing’ is aching, this rain in survival, where a Swan requires gristle and marrow; but life is clarity, and clarity is so foggy, but life is its determinants.          

Waxwork

I look estranged, staring into damages, or revoked asking forgiveness; such questions, such miracles, a few dozen wings; as passed a pair, atop a desk, our knees bleeding into rugs; so waxy or furnaced, abed a ceiling, winking at grasshoppers; our loving miseries, our big bodied crystals, at daisies celebrated in the aftermath; ashes scream namelessly, Bentley blunts kneeling, as accursed too soon while winning; this dead crush, this losing feeling, where Love spoke Palestinian; our Eden drama, this semi-comedy, such dissonant participants; but days are new, giving as receiving, where reality advocates equality; our droplet ears, our noses whispering, our agonies asking more determination; but hell is a coffin, a blurry essence, chasing for privileges; mauve caskets, cherry balm herbs and orchids; a swan dedicated, a swan invisible, while intuition sung with grackles; lilac kisses, a bold adorable—my life!—as distressed and living, or in such company, while honestly awareness feels crossed.

I’m missing something. But Love is dahlias. And Jamaican rum is devastating.  

Our portico crumbled, ever so fragile, afloat our flaming azure. An eyeful passion, a crazed calmness, so astute, so rooted, and suited in birth-works; our minds upon tables, our pedigrees up for discussion, where we vet authenticity; took a look lowly, to fret with fire, over sweet pecans, wild grapes, and granny’s gumbo; as forever this love, this mink in turquoise, this kneeling elephant—our pink dictionaries, our sherbet trees, our rumberry nightmares; appealing divinity, laughing life heal me, at date plums with panic; our crisp relation, our solemn observation, where a lawyer might be underprepared; an African dispensary, a Caucasian pineberry, our hopes and screams and portfolios splashed into public auditoriums; so much to live, so cheated to die, while something heinous becomes so appealing; at pipe organs, at church-life—a sacred distrust!

How are you, Love—looking at this second, re-aware that life is motion; harp eyes, fluting tongues, or a saxophone voice; such bass and soprano, such historical significance, while we search our family roots; a young merchant, as documented in medieval times, traveling from space to roads; associated with priests, mourning with bishops, or deserts and deep battles with psychical energies; (I read something spicy, this trenchant thought, where the mind will unlock and something uncanny will happen); the mind becomes an entity, while acting against itself, where something supernatural seems to occur; one trained can bring it out, even a group of scientists, but we see this as something extraordinary; (can you imagine, your brain speaking in your face, while one is a diehard mystic); you see my dilemma, speaking like old friends, and always I’ll love your essence.

…a banjo and trombone, hazel green, or sable brown eyes; a stepfather’s pride and sanctum, a silent harmonica, or a roaring trumpet; we see something occurring, this human element, where mothers and fathers hug and die and live again; such dragon berries, such melodic, loving, so considerate, those voices; our margin headaches, our missed messages, our objective truths; with no business there, this corner over there, while so at home right here; such losing order, such reckless songs, to result, rise and risk; at deep decisions, at a miracle breakthrough, while one confesses he was dependent upon disvalues; our signature projects, this bat in our trunks, so close to asking more time; but Love is sensitive, and Love is explosive, and Love needs a believing friend; no comparison, such ruthless laughter, to see it become air-symbols….   

Imagine Living in London in the 19th Century

I sit by Composure, asking her name, investigating talking-cures; I swallow pride, I inspect reason, wondering its conscious motivation; I see a leaf, I pet a squirrel, we laugh, tell jokes, and return to our rooms; this impatience, by a patient palm, a neighbor calling his feline; this alley cat, this filthy orange toby, where racoons are looking for opportunity; our Theorists books, our myriad studies, where, at moments, I ponder that aura: so settled in uncertain concrete, such mystical arrogant humility, while itching a puritan’s gaze; this unyielding film, while it becomes me—to realize I am less of a participant; but pandas are gorgeous, while bears are majestic, but nothing outwits those cultic-eyed wolves. I made a gesture today, becoming this participant, while psychs may have smiled; our levitation, our micro-atoms, our secular mystic yoga; such proofs this life, such validity in emotion, albeit, our thoughts may venture too far; but Love is smart, studying objectivity’s limits, or roses and daisies delivered to subjectivity; this fire in nostrils, this observation of salons, so accustomed to living through literature.

I’m back to cognition, this creative milieu, while Reason is up for trial; to tribunal Logic, to ask her name, while Logic in tight-lipped; this musical platypus, those indifferent mantises, while analyzing this mystic songbird. I’m hearing chirpings. I see a woman. I’ve made out her features. But days are passion, pacing retorts, filled with something becoming social; as economic spirits, reading into Karl Marx, something a bit risqué; so against our habits, performing, nonetheless, and purely estranged from our labors; such avarice, those avaricious predators, but life needs its fulcrums; to imagine sharing wealth, to imagine something relaxed forging equality, or to sing about luxuries footing factories; so we become commodities, this usable thing, while grateful for our new work hours; as creatures surfing, this political dynamic, while Love is beautiful, always!

Our knowledge enveloping, our attack upon thinking, while pure, unadulterated thought, is blaspheme; grannies laugh, but this is how we think, while taking up inquiries important to the few; our cherries for breakfast, our bagels for lunch, or our breasts for dinner; at deeper needs, debating protein intake, or sliding into Nietzsche: arrogance became this search, to introduce something so mendacious, while its comfort is pure illusion…indeed, roaming our conscience, or claiming pure identity, while fevered with a man’s wife; such ignobility, proffering our concerns, while wondering these mental omens; our minds taking issue, our personalities in our minds, where two are at war; this shifting in traffic, this itchy migraine, so close to our own destruction: but this is weakness, for stronger conquers strongness, and if we desire we must have!

I, too, have a tendency, as quite bias. I war this flavor. I contend as most wretched. And Lord is witness, I wonder about human insanity. Rereading de Stael, this life where it hurts, while a man must type softly; this difference with riches, this toleration reaching boundaries, while a man raises another man’s child; pure at notification, or maybe it popped up, but days are salons and upper echelon; freedom becomes tyranny, while something is asserted, building upon actual social realities; a man is his imagination, a soul is its relations, plus, intellectual communication takes precedence over moral concerns; a woman is power, a dream to live in London, and fiction is under steep scrutiny; plus, Plato is a legend, Aristotle defends poesy, and we follow wit praise.

Of course, this destination, of course such heartbreak, and of course it’s permissible; this strong reality, the Behn foresight, while I pine and ache and rethink this soul in London.

Re-touching Journeys

…a man rethinks his life, arguing with demon-thoughts, dog-tailed, piggybacked, and destructive; at lights oblivious, to feel a surge, to look over into familiar faces; such dynamite, hanging by windows, foot tapping slowly, to stab-out left bound; this life of wilderness, this symbolic desert, or looking at Love needing eternity; so crooked inside, battling hastily, while I do what I aim not to do; this theologian, this vacuum, this transparent unidentifiable machine; those relocated rooms, this ceiling so low, our animal instincts; to grip his silence, to try harder, as flustered with contorted faces; wondering about evil, ignoring All things! abandoned to foggy vision; this plank, this unmistakable blockage, where a man must rethink; our daughters watching, our fathers distressed, our mothers at battles; but interrogate Honesty, ask for her name, feel as Space lodges a war; those deeper insanities, this grandmother wisdom, while Love was once so hectic…. I walk pavements, adrift a cadence, peering that nothing is solitary; this inner design, this lonesome corner, this new name; something delicate, something vicious, if but to win loyalties; this missile raging, as hit its target, forcing into oblivion; this pacing floor, this dusty windowsill, this loud and noisy silence; to get a signal, while another lingers, and I’m telling Jesus; but something is gray, this deeper reality, so close to goodness war ensues; those cagey feelings, this slanted reception, where reality is up for trial; this maniac lawyer, this prosecutor, strutting to and fro; it looks at hedges, it rebukes sincere goodness, while vying to destroy faith; this not no small agenda, this Father with instruments, while a lawyer is set loose.

I dance in stillness, a bit petrified, these years have rocket rains; such thunder to skies, such warriors by essence, where a few are catching their beckoning; this system so designed, this window filled with plants, a softer voice, a larger textbook, and a glass of juice; such science, speaking gently, asking key concerns, about as attuned as something unborn.

…this city by dynasties, needing that circle, but a young one on hostile grounds; Love approaches, shooting contacts, and gazes deeply; simple conversation, an oblivious spirit, so captured in there; a big body this, a wafting scent, and dangling jewelry; this slight reign, this captured horizon, a room filled by cultic ownership; but days are different, rejecting the invitation, realizing a spirit is close; to flip a table, or rebuke fruit, or to realize, too, that Satan attends church; this weeping pond, this weeping swan, as pain hydroplanes and giggles….

…there were needs, and there were desires, we gave credence to our lusts; a few good women, this need for instruction, but life, those streets, this bag; accustomed to losing, a similar escalator, our rage, our hearts, this stenographer embedding our responses; at something familiar, at something crazed, and here’s a thought, should humans believe each other?

I feel rather than speak, tapping softly, conditioned to ignore small differences; I mustn’t be right, not at that moment, I’d rather walk us gently; to lead by compassion, to ask for definitions, to require that one analyzes this enchilada; this feudal world, this feudal self, our feuds with strangers; as communion ensues, rolling our dice, at postulates for this reality feeling; so fruitful, so delicate, at such a deeper requirement; our pendants glimmering, our pandas looking, and such patience for innocence; or destroying a piccolo, at the church’s pentacle, our interior childhood; this portico prayer, this dust and dirt and dreary absolution; as compelled by feathers, looking into meadows, so sudden his life!        

Dear Felicity,

…those fairer rebukes, capitalized with sadness, to receive a distress signal; this wretched man, or this confused soul, abandoned to roads we’ve paved; a delicate daughter, a firmer friend, and endless competition; years in vogue, piano harmonicas, while tears have blessed us; but pain whistles, those dark rooms, this empty closet; so quick for asylum, so justified internally, while stories became abstractions; such lethal fires, abased by disposition, searching for another daughter; those sky-banners, this air-blimp, while appreciating subtleties; this gray horizon, this magenta rainbow, as time seemed to turn against us; such feral ideas, such enriched ideals, while wrongs appear to touch us; an idyllic universe, a toolkit of utilities, or a sorrow reaching deeply; those fajita dynasties, those famous tacos, or a slice of cheesy pizza; this foolish man, such foolish pride, but waning in determination; that strong implorement, against a trauma-center, lashing-out at something misappropriated; our kind dismissal, our harsh realism, while a soul tries to mask its face; this box of abandonments, this wall by confusions, those years reaping chaos; herewith, something damaging, our actions building our countenances….

…as a cryptic desire, something seeming simplistic, but requiring pure concentration; this one time leap, into a celestial atmosphere, whereby, we pray out our intestines; not merely utter a few words, not merely satisfy a request, but mindful and mindstuff effusion; it may aid something inside, this weeping undercurrent, and it might shift our energies; for days have become foggy, while a man has to defog his senses, or a woman has to try invisibilities; our pork with rice, our greens with ham, our burritos while outstanding; this fairer rebuke, this fairer reasoning, if but to gain inward clarity; as souls in cedarchests, or spirits in chandeliers, or dominoes writing a particular encryption; this challenge for many, this task for some, or this remedy to a few hassles; if but an attempt, if but a repeated timeout, if but an accidental and planned immergence….

…so terribly difficult, to get into that space, that redemptive segue; to recalculate our anger, to give it to our earth, to flush-out something that hurts; to attempt at freedom, if but for sanity, if but to teach our spirits; indeed, an untethered feeling, but a chartered island, for one was bathed afore in its countenance; if but to realize self, if but to release heaviness, if but to love by renown; our curious minds, to adventure that light, to need something extra in life; this seating in space, this going into that location, this felt radiation; something so natural, something so personal, while reaching into this atmosphere; it comes with patience, one must concentrate, and one must find a focal point; this songstress inside, this genuine language, plus, determination….

…but fire is determined, maybe a new manifest, maybe more of an unlocking; to dance in robes, a mind filled with ancients, looking at former king and queen mystics; those years that dungeon, this remarkable assistance, if but to determine a safer location; such violin harmony, such a difficult concern, while one might be uneasy; our colorful tree-oceans, our seas at force, our ships sailing to Vienna; our minds unveiling, this sudden realization, these pretty imageries….

I sense a reluctance, or maybe my projection, where something loathed shouldn’t offer lights; but imagine something keen, a woman undisclosed, and carrying a mental gantry; if time was gentle, and space was concerned, would they not put destiny in her hands; this true requirement, incumbent upon humans, where our mental life is our responsibility; to fly at a sudden second, to become so attuned, while generating a life-giving aura. (Mindfulness?)

Terribly Un-Universal: Debated Postulates

…a bit sluggish, wondering to whom to speak, while tender this candle; those thumps with ousia, particles probing psyches, our deafness but a sound; often at a thought, concerned with deliverance, chanced as a repulsive creature; churning by conflict, a radiant countenance, even an irritating countenance; while said something silently, substantial resentments, wrested or wiggling or wretched; such soft music, our mystic harps, our divine mandolins; but curious to hear you, curious to feel your words, so curious to see you before an audience; this stage of talents, this revving pressure, beneath our strobe-lights; principle frustration, teaching while instructed, or plagued something horribly; this friendly feature, dearly ostracized, while rooms are filled with closets; this whispering desk, this window that damn light, those fingers typing our reports; our disdain, our attraction, or asexual goddesses; brief evaluations, or years by realizations, or cut in slices piecemealing multiple hunches; as not for lightness, this design by phantoms, for a number of years determines a few good reasons; however, a thought, while peering into planets, so devastated by private realities; our grandparents, so far that zone, while a sweet, undifferentiated voice is comforting; our wrenching criticism, our debates controlling us, or feathers growing wildernesses; seeing our cries, repaving our nightmares, while concerned something over-there possesses a pure insight; where a mystic looks for stainless experience, or colorful walls, while an old professor is speaking in German; or crossed with temperament, expected to respond, where mother is seated a chair nearby; our fathers a bit resilient, our aunties too far to dial, plus, one has become indoctrinated by something solitary; this two seater, this invisible ottoman, or this reminder that this is a center; looking at spirits, sensing something unstable, where something demonized spoke with tremors….

…so in there, with plus a bible, etching over Numbers; so possessed, a spirit awoke, seated in facial muscles…. I met her while featured, such immediate recognition, “But he’s a good one”; this bipolar twinge, this internal evaluation, or this linkage into something extraterrestrial. I saw characters, while seasick, I saw a chain with links and small boxes; it ran in size, it leaped a long distance, I was purely tribal; this deepness into souls, this universe beneath civilization, while we’re unaware of what we see; such biblic intensity, such scribbly lines, or partial to something interior; to examine Jesus, this sheer response, while we’re uncertain about such ferver; this land of resumes, this elusive title, where some reenact such violence; but it became evident, this foe/friend, this intruder—this investigator; our fancies settle, our dreams become insanity, our knowledge-dome becomes insatiable—at too many funerals, at too many loses, plus, not too concerned with looking normal; however, an effervescence wafts, a mist emanates, where a man barely raised his right arm; or hours at prayer, where Love came home, looked, studied, and shed tears; but days are different, I need not such insistence, where a certain confidence emits….

…something beckons, this underground universe, this kinetic magazine; so close to its door, peeking inside, where it lashed-out; I closed it quickly, standing in amazement, nudged to look once more; it seemed inviting, awe and tremors, brilliant yellow lightening; but days were different, in this chemistry by brains, or something so unexpected we decide to retreat; but where comes time, from what scorpion afar, where a man sees he has entered; too visceral to disenchant, too extraterrestrial to define away, but too farfetched to disclose to others; our mornings calling life, God, our college years cultivating doubts, or our realities becoming terribly mystic; but something beckons, to intrigue this portal, while linked to postulates….   

Disconnect by Titles and Displeased with What We See!

We have chambers, interior offices, and there’s a table. We have chairs, and papers, and pencils. This chamber of documents, this electrical carpet, and those vigil computers. We hire aids, to clean our chambers, we talk, answer questions, and deal with shifts in personality. We mourn ghosts, attentive to moody, even responding to moods—unaware of whom we have hired. Those watching antennas, those responsive to anger, while needing hostility. This comfort food, while plants listen, and art is spying. If but one sentient voice, if but such drifting kindness, while we favor certain zones. This behavioral knitting, our hands unaware of textiles, our deduction making excuses for rusty mirrors. Occasioned to rhythm, dissolved in patterns, something determined for one to relive it. It may simmer, it may percolate, or it may push firmer. This inner compass, renegotiating its labyrinth, reminded that this is considered normal. Our underground activities, our dislodged assessments, where it pays to say something appeasing. But hell was raw, life was ornaments, and caregivers were something under suspicion. This room with whistles, this familiar distrust, while one is seated in total anonymity. Those boxes chatter, chaff is winded, onlookers aren’t considering a sudden outburst. It’s just uncured. It should never happen. And it’s a sign of something hostile. But wood was violent, steel was vicious, while humanness never spoke clearly. This tug can’t speak, but there’s a second response, damn if it took years to explode. This systematic scratching. This blatant indifference. Or everything he writes—we must reenact something. This river smoldering, or this defensive transference, while it was never this wall. Our cords tangled, those elders preaching, this consumed feeling; as told one person, this probing truth—You can dictate how we respond to your behavior!

There’s a room here, an outside bench, plus, an absent clock. There’s emotion in there, a flaming torch, plus, father’s baton. There’s a grandmother, there’s a sullen mother, and there’s a son or daughter. The eldest one! Those redeeming characteristics. Or that deeper silence. While doors open and shut, while ceilings reach pillars, while we crawl for happiness. It becomes passage, this stencil and chalk, if but this power over one’s control. This high-rising fire, this in-depth nonchalance, or this battle to remain unspoken: this interior rain, this thrust into something endless, where one fights over this or that; indeed, we fight here, we fight there, and we are always fighting. It never resolves itself, while one is going through pains, where one opts for silent aggression. This need for agitation, this aid’s grudge, while protected by upper-echelon.

…or something quite dangerous, this need for this aid, where one can’t opt out; this change in colors, this deep suggestion, while angered concerning mutual analyses; or reliving something, aware of responses, while feeling treated like childhood myrtle; or needing more, this sore spot, sensing one has so much to give; this inner office, this fount for water, or those irritating cubicles; this tug thing, that beneath rug metaphor, or this alarming trickle of sunlight; asked a question, sensing an answer, where one remains in silence; those cameras flickering, this pillow tossing, those sudden responses to this room; at practice for years, wondering about this fight, either tacit or overt—but the cave must fight….

…soothing music distresses, violent music distresses, something untaught becomes something keen; a method here, an office there, an old clock with webs; a different language, a controlling wit, while we see in one another our histories; this defensive me, this defensive aid, where we’re not with luxury to find a compatible aid—merely due to titles…!         

Breath Adored and Flapping

…those roses sing, they become soprano, to languish and feel so guilty: such short expansion, such old style graffiti, such unedited feelings: to micro intestines, to laugh when Love sighs, or to believe in us through devastation: pictured as this, but science renews observations, but anger ensues about something slippery: those concrete assumptions, this velvety body, as a heart becomes warm…. I can’t remember it happening, but geladas giggled, and compunction soared: those beautiful scientists, those marvelous Utilitarians, or so for equality it aches to speak: our faith in x, if x than c, and if c than bx: so circular, Love, looking and staring, while granny casted a casual glance: where terms speak condition, if to do this ‘thing’, I must will that everyone can do this ‘thing’: this pain in legalities, this legality in humanness, and, thus, humanness becomes pain: so curt with daisies, so symbolic with, Love, to need something a colored soul can’t sin: our passion in blueness, our rage in redness, our skies burgundy orange: virtual reality, glass becoming human, a porcelain bystander: to realize sorrow, to know this love, but a Caucasian woman might do for sin: where both are angry, while both need power, but chances and life and deaths: baggy denims, railing cologne, as something emotion sensitive: as so into possibility, while losing possibility, or remembering this Indian woman: as never a voice, filled with documents, where another is fraught by behaviorisms: this tall documentary, this family determination, while too hurt to fully exclaim something patient: abstract wilderness, platypus searching(s), at signature melancholia: divorced from seasons, haunted by memories, while a new atmosphere has struck brains: a casual fool, a man needing absorption, where most need excitement: this ever river, this pace feeling dynamite, while cursed for holding back!

I argue Invisibility, angry with design, feuding this floor mirror: debating Rhianna, or at times with Sofia, this Black Kingdom, this Jamaican Glamour: our guts fevered, our hearts at rampages, or this fretted polygraph: our daughters with Gucci, a bag of ten grand, a hilarious phantom sipping blackness: so revved for composure, so thrown into graphics, where contracts depict our behaviors: seated upon mints, eating white licorice, while blue eyes seem a bit aesthetic: this mulatto man, this quadroon daughter, while identity is mixed and giggling: our curse in histories, our plight as fought through eternity, while so cool, or so kosher, listening to this New Age Linguistic: such poetic wisdom, looking like superficial, but deep body an exquisite fulcrum: those cute deaths, this endless kiss, those musical devises—as long to this fire, this explosive agony, where a few mistakes speak tantamount: so into us, so thrown in us, while needing to believe in us: to give meaning, to explode contacts, while rearranged debating our origins: this duvet minx, this tired ghetto reality, while both have become tremendous academicians: so accustomed to division, so enlove with rules, while broken for cured and gunning: at black magic, mingling white magic, and sacrificed for another those bandits: as x was y, and y was bx, and bx lead to c—where c divorced its inherent x.    

      

…if not us than them, if not them than mystery, and mystery could never be us: this fever in blights, this membrance in swanship, or those times it felt good to be hated: those screenplays, those playwrights, or this stage appearing in its colors: our filmmaker hats, our lives as one cool affair, while imagination has run amuck….

…such Scarlett dreams, such Scarlett memories, so low so high—and popping for maniacs: this life but unloved, those surreal eyes, while one is stressed and disposed looking into shadows!                

Relational Cognition

I get alienation, resistant and distant from self, or silence needing music: so alienated from nature, songbird, and feeling arbitrary: to palm evidence, to give credence, to know alienation: this personal possession, this unseen actuality, this abstract internality those motions: to demand a different feeling, to rely upon an abstract creature, or invest in moral dictums: thereinto, this floating matrix, at coarse eyes, distressing femininity: too subjective, while defending certain rights, like this inherency in omission: this body by memories, this connecting synaptic gap, while connectedness forms its various fences: bought and centralized, so beautiful while sinning, so alive while winning: this false capacity, this cave in society, this city traffic dispenser: our arrogant gaits, or humility for credits, where we need souls to function. I thought philosophy; I found deep distraction; I saw something determined in intellectual existence: I read Nietzsche, Kant, King, and a series of this interior reservoir: a leader fighting for air-packages, redeemed at intervals, up against something failing his sensitivities: rereading patience, bred for something chaotic, while caring for an infant: but if death was sweet, if death wasn’t bitter, we would opt for this chasm of darkness: but pain is vocalized, it demands attention, so we seek the greatest amount of joy for the greatest amount of bystanders: or we opt for something noble, something aristocratic, or we demean this person we walk into: those closet spaces, those owl eyes, encouraged to deceive our reflection: at inner circles, defined by outer processes, or so close this end as sleepy: flying gently, or landing softly, with this thirst to abate our injuries: such driving intellect, such hubris castles, or so proud of one so blind to taste: our illusions, fighting for variegated reality, too close for a wife’s comforts: our science labs, our rickety tables, at a footstool debating its authenticity: this mind channel, this game at five, this armchair warrior.

…that essence, by which forms a smile, that radiant ousia; to give existence, in exchange for existence, by which the two become one: indwelling permanence, our standards elevated, our destruction by wild hyenas: to garner trust, to sip garnet, or Love is abstinent and flaming with Kabala: better senses, or better selves, while receiving becomes deep humility: our cognition as precedence, our cogitation as motive, our correct language disturbing our inner chamber: (so close to rethinking, adjusting moral precepts, where for her a man restates his previous leaves: this crazy labor, this means before ends, or so close we gloss over something devastating: our harvested ears, our threshing eyes, while a man tries to believe it will not end today!).

I read a few thoughts, by an obscure teacher, this ‘thing’ as above and beyond: our minds feeling its division, our rebel instincts harvested for centuries, while an agouti cares more about peaches.

…deeper intellect, social citation, becoming an esteemed member by church: those deductive proofs, if but found valid, whereby, one accepts those premises: inductive us, this celebration, while harboring something that destroys: or running this challenge, rebuking all opalescence, where a thirst for right-living overrides play-acting: our sawdust enchiladas, our theorems to live forwardly, or wretched obedience churning into tumors: this panicky tremor, this deeper problem, taking something for balance while it slowly uproots: as created cognition, desiring power, while drenched shattering echoes a penchant for freedom: reading Seneca in passing, or at a library, musing over Nietzsche’s poetry: once so young, a pure amateur, as now so tiger: our empirical sensories, our empirical experiences, our empirical interiors: so real to cognition, but so real before thought, while concretized by rich emotion….

Dear Happiness,

…look at us: have you seen us: such deceased pretenders:

…this vase bleeding, this paint bleeding, this engine through grapes: so devastated, so crooked, at dynamite for liquor: our guts screaming, our prides but melanin—I’m such a prostitute: this wine haven, this pistol caving, to chunk a losing whistle: to need more, from embodied sin, and a subtle grin: double-dared, a life sentence, our ignorant liquor: masked and re-masked, unmasked and rebuked, a bit too close to a dope-dealer: this dead theology, can’t nobody listen, so Porsche at bowels looking at Jesus: this field that, this house whatness, while candles churn at treasuries: so completely raw, so completely cursed, plus, a piece of this enlove warrior: too many fantasies, a dynamic superhero, or something too grandiose: at Love with patience, at brains our giggles, while Love flashed a feature:

I knew for dead cries, I knew for more liquor, so bathed, so creative, or too st8 forward: as skating to it, as a ring for it, while misbehaved and a slave with it: our grander feelings, to adore but sightless, as picture graphing its habits: this daughter gunning, this daughter at ruins, this playful forgetful diamond future: weaving invisibility, asking a psych, if but one day those closed horizons: so shook with rain, so pitted in this dungeon, while a phone rang, a soul answered, and Yahweh screamed: forty-three years, even nineteen minutes, plus, this skin infection: recoiled and bottled, flippant and amazing, at compassion laughing over disagreements: our aches with tension, our bubbling resentments, while a mad creature would attempt a massacre: so floaty, just this firebird, at ashes feathers and Love’s descension—so willing, if but that harvest, to adore love and never touch forgiveness: our bones damaged, our brains beat alive, our forcefields distressed—as Love would cringe, this a.m. dilemma, while sleeping as if so peaceful: this maniac machine, this whispering tweet bird, while a man is barely composed to speak….        

…purer darkness, murky swamps, this talkative aye-aye—at bright treasuries, at broken lies, so thrust, so enlove, crying deadly this loving womb: our gates so high, our deserts so beautiful, trekking twenty times two, those years and babies—this film and edits, this baptized keyboard, those confident destroyers: look at us, have you seen us, such deceased believers: this Jesus Soul, this mad mathematics, this Pythagoras maniac: so sliced in there, so received out there, at the Thousand Oaks Arcade: this ignited memory, this friendly fire, to misprint a thought so deeply: this psych wisdom, this irritant psych phantom, while God knew her first pain: this gut-fool, this delivery soon, where more than half is over: our dread in death, our want for deaths, as embodied glorious warriors: those courts silenced, this Alexander feeling, or this Athens’ College: such radiant melanin, such megalomaniacs, this despot, this creature, where obedient silence becomes Joseph: so cooked in gumbo, such spicy rice, to look at us, as seeing us, as teaching her this…!

…so foul I was, but hell was rivers, this masked man under sediments: those old feelings, this sword to Ghost, while split asunder drifting into guts: broken in tens, swooshing like madness, to catch a psych and claim a demand: so angry with Jesus, so enlove with Jesus, while crazed an asexual worship: at grandpa now, this curse we live, so enlove with color: this losing windfall, this windmill spinning, this schizophrenic identity—this bed of whistles, this scent to Doves, while a pigeon carried our disdain: this escape-goat, or this scape-goat, or too damn drastic to give a damn: those encyclopedias, this intellectual Colossians, while Romans became so intimate to me: as a dead marshy, or a hectic saint, this flipped out gore in us…!         

Sensei Wilderness

There’s a chasm for men. A field suggesting terror. A lake filled with saviors. / Our dramatic passion. Susceptible to kindness. While life becomes temporal. / Those splashing caves. Our souls made silence. Our sediments to hourglasses. / Invested in paradox. Ramped our mansions. Attempting to charm our demons. / Such inferno havocs. Such terrible forgiveness. Our invisible ailments. / Committed to blankets. Baked by survival. Our abbreviated freedom. / Thought as phantoms. Or crazed beasts. Beset by dire predicament. / Our odiferous values. Our sewn quilts. At reasons unfavorable. / Inching closer to graves. Our gothic darkness. By eclectic faith. / Reading our compass. Severed or alienated. Such joy in something fragile. / Rushed to exist. Hushing our anguish. And partially redeemed.

A sage is at war. Those fences closing. Those gates omitting promise. / These woods speaking. Our trees of wisdom. But behavior is partly predictable. / Such tamed instincts. Our trained responses. Inclined towards suffering. / Or gifted with tasks. This living by tasks. Our deeds are volumes. / Reviewed by society. Watched for entrance. While anger probes our receptors. / Deep processes. Delivered to Time. Closer to resistance. / As debated souls. Rebirthed in vessels. While tools speak determinants. / Lessened for learning. Resented for aura. Encapsulated by bias. / At tender dreams. Upon many trails. Fraught by acceptance. / Or shimmering indifference. While missing this life. Becoming cold to reception.

Our valued cadence. Our rooms and heirlooms. Our childhood cedarchests. / Our brief introduction. Our divine inquisition. Our praise with such brevity. / Our estranged faces. Our indiscriminate descriptions. Our worlds determined by strangers. / Hoping for fairness. Deciding to venture. Received by a kind soul. / At deep problems. At deeper concerns. While something distorted becomes either way. / Our love for projects. Or delirious familiarity. While unfelt but feeling. / Our rewards for caring. Our strengths while weak. Our scriptures begetting. / This rich ocean. This incandescent rain. Our soil dug with mercy. / Achieving our told regard. Left with sensing behaviors. Attuned to silent aggression. / Our damages so pure. Our purity incapable. Our reality shifting. / Such heart notes. Such kinder days. While lead by behaviors.

The sensei is calm. Watching with care. Plus, filled by something missing. / Those societal venoms. Our days remote to existence. Looking into something dishonest. / This hurdle from self. Such mythic calamity. Where many awake with a distant self. / Or pure in our honesties. Rebuilt in our compassion. Where it hurts at times. / But strength is uncertain. While risk becomes life. At a stranger received as friend. / This typical un-certitude. Our closed off essence. While fever becomes ornament. / Tandem blue fire. Restructured message flame. At something revving our systems. / To look into esoteria. To see traces of subtlety. As becoming familiar with particles. / Or sitting so close. Debating this brick road. While confused by currents.

Something goes for shadows. While something remains subliminal. As, too, something relates unconsciously. / This thing in humans. This unaddressed mechanism. Close enough to see everything. / Some admire roses. Others sneeze loudly. While others begin to prune. / Rereading our steady flow. Realizing our preferences. Analyzing chaos. / Tucked into a decision. Or unchartered cemeteries. While reasoning through debris. / Such overlooked oxygen. Such brain food. While life is spirit-cameras.

Life unto Round Infinity

…sudden spontaneity, sudden clutter, our occultic silence: this riveting ripple, firewood, firebrand, such loud language: our gut-souls, our heart-phones, at spirit-telegraphs: by rust, rut, and rails, by courage, curse, and cleaver, as men modeled for mischief: so closed into, this triple conclave, rewound to something earlier: so unborn those days, listening to father’s voice, and nourished by mother’s tacos: to jump and leap, running fields, or beleaguered by happenstance: our minds searching, while becoming adults, cooking and cleaning and working for soul-favors: an inner feeling, monkish eyes, climbing and falling or bracing and flying: a tire and rope, an old broken fence, so high up there…! Our caged voices, our interior legacies, or better, some kids were deeply moral: but years to dungeons, or tears to fabrics, our dreams becoming juries: birdsongs or heart-whispers, seam-catchers, or screams—so enveloped, so enlove, while life was kicking ass: all such rain, unlocked and set loose, or redeemed and re-stressed: this doorsill metaphor, or an actuality, while color is under its gun: such off-putting, inconsequential, or radicalized assertion: our pails with fish, our freezers with steaks, our memories with exchange posts: cupping clumps of grass, or rending our tunics, while gripping and throwing dirt: sipping black water, treading black mountains, or eating black passion: so reversed, so crooked, or so straight life is refusing our admission: Rumi or Christ, us or them, at an above, super-imposing language. This life with feet, this sub-sizzling, at days remembering those behaviors.

…chattering chains, shifty motion, abased by indiscretion: remote emotions, crowded aloneness, where we realize trust; this compartment, so dependent this category, while leaving the seat up: so minor, such prophecy, such noble music: too honest for me, too ashamed of me, while I can’t stop such music: those habits but erumpent, this feeling like pavement, so captivated by racing luminaries: unmasked and seeking, core freedom but caves, alike rushing rivers—this fume so low, this majesty so low, this tickled and solitary design: if but cadence, if but loudness, if but redesigned music: a feather so heavy, a nightmare so light, this frequency seeming curious….

…at crevice currents, concealed in lies, aberrant or absolute: or too passive, lacking rawness, while one never appeals this light: or too aggressive, instilling fear, our rooms filled with screams: occasioned for dreams, such difficult thoughts, while reasoning this wretched loss: it lives in me, over a decade strong, while gripped sudden panic: re-reached, an angry intruder, practiced at voiceprints: a spirit-paw, a cub’s claws, a mirror racing through coldness: an eraser, failing its enterprise, so attached to something mobile: our kinetic language, our instrumentals, so challenged, so ahead, while behind in other cultures: mainstream prodigies, falling radically, as touched with evil tenets: so softer those nights, so ridiculed those evenings, so delivered those days: as ears gnawed asunder, inner taste becoming disturbed, at chase and vase and rabies: our mind-museums, our last defacements, accrued in time and spatial validity….

…many conceptualizations, or many more false perceptions, digging for freedom and living our utilities: encased in energies, this vulnerable fortress, while some elements are left to the hands of fate: such the cliché, but dear this agony, or soul this penchant: our literary genres, or stretching prose, or ruining poetry: lamenting those chances, or forced to retreat, while convinced about falling clouds: this sad song, delivered in anguish, while so close to availing our identity: those blues blazing saxophones, such rabid affliction, so close, so respected, while dying so young: or droplets of reality, or silky lies, this fly-catching insanity….  

Analyzing Complaisance

Out of perspectives. Or just becoming observant. A young seed, looking at father, and baptized into dysfunction. This social weft, those hazel investigators, so attuned, so maladjusted, where reality becomes something feeling prospective. Our daughters those eyes those curious atmospheres. Our crushes as giving lights our German, Australian, and Scandinavian beaut(s). Or perfect a detriment, interrogating our parts, while something was purely vicious. At black goons, or hamster irritants, while a parakeet is missing too much humanness. If but to adore us, if but to love us, I must be able to believe in us. —for Love is marvelous, this strange canopy, this hut this island so afar from illusion. As sacrificed to fires, at demolished sensitivities, to arrange a coming into clarity. Those stalwart legs. Those chandelier cries. Or fragments pointing at symbols. Our delectable women, our detestable behaviors, if but an honest voice. But humans are half souls and humans are half love or something too brilliant is frowned upon. This need for excitement. This vandalism for passion. To need Love those hours before settling. Such jute and rope and fibers laughing and having party time; as kleptomaniacs, stealing heart castles, while un-wrestled and deliberate. This hunt to hurt, for pass infractions, where nothing is colder than sharing: a man’s screams, his deeper and unstable demons, where Love is not that woman. Our mothers in us, our fathers listening, our miracles those closed rooms; while haunted by secerns, or havoc for cynosures, while tucked for distant analyzing life passing by; our terrible reasons, our reductions unto absurdities, where Love needed something forgiving illnesses.

…so much has passed away. I’ve become tolerant. This life forcing its contracts. Once so idealist. Once so irritating. Where many are not working with intellectual genetics…that is to say, many can’t see reason, they have little use for it, this is a deficit of discipline: our hearts are different, our joys are exploitable, while using or abusing becomes human war; this small issue, this petit disagreement, where a little honesty might redeem the situation; but he is this, and she is that, plus, it’s nobody’s business: (so blessed to see it work, this older couple, while both knew for discomforts); this us-struggle, this we-party, so into us, so alive in us, and when he passed, she shortly followed: this Shakespeare thing, such Beaumont English, re-arrested by Love each second; as bright determinants, as living propositions, while most are joyous by seconds….

…so critical of Love, so designed to flourish by hopes, while most are instrumental at every breath; this life with careers, and children, and grandparents—where sex at every churn seems ridiculous; but this is California, where a few arise, while many are agitated by academia: this whit rant, this inner realization, where most adjust, move forward, while protecting their castle; as never a curse, but ever a blessing, as more than a helpmeet, more his survival, more his friend, more his confidant….

I settle softly, a bit defeated, realizing we meet many to find the few. So at wars with me, this mirrored me, while conversation takes a particular color. These nugget guts, such fragmented howling(s), staring into a piece of paper: searching for freedom, adjusted to captivity, while running from slavery: those achy ants, this feudal undertaking, so challenged, so perfected, while true riches are decidual. Looking to adore a stranger, this perfect excuse, while a stranger has luggage: this friendly mentor, this cryptic engram, where her dreams are manifested. Those cooked feelings, this genetic hexagram, or this emotional pentagram: so infused by methodologies, so comfortable by touch, or so receptive life never let’s go!

Symphony Swan Shine

…so mechanical, as for survival, our minds mimicking robots: but a swan is pure, and purely indebted, and actualized in innocence: such omission, this venial thing, while protecting our interests: so categorical, so a priori, or stuck for debating rightness: this deductive corpse, or this inductive family, where embryos become intimate creatures: this flame we lost, this rain we cross, at pain and eye-gook gloss: if but your mind, free of contemplation, to have a satori revelation: but Love is thinking, and Love is gathering, while Love is planting: as a furious intellect, reviewing veterinarians, or tugging a cute kitten: so evolved in you, such cadence in you, to become greater than us: to devoid those habits, to erase something outdated, to flurry in purple wings: at orison and thought, at tongues and sentences, while amazed at starlight: our pagan passions, promised by counsel, such curious creative machines: to hide so deeply, to feel such remorse, while held as an innocent bystander: broken colors, feudal interiors, where hair is so important: a young Belle, a tailored encyclopedia, so witty, but so outwitted: in silence chancing, in violence prancing, while crying a solemn pillow: those red rainbows, this hectic horizon, if but this languishing garden: image born, sworn to secrecy, while something has given God its ghost: in deeper fabrics, as hybrid children, forced to participate: our minor battles, their fairer distresses, if but we live as inadequate: this crucial war, while needing identity, if but to survive….

I voice regrets, a crucial development, but where would I be: otic or visual, dead or viable, such appointments to acquiesce: our pools with green stuff, our minds with little sequences, our visceral bodies realer than our conceptions: a thought as generation, a soul as inflammation, so gated, so plural, so unrealized: this silent anger, this attitudinal disposition, while one enquires into your mindstuff: this plaint of sorrow, this pelt upon character, and needless to say, we’re feeling perfection: those Cajun eyes, this southern accent, those accentuated cheekbones: as creative winds, a gust to Jesus, while a swan is hard to decide: this hands-off ‘thing’, this gloomy sentient ‘thing’, or quite captured by this entire buffet: as sung enlightenment, as danced before Genesis, while Zoroastrianism seems so prevalent.

Our perceptions, Love, our piggybacked presumptions, Love, or outrageous self-imageries: but the swan is crucial, an analytical machine, so indebted, so irremovable, afloat an ocean island: such by pentacles, stepping into paradise, or musing upon disharmony: those questions arising, this wonder about parenthood arising, this semi-casual concern arising: sensing differences, so a bit more keen, while self-consciousness becomes quasi-perfection: our wandering souls, our guilt ridden mentors, while deciding to adhere: as pruned intellects, so evolved into caricatures, while needing a perspective akin to daylight.

…those most holy grounds, while catching visions, dreaming of giving a sibling a talisman: our baffled back-eyes, arear a boat, so banished, so free, killing an innocent albatross: if but recognition, these hermit eyes, where two elevate and become humility: but so much pain, such indignities, while ignoble behaviors ensue: our coached replies, our touched seconds, staring into cosmic cinemas: so young but adultlike, so pushed but pushing back, where life seems inscrutable: our basin palms, our washed feet, while something weak became a bulwark: at diamond sinews, passed a white stone, where a new name appeared: our crimson tunic, these seven candles, or those seven churches…!            

This Art of Study

…fantastic fantasy, looking into physics, concerned about grayness: those provocative motions, this attuned interior, so close it separates us: livid cries, lascivious musings, patient awareness: raja pride, or Bhakti compassion, where two clash despite enlightenment: so dear to him, such a human for him, where a stranger is held in disdain: our broken heartbeats, our drumming skies, as a flute is intimate: our thrumming flies, our strumming bees, while lemur eyes have become panic: such deeper distrusts, such reaper dislikes, so angry concerning contortion: our faces with grimaces, according to thoughts, but never an interior interrogation: but Love is romanticism, or Love is medieval cadence, at something rummaging intuition: those bolder realities, this existential salad, or butter to baking intelligence: so cursed for this, but mother gave me this, while breaking chains desires its newness: that is to say, to become normal, requires feeling like normalcy, where such brings with it distressors: plus, we relinquish something dear, something sustaining existence, in order that something dismissive feels secure: those rites in animals, our dearer frustrations, where some carry a panther’s instincts: if but a medium, instead of all or nothing, while this mirror is quite hectic: those blurry feelings, this blurry wound, at terrible complications: but Love is pragmaticism, while Love is metaphysical, at clarity when part way into consciousness….

…eating with regrets, devoid of placation, where something unresolved tickles sanity: eyebrows twitching, while I ponder, the capital meaning of redemption: by what palm, or by what destiny, where a soul is truly released: our rules to existence, our rules by love, while we tolerate the damndest enterprises: certain comforts, certain capillaries, our aurous magenta binoculars: as feeling creatures, affronted by thoughts, and tugging into perceptual clenches: purely disinterested, while disinterest proves interest, where effort is issued to remain nonchalant: totally into sensories, abashed by a person’s position, while ashamed of something essential: to need forgiveness, from a uninteresting figure, while nondisclosure proves one as judgmental: this zero person, where silence is harmful, or similarities are tormenting: this personal position, this familiar disinterest, while hearts beat by something deceptive: a knee jerk statement, with such knee jerk clarity, where one is destined to dislike this household dejection: our interior categories, our powerful trainings, while one is too self-absorbed to see us: or our self-absorption, desiring full recognition, instead of giving this essence we reach for: as unclear mirrors, destined for uneasiness, where thoughts might be liable: such richer perception, or strong disapproval, while aside for a statement, nothing is quite viable….

…wretched societal statutes, or this self-portrait, while painting and people are walking by: such architecture, those building blocks, ruminating about outdated behaviors: so close it’s repugnant, or so far away it’s alluring, while a mirror might depict our uneasiness: this reflection kite, this bucket of crispy tenders, or this orange screwdriver: where one has become you, or their version of you, where you realize something disliked in you: our immediate inventory, while one is doing research, where non-interests has become an intellectual novel: but Love is educated, and Love is fun for those, while Love is a hip, a thought, or our dismissals: as creative children, living creative lives, so determined to claim more than nothingness: those power trips, this deeper irritation, where something is transpiring: such secluded privacy, such out-and-out displeasure, where one is free to emanate as determined: mere responders, our irregular pathfinders, or something needed this art of study….