Sadness Pursues Fire

I don’t see invisibility, but

I feel it as it arises, with such disposition to listen.

This creek forest, those waves in limbo, or

this purgatorial trip through ghettoes.

I sought fruit I laughed with clowns our faces painted tragically.

But it was fever to love as does a blind emotion so

cured in you; where days are shortened for joy is ramped while we pass into oblivion;

such a threat to self while ignoring anti-happiness while

fooled into a false intensity.

I can’t avoid this frequency while

ambling gently at

occasion to pamper a feeling; such

related shifts as in just this moment while asking for something made improbable:

secure longevity, intimate outflanked passion, where reality seems so insync.

Those glorious furious eyes, this morning awakening so asleep, while

Love is asking concerning my next eclipse.

The nights are inviting as

breath whispers my nostrils

to have with deepness this reason

to peace with deaths;

those long living souls, this

etching into my peripheral, while

I used to long for something a romantic soul would dream.

At terrible realities, to

know such core in spirits, while

we cross a line and deaths become normal.

While most would chase life or

erase complexity

some are only with peace

where hell is screaming.   

Running Born Endless

so sudden into heart-wires 

so consumed by relatability or

so thrown and wrapped where tongues mourn reality; so cuffed by us so allergic to us while I’ll never breathe essence into us; this cut cord those porcelain sinks as bashed and broken at abandoned homes;

this elastic chair those elastic musicals at mud beating pure soil;

our tobacco boxes our cars that

cigar aroma and our feet afraid it might not run; at colors unbeknownst at negative temperamental and unachieved—this person so lit it was fire and so dead it rumored its breath—as kleptic vandals laughing aftermath

too pure to become holy; this mixed raven-heart, those darkened blackish gusts, so frozen a lake at a psych’s doorposts; if but this wall-rug that mystique hand this land by flame and oxygen; rewound into mother’s haven this wombic cave at this one laborious and gangly tenet; to want like life this music as it erupts to taste and dance and enter like a maniac;

our shattered palms our mothers terrified or this area

so accursed the police are violent;

a dying man or a lying lullaby so

close to winning; to have thought in us conniption to have seen something he must not speak or alive and laughing while friends feel obvious; this core born heart this mythical magical makeup while I believe something so steep knows to haunt good weather.

I know for decency but this fire was lethal it consumed and became genetics;

as fevered arcs or fragile bark so arranged such agenda to plot from terrific quarters; those red chandeliers this heirloom hostility at coarser deserts and chapped throats; that deep damp those soot lungs

in caves and swarming with flies;

this damaged fury into something precious to love and adore and cherish; to fathom and leave to need and suffer while it wouldn’t sustain its months; this un-bricked fortress this battle upon castle-village as something so gorgeous a man becomes crazy;

those endless realities this esoteric few while something is deathly at tension; aching and batty upon marble vows while sunk into higher morals; these I love this flame I surrender while years are running into absence.

our graves adjacent to souls while one

lingers and chuckles; banshee chains those realist reigns

as devastated and needing to palm our cries; this

unreal sanity so near it boasters while feelings unwax and fire forth;

as critical souls, so charged by us, if

but to die looking soul to brains; so

captive in unreality so fantastic about reality

and endless to perish our gulf.

are Memories Axioms/do They Possess Feelers?

I dare to trespass

those regions as a smile might

ensue

so laborious so inscrutable or too wretched for clarity;

our mis-happenings so metaphysical while two manics afar a country met in mental matter; nor was life premeditated, nor were songbirds awakened, nor were grackles completely on board: to insist in quadrants to ask forgiveness or to wrestle like young lovers:

our guts needing caliber our souls alert and sneezing while old flames haven’t undressed abject behaviors; to shun our minds to run from our feet at something called life gripping our hands; but Love was imagination and Love knew her existence and Love seemed masked by sages. Nor was art beautiful nor were muses unavailable it became anguish as an entity; to disdain a prideful man, this element by anxiety, while death was sweeter.

so accursed or axioms haywire while his brain in stubborn; this frightening reality this tug at six senses

where actuality spells something distasteful; for its agency is unwanted its dreams are repudiated and its math is askew; but long that fire this unborn fire while an infant boomerang has leaped into comets;

our damaged fire our loquat summers at brushes and angst adored but unvalued.

I remember faces this island walking alone and sung in gut and material; our disturbing behaviors so close to dear repentance where wolves are asking, Are you alright? such terrifying insights to imagine your sized brains as a creature with over a zillion stems; our psychic skies as electricity carries its telegram our codified explanations; but a naïve man at a naïve post while he believed in totality and absolutes; such beige concrete those hours running wildly as never this dominion; such thinking souls such awakened souls while recent dreams are scattering brains:

our intestines maneuvering our ether unbending those tubes and lobes and dynamite;

so chanced as unraveling so geared with one truth in this pit of roses I could never commit to silence;

as crucial obedient creatures so enlove those other sugarplums at something too frantic to ignore—this deepness illusion this radical delusion but properties seem definable;

while earth is suffering by subterranean currents our used bodies are asking questions;

but a man in sun-skills

or a charm in red seas

so captive and so desolate: our destitute winters or so afar a thought would linger—those bags filled with rubies those ceilings laughing at us at something unknitted—

at something bluish and uncertain: those

ranging trombones those clanging tambourines or sudden into eyes that are screaming for freedom.     

There’s a Good Man in There

I have silent nature accustomed and dying while recent moons bleed science; to speak truths, those perspective truths, or alienated, annihilated

at core depths and blacken north as accused but deadly ruined; a refugee this country of maniac realities while a nine-year-old is a dozen into murders; this world so uncultured, this blame so sensitive, while anything is up for negotiations; indeed, a visible smile so removed

from its inhabitant

while a man believes he was felt.

those opened bibles a mad language where Love is pure enough to become human; this fire-heart those webs and sunshine those corridors those axes this fever;

so accursed a living anathema while so blessed

it has become pleasurable oxymoron; to awaken so close or so dead

needing forever so lost so understood as underrepresented;

these violent visions these volume villains so afar at midnight so glued and unclear our nethermost benefits; those drastic demons

this demolished appetite so kleptic as gunning through tunnels—if but

that alley those tubes this arc

at straws for first place at ribbons but unclean—those tulips for deaths those daisies for living while never that particular feeling; (so dead in us so alive to feel dynamite to explode breaking through while it’s been done before; those greater emotions this impasse while a man must learn to exist; as never caring for this is math those numeric and indifferent numbers); such sharp anxieties and vomiting off of feelings while envisioning an appropriate apology—those legs baffling those arms aesthetic that face ecliptic at dear dreams and confused; those messages those rites so steep into something ignoring if death came;

parallel omens this guest in me this house in brains; this little kid and

spoke his screams in such wine and gas-fumes; those intrinsic attractions while God lost Eve this music raiding our cedarchests;

such ruthless apologies at such hope in evolution or so religious afraid of everything.

I never speak I watch while bodies are limbo—this fool in me this love in you such radiant futures; to ask a question knowing the answer while angry you told the truth; spare a man or lose a man or baptize Jesus; rolling fast racing the freeway and shifting

lanes; gutted and abused damaged and greedy while

thinking there’s a good man in me; so convoluted so chaotic and

so casual; to need that feeling but uninclined to treasure

that feeling while everything has become a bit naïve; to anger many in this

land of the few while looking at linguistics; for Love is vivid and

Love is an animal and Love feels attractive;

our dying souls, our living aches,

if but those

years so threaded by Hangman; too worrisome or

too wretched while a womb must feel his life.

The Gala has Tragic Chairs

In a hostile scope those chairs are violent the rug lacks sympathy; dealing with obstinance this unappealing wall as it gets closer while it kisses your trauma; such unreasonable reasons as reason is utilized to defend something unreasonable; this sensitive soul those roaming skylarks while songbirds have become depressed; this season for mother these unintelligible feelings while emotion cares less about reknitting its perspective; our embedded structures as a therapist unravels key points where mental typists observe, analyze, if but to record data.

In a hostile scope odor is vile dimensions open vats where squirming has an aphrodisiac effect; so unsettled by us or so peculiar about resolution where most behavior is premeditated; those intense seconds as flying into father a daughter rowing, laughing, or wiggling into a slumber. Those cages unlock where terror runs free such angry energy a mother with lives or convinced reality is subjective. Those ruthless skies so silent, watching, where this room is a storage for tricycles: bells are clangoring where knells are vigil plus this window reminds about exits; so seduced or giving so little while needing something terribly myopic; or this intimate dismissal, this close departure, such hatred accumulated by pictures. While love giggles where adults challenge so close to home-in-heart it’s resistance but trilateral compartments. To remember but routines. To imagine something quite alarming: If not you than easily someone new.

This allergenic room filled with dissonance while appropriate reflection has a mirror. Those rooms in life, as born into a room, as infected by rooms; close to seven drawers close to eleven doors at chores to settle internal lockdown.

We must play a sacred game where erasers are prevalent where we delete as we write; such ancient mystery such rich influence while an undertone is meant for something; but imagine I provoke you, where you seem not to notice, what thoughts have you left me with? This steep uncertainty if but not me than must be it our child; for a person can do without adults but a child is something else while vengeance is sweet until it ruins the child. We, however, shall leave time to duties so partially erased while split by recognition’s contempt.

at something that seems true, this dynamic scope: we do not give what we receive; those room-faces this squeaky tear or those hallways with turns, churns, tiles or havens; our lotic reasonings, our assumption that one is playing our game, our drills, debates, or irrelevancies; or this mercy unbeknownst to one where someone is being gentle; confliction with conflict or subjugation with sentience so fated to live a gated existence; a soothing reprieve, or thoughts no mind could imagine, while a person despises your guts; three branches or three enterprises while we see something in ourselves others are ignoring—or better, it seems so radiant, it seems so different, one feels compelled to rethread it; this game in life those unexercised obvious games or someone too skilled to reveal by earnest; at something critical, this game merely for fun, where one has no idea; this scope this tragic room while reflecting upon every tragic room; those ceiling graphs, or little unopened boxes, as they lounge about this fragrant floor; to die in us where it has never meant anything and remember: Our karma it contends against our screams!   

Remain by Power, Love

Those chandelier crystals as they blaze into eternity so close to locating her phoenix; at ferric black sand or topaz cryptic lakes while unfathomed as a dire creature; our genetic castle those winds at something mis-identified—to become so comfortable to resist change or this sluggish nightmarish emotion; so young with exhilaration such a fugue into existence at a private piano: as a woman dies she has lived and a faithful woman is a King’s Crown; hereinto, our shivering spirits this spatial manifest those dear drastic fires; where a Swan estimates and a mother ruminates and a doctor cogitates: this need for your perfection this island you must disembark if but to capture and conquer our unanswerable seas; those planets in shells this oceans in octopuses or this seahorse guiding its soul.

I ponder such studying and singing and excitability.

You possess a cave in there those walls are shadows that light is destiny; as not absolute but a path towards excavation where rants are a major distraction; we look upon the rants we undress Proverbs and we walk away with wisdom; so filled with feelings so much estrogen and testosterone as experience is pouring into occipital lobes; such black and white decisions at such gray impasses while one asks forgiveness for their sins; this fitted reality by which we rely upon this gift even while actions are carried down contrary paths; to know with certainty this act as maleficent some expect that with performance such action shall be redeemed; it becomes chaotic this un-socialized behavior while we designate certain titles for such behavioral patterns.

Love has become commodity, both Love as a verb and Love as a noun.

I imagine a few pet-peeves a few strong dislikes and a radar that is becoming binoculars; this steep component this moving vehicle or this unanalyzed reality concerning kids with heart-ships; this sixth sense, this geared intuition, where welt and weal have become depth and insight; to arise Sunday morning, to grab a leaf of tea, and write one paragraph; such sensed tranquility such unlocked trapdoors to reread and locate a piece of your humanity. I imagine a romantic tinge a thorough vocabulary and a niche for communicating effectively; those conversational jams, this conceptional jigsaw, while jibbing and jousting with ease; but moments are awkward and sunshine seems to disappear where emotion flies into orbit. I imagine a temperamental Swan as dancing and rising and feeling a bit cozy with pensiveness; this reflective atmosphere this moving gravity while at times crows are crowing; our mechanic behaviors our sincere behaviors or those few friends that arrive on time behaviors; our tingling ears, our touchy arcs, at something critical but intangible. I imagine soda pop and cookies or chips and dip—and this hankering for cheesy pizza; indeed, a few thoughts in this address to lighten the heavy ether.

It appears clear to me this debate in us concerning right behavior versus opted behavior. Our waves wiggling and wrestling our hearts shifting and churning into this forcefield both somber and meditative. But life reveals it valleys and vaults open without warning while monads are singling out other monads.                                    Remain by power, Love!              

The Dragon was Sick

…let grace be gentle a tender cub a paw so relaxed such nature and dimness; to see your eyes as cascading into remnants little particles spelling our mis-identity; so cursed to exist felt as something fantastic while wars are ensuing; such breathless beauty those casual concerns where at sudden impulse the world implodes…. I’ve lanced life as suggested in texts such terrible readiness; our marigold season those weeds speaking their patience or days at eyes too precious for deceit; the weight of a woman the delicate avenues of a daughter while speaking of one we effect the other. I seesaw life so high and falling or airborne unaware of a landing pad; to crush harder or to ignore existence at something becoming quite plane; those older appetites this chemistry now struggling or this new shadow that resists strangers; if but a marvelous mirror even a lying mirror while we age into ourselves. so moon-shy or so sunlit at sacred and cryptic cave-minds; fiddling mindstuff or deeper into concentration or mundane rebuilding something without a foundation; this sand-house those sandcastles or this edifice unbuilt but floating into rivers; our casual souls our religious souls where most, if not all, have worshiped another being.

I grow weary of platitudes I grow tired of vicissitudes insomuch I grow leery of rethinking disasters; our deep blue connection our devastated certainty or our jacinth battleground.

it becomes tentative joy or tenuous happiness at jasper homes; this stubborn rug or Angie’s milk catastrophe while remembering a little infant crawled there; so close to redeeming you or so close to getting further away while too close to see you; our thoughts sky-walking our wants confused as needs where it would be deep misery; as people do not forget and they hold to dear iron this ferric agenda: I remember you where you died and life reneged on you; this desperate curse those desperate eyes while where one is at isn’t as meaningful as where one once was.

but determined to climb this mount to unbind fate as to unlock faith; that power in us this defeat we outwit those negatives turned into triumphs; this combat-zone that young Ground Zero or this hero approach; those zenic alleys this omic insanity as a woman went so far as to lose existence; this radical chase this fever and plight so raided within so cryptic at flight to challenge, insight and persevere.

a daughter earmarks a catalogue a father picks it up and a mother orders the item.

I never intrude with you but soul to brain a bit curious about you; this dialogue so unvetted our reality so flexible and fluid while one speaks with such absolutes; to tarnish another person to ignore mercy as to feel like essence and substance are indebted to us; but that tangent has been exhausted and those winds whisper excitement insomuch as our souls are making fire.

the dragon is moving silently those wilderness-flames are resting where it’s not about fitting sockets. it’s more to authenticity while walking through hallways at moments but a bundle of bolts and screws. those hearts so contagious a kingdom and one queen our souls losing our Africa, our spirits losing our Hellenism.                 

Thanksgiving Christmas

The day begins with silence and rain chimneys and fireplaces. The Retriever is quiet and watchful and amused. It feels like Christmas.

I muse upon others secluded in my mind but a slight under-chuckle. The years have been medium, the tiles have been faithful, where floorboards have been vigil.

There’s music in us as it resounds while miracles come slowly.

Turkeys are baking. Aromas are wafting. While Love looks lovely. This place in my thoughts this symphony in our opera even a house with a neighboring kitchen. To adore something by mere science to deduce a person’s capacity where someone else laid the footwork. But today is thankful the sun is thankful and the pavement is giving praise; but something is a bit shady even a bit askew while we sacrifice and witness to something quite remarkable. Little Suzie is alphabetical, Little Timothy passed a Spelling B, and Tanya just passed her Bar Exam. We celebrate our goodness we sense something sweet as we add a little something to our morning tea. While the couch sits at peace and articles of clothing are flung and someone is fleeing particular anxieties. The cellar spiders are vibrating the dog is now barking and Little Henry wants to taste a bit of something grown—those nectar charms this semi-wrestle, or this fake-out: a bit of coffee, if but to feel older, while reality is musical.

I reminisce upon smoky fumes where stench would trickle that odor from strong cheap vodka. But such outstanding habits so mature about adult-life so skilled and honoree. I see elders at something we can’t color this deep appreciation for Good Times while so rich it aches. I see talisman bibles and unlit candles—those that have been around close to a decade. I see a baby crawling looking and chuckling while attempting to eat anything. I see overprotective fathers and casually observant mothers and this scent to perish in oceans. An elder speaks and we listen and there are more people than seats. We huddle on the porch, the rain is so delicate, and our sensorium has become this ghetto terrific.

I envision poverty and reasons for thankfulness at this technical plurality; our sons and daughters our need to create memories and our hopes for a forged tomorrow; a little ham for Gentiles or kosher meats for Jerusalem but human instincts for one and all; maybe a resolution or maybe a busy schedule but nothing too much as missing Thanksgiving. Our proud hearts depending so much upon improbability or remaking mathematical proofs; to romance our stations as never ashamed of our families where reality says, "Glenn, this is a little too gray"; indeed, our wishes our delicate Apple Cider, our internal helicopter; so chromatic such an effusion and whirling into orbits—to adore as such to love where orchestra is life and studies are first kinship; a prime example, even exemplary participants, while children are arguing over Hamlet. This outstanding Thanksgiving Christmas those sips the young may encounter where mother admonishes such pranks; our hearts warm with deeds, our souls filled with stuffing, and our minds fraught by tomorrow.        

Azimuth Winds

Wither but holiness so weathered so fevered so lucky; those dancing cymbals those anchors we see or something accusing our souls; but a leaf to you or but a faint whisper so acoustic so crucial so barred; at a small inclination a nation filled with reasons at kleptic anniversaries. Those graffiti vines this child growing while many were held captive by reflection; our battles with spirits our demon juice while our women lost more respect; so close those days while a man is perfection where it depends upon perfection; our jabs and javelins our jars of jelly at something jagged and jigsaw; to sense in another soul this created interior or to stand close enough to ignite; this fire in versed souls this religiosity in eyes while many women are running from that anchor; to become familiar or to adore with patience this thing has gathered its petals; our daughters watching life those magazines determining life while mother is fiddling through a catalogue. I must admit to beauty this fair machine while such becomes, at times, neuroses: this hard won umbrella, this heartless adversary, while a brain folds into itself; to desire admiration in this world of indifference where more is but a fishing net; as curious lost and endangered souls—so holy a line so enthralled by riches so acute and so darkened; those intense seconds, laughing and losing giggles, at eye-mind reminiscent of something incredible.   

I see a ghost. It stands in motion. I remember its pain. It lives with me. It watches me. And it caresses my interior heart. This essence as a creature—so filled with memories—so caged inside of me. I see cedarchests and lawnmowers as they evaporate. I heard a granny tugging a cigar and yelling at something in there: this place we can’t see this dungeon our remnants or this voice untamed and training itself. This secret they know. This village of yogis. While some are too faraway to return. This ghost is fire. This ghost is sorrow. And this ghost is retaliatory.

I must be mindful as I trek a darker light for phantoms appear; they speak to mistakes they conjure up fancies and they respond for others. This interpretive reason so unlaced while true matter has a kick.

It was 9 a.m. when music was violent or tumult was rising and sudden into a spell. I looked around and saw a lady and figured it was part her doing. I was ripe for extraterrestrial activity. The waves of the seas were hectic. In a distant fever something was calling. Good morning, Mystique. The lights were winking, Ms. Mystique was in all black, and so faraway in this small decorated room. How are you? I responded in earnest, but it was designed to meet me. The chair seemed so important, the window seemed so foggy, but reality was upon the phone. This address we report. This essence we unknit, or provoke it so much it goes asleep. It’s a sure reality, this vest of agonies, where one goes so deeply something manifests. I have naught to grip to—I’m carrying on with life—while cautious about this ghost. As younger fire in this harpooned whale while something is prying at my cold hands. I’m covered in slime this is my third birth and Ms. Mystique is hesitant to get close. She has seen it too much she knows its potential and it hasn’t, at this time, been determined as good or bad. I looked at Mystique; I nodded a little as forward while casting a dismayed smile; we soon departed in a spectrum of minutes.

Whether or Not I Approve

It lingers in me those occurrences whether or not I approve; those most indelicate scars those familial raiding(s) or years kicking at something behind me; this fosse I dug this mud I slide whether or not I approve; it becomes resistance if but to forego something too crucial to ignite; this wrestling image this aggressive passiveness or those tags appearing in rearview(s); such youth becoming aged or tires losing traction while I ponder whether or not this horizon.

I’ve been honest with me threshed by me and arguably the best of me; this old flagon those sunlit battles whether or not I approve; those years in this box, this comfortable immobile box, while sneaking a gander at society; arranged to persist or arranged to die where others seem quite relaxed.

I met myself to distrust myself and this is the journey of my days; at overstimulation, some sort of compensation, wither those blades and clumps of beige grass; this man with invisibility those wall clocks requiring batteries where most things are designed for the host; our kilns rusted our rain acidic while a little ballerina dances with deep anguish; this stage I’ve built or those I refuse while most have become pictures in heaven; our raging minds our temperate behaviors whether or not we approve; so graven with seeing so quick to sense it while still something shutters; at but a glance to decode an agenda insomuch so close the other becomes disgusted; it becomes this literature pain, this trenchant contempt, while never, not once, a gander at that reflexive person; to die in you or to sing through you or one so indebted the bells rage in you; such dusky passion or purgatorial passion so neat so tatted and such an anomaly; this ambience in pink those fluorescents in ambrosia or something too appealing to neatly become my bones; such cyclonic lights such color and space where beauty seems to strike a death wish.

I never speak to you while needing to rant at you but something in us is quite sensitive; it is this insistent game as described by Derrida whether or not we desire to participate; it is frustration and anguish greed and anxiety—into wells of fury and decades of accumulation plus some primordial ink; a tad bit disheartened while another is more game where this becomes existence; and so astonished to meet you this life altered and our rain settling; as a group of runaways, fleeing into nightfall, unknitted and still fabric whether or not we participate; to meet those people to find fault with their styles while no one is cognizant of this big ass stumbling block.

It's a bit dark those signs or age that’s ripe where sentiments and standards of existence have settled in; our default behaviors that comfortable us while most are as ancient women—our best behaviors; the smaller fork those courteous bows our polite deliberate communication; or gunning fast and rebelling against everything so torn so exhausted and crashing upon pillows; those watered eyes those baggy pouches or that nasally deep throated tone; so involved in something eschewed whether or not we approve; it comes to this, a person sensing peace, while deeply at war with this ceiling mirror; to turn tables to relocate churches while rules are very important; such serious strata, our souls but unheard remedies, at something seemingly impossible; our hearts vibrating, our tumult flowering, whether or not we approve.    

Mystic Daughter

…so dear to arcs so clear in memory so accursed so accused so darling; our existential ballet our menticide ballad or extended for lost and climbing rectangular clouds; to play with fever to vacuum passion so affected by practicalities; those midnight invasions our cookies and cream or something adults need functionally; this touchstone axiom this axe wheezing or this oaken nightmare—to die forever or to watch gracefully as a partner grows dramatically; our theology on life, our cultures at tyranny, while we meditate doctrine and fly so lowly where marvelous becomes our eyes; this true reality this absence of something naturally as saving his hide so peculiarly; those longer legs, Love, this vassal for churning, Love, or this teleological museum, Love; so occupied so anti-emphases where truth rests upon its own accords; this baseborn poet this internal debt while life was good to give us Jesus—this raja incarnate, this walking energy this fane in bliss to perish—as crucial observers this moment that second to weep asking this cup be passed; our cloven loyalties as so enlove while a body knows multiple hands; such mercy in relationships, such drought and determination, while something eats producing behaviors; this vox in essence this miracle come sunrise while so close a man might surrender; this seat for driving this opera for motivation or chants so steep assisting prayers; our rescued sensation this feeling for something exclusive to love and adore a daughter more than most humans; such inrush and cushion such cooking for holidays our feast coming so close so soon; while cooking with mother or flicking creams where stepfather is making stuffing….

It becomes a true war, this secret I must reveal, as the closer I get to you the more the mind is at friction; this wanderer of lights this mental insignia this twist, turn and treason; those vehicles by mystery those geishas in China where a man is so lost in fantasy; this deep truism, in this land of fury, a person might become a cartoon to escape; but dear to benediction, while a liar is speaking about touché, our lives our cultures or those future soirées: so mystique your existence so distinguished your genetics while needing deep investment in your development—those tired clichés or our abandoned orison where Love is pure beauty.

I felt you those seconds this energized necklace or those few minutes so into that sphere; to agree at moments or to resolve a feeling while so esoteric our spaces become blurred; those jacinth skies those turquoise insanities while most people will settle for adjacent happiness; aforetime, and more time, while many are disputing pastime; at aught beautiful or succumbing to practices where something familiar might need a swig of spices; this mental bridge this mental daughter where a man might build a false interim—our nethermost cries in this region of locusts while a grasshopper grew into a gorilla; so reft of you but maintaining highly while force would be counterproductive; such vocality in silence such reach in absence or such a curse to our families; or better, and this is honesty, a man regrets his actions and in private swears to deep empathetic change; indeed, but only Father and only Son, such mythical mystique—such lithic pictures.  

Breaking Closet Seesaws

It drips at our porch and raccoon rancid hits the airwaves while hummingbirds are hovering for shelter; a daughter comes to mind a delicate saucy rose or something incredibly forceful. I wouldn’t know for time this blur in our region this pelting invisibility; so filched by trauma so alarmed by terror at softer sweeter music; to love by sight, a deliberate enterprise, but sight unfelt a scream into exospheres. Rain touches gently. The moon is cryptic. And something soothes instincts. Our terrible trombone our tragic trumpet our transient treacheries; if but a glimpse to swelter politely while heading so swiftly—those guillotines those welted pinholes or this body becoming liquids; as accursed mystics at our cultic galleries where psychs are standing quite highly; more importantly, this film in our horizon, those blue jays as humans, or something too ridiculous to reason through. Our shadows gunning at shadows. Our shadows becoming centaurs; or wrapped so neatly indebted to features. This man with dreams, this dread by screams, and too determined to appreciate failure: this fluid creature, this favorite friend, so cavalier, so chaotic—to chance piano this galaxy those pensive discourses so recharged and ready to combat existence; this filed of robots, those raging umbrellas, our daughters accused of assembling reality; to die forever and live as part-timers so thrown so indelicate and racing to build bridges.

I developed distractions dangling by wires so welted and webbed by travesty. I saw something blocking perception, this essence by protection, where the mind filters through those properties. Such religious theories if but to suffer while the humble shall inherit the kingdom; those internal lakes those lurid circumstances while maneuvering through mad islands; this crackling levy those dams bleeding, plus, our evidence conflicting with excuses; this pleasure while intoxicated or this monster going through spells or something a mixture of the two; akin to shadow puppets so rich by devotion to speak and notice our missing voices; such powerful affection, such a dear affliction, where one sympathizes with something that hurts; this psychology in humans this tender taste while troubled by hells and haven disjunction. I watched a pillar so proud with silence or loud enough to worry the neighbors.

—but yours might be soothing a crush upon dear life filled with academic fever; a complete rapture, devoid of worry, while relishing for the new sun; that old machine those desired rays at sentiment beauty and grays; a welcoming heart for an overt home where realities are pleasant and secure; this zeal for adventure those family outings, plus, a radiant halo—

Intuition says it’s both.

—where days are as they come sensing particular rain addressed in unspoken behaviors; so dear to life and so resilient while resilience should never become elastic; our feelings so at battle our understandings so at war while both indebted to our future outcomes; this picture we envision those outstanding personalities while a Swan is rereading bridal catalogs; to lave our lava, or to rearrange our emotions, where a sibling is sheer delight; something to zip with someone to endure with and someone to protect; but an unveiled summit but a spectacular acme at the apex of our persistence—           

Fahrenheit Intuition

There are kilowatts and diamond curls and eyes laden with pearls; this kingdom of deadmen this island of sacrifices or this mansion with cryptic doors; our arrival seemed immanent, our manifest through memories, our sweet honeyed promises; at sinning our loins and dying our cores abused by something too perfect for sighting.

I saw forethought as if adultlike, plus, self-consciousness. I heard an ocean inside this rhythmic whale while tides were raging. But dancing was nice or this gorilla in our quarters—to watch unaware of an impending tantrum; such yeast in our bread such sparrows unowned while figs grew rapidly nearby; our casual interaction where I learned something keen, a parent is living for certain moments; our wheat with butter, our bagel with jelly, or this new beginning met by new dreams; so tired in time, or so congruent with dejection or such pleasurable misery. Our raw texture—in these days of fire insomuch as lethal winds—to flush and swoosh like madness; those hopeless entrails this cave so steep and thus unfound, as creatures censored by reflection insofar as conscience while reality has destroyed our senses; an engine by gas an artery by tubes or a grinder by buttons; to submerge this ghost or to unravel a person at something seeming abnormal.

I return to countenance, such smaze and gusts, so pure but human; this patch of strawberries or those decadent plums while nudging through sugar-apples; those eyes receiving life our apologies for retrieving life so suited for something this tragic; our unvocal complaints or our deep censorships while desperate to unbuild our origins; a man so captured by ideals and carrying trivia while a snakebite ruins his understanding; our spider-senses or this rich intuition while morning seems so new and inviting; our travesty so light our reality trickling while our garden suffers from blight; such defogger or such bigger clouds while something inside is coughing: those widescreen movies, our faces splayed on canvas, our nights a bit unsteady.

It becomes uneaten totality, this parade in souls, where most acquiesce to keep harmony; this unfriendly war, this cultural oligarchy, while this method loses its objective. So, a bit removed and watching, a bit critical and pulling back, and a bit nervous where life must reevaluate its reality; an audience gauging where temperatures are arising or something so close, we can’t forgive it.

The skies were there the roads were clear and Indian monks were traipsing the neighborhood. I disappeared a little where havoc was brewing while such as scars became debris; this ultimate line this thin un-solitary line when broken every element of every increment is upon human channels; while everything was right in our eyes and we danced with unsociality but never a grunt to our doings; this terrific and glamorous story where a damsel was at deep distress and never a turn from the Narrow Path. It sounds fantastic and many will eat this fruit and many will defend this fruit while others sit aside and watch them eat freely; this moon ablaze this sun as rivalry or this Venus child sipping intuition; a driven soul a fortunate soul where sentience is sprouting.

If a Daughter Claims Vengeance She Should Know…

…so much green scenery such gangly flowers such self-imposed frenzies; to adore a light angel to course through veins as genetics rebuked; at purple fellowship or condemned to worship where nothing is quite as satisfactory; our oxymoronic pleasures, our pain in caves, at under-pressures; this night with nightingales those mockingbirds while something is elated—this filmed person this creative smile so torn for erupting and feeling turquoise; our first memoir as nudging participation so accused of becoming myopic; those fleeing turtles or those rocks with snakes while a grasshopper just leaped unto deaths; this flowing stream this season after insanity so close and closed but opened for suggestions; our baffled arcs so enthralled by a sudden current at circuits and candles afraid to adore a roaming creature; to want existence or to need resistance if but this instrument too steep to climb; our vacuumed hearts our sullen castles where a swan is beautiful in drab clothing; this rich consciousness those petit discontents while reality points to a man in his pit; begging for rabbits as they pass by where one was apt to aid a losing machine….

our tears with soap our sliding frenzies at somewhat a deeper inclination—to float and fly to feel a person’s eyes at velocity and scope or hope and fury; so mannikin in silence or such a talkative pantomime while gravestones are recharged by integrity: This man of wealth this man with pride where a mother despised his guts. Oh how shall you persist in this aguish of bliss as coming faced with pure uncertainty; this space of ambiguity while mimicking dominance where I have a hard time confessing this; or sweetness so raw where it hurts we must as flowers in coffins pleading resurrection; this chaff and dust or winds and deserts while one’s face in dirt and mud; to read closely and looking for leisure so confused or so related—those arms un-reaching this sailed song at temperance and composure re-gaveled for the chair; our permanent eyes this foolish man while lust was driven into her brainiac eyes; those softer grays this can of anxiety while cultured but needs sanding; so accursed to live, so valued to die, where it loses all matter.  

I’ve said little to explain this raid upon minds where one goes so long as an empty vassal; but gravel accumulates and sediments structure to awaken one day with a lethal tsunami; such carefree moments as nothing could resist while feeling like something un-terrific. I have known glorious beauty to arise from slumber and realize such hate in the face they love; it becomes medicinal or something requiring courage but most suffer the darkness of silence; to hope for miracles and to pray for quickness in a land they are unfamiliar with; this hell haven or this jousting javelin, unknitting kilns by kilometers; as creatures of mystic value somewhat lost in a minute’s value where aftermath and repercussions possess this screaming value.

I close with stars and futures and dreams—to stagger at moments, maybe crucial moments, where mother was there with a net; and maybe I deserve heartache and vengeance or even ostracism—but claim darkness and travel hell and wrestle with mud-hounds; this battle to gravel-zero, this helium where nothing is floating, or realizing a dialogue unbeknownst knowingly; this plate of existence this gnawing sensation while a Swan just needed a father; this fragment of diets this deliberate participant unto deaths and preliminaries; if but unsung and now with pliers a man is left to his mental breaths; but days were young and soul cried if but one swanic hug.      

Swans Hydroplane

I have embarked upon a journey made relevant in hindsight or perfected by visceral feelings. I have desired to teach you if but to upbuild you while negative stimulation prevents this insistence. We’re stems of mystic vice stirred by mystic energy our guts a bit so mystic: something easy I presume, where a soul is un-present, and his defense is unrepresented; this pillar of frozen emotions this hurt as vehicle or this pleasant carousal caused by reaping modicum satisfaction. So, we live at an impasse, we deny too many forks, while focused on something irregular; where we know for mainstream while excusing our deviation for it seems to render a level of comfort. I see us at Flemings or strolling around ponds or cooking brunch; such silly thoughts to need to listen to want to instruct while cautious not to enforce. (I saw a swan recently, while watching television, its hydroplane was recapturing: such soft music or delicate mastery to have existence unbeknownst to itself; this soul unveiled such beauty flying as skies envelope our horizon). Such to remember a little more, if must I may, those tiny hands and fingers and toes and those unprovoked chuckles—sore sheer delight so unaware of occurrences while adults are a bit young at times; but our weathered tolerance so short at beginnings where a person might be learning how to both accept and deal with reality. (It’s impossible where plots are harmonized and no one is speaking righteousness and everyone is living through another person’s youth and beauty); but I imagine mirrors are becoming vocal our souls are congested or sweet music has its attachments; to demand a man’s strength to encourage survival while a man is dying; for a woman is a man’s strength and time is a man’s adversary while a man needs something always by reinforcements: to hold his heart, to heal his brains; to imbue his spirits. So, we sense some idealism in this crucial picture while pixels have fallen out of place; this silent dark screen, but something is moving, our atomic, or anatomic, psychical habitats: those rare emotions so untamed while stirring in heart-regions—our palatial souls at something destroying its future potential where most of us are behaving according to how we might be received; or something quite crucial, amazingly uncensored behavior, where one is permitted to crash.

It becomes imagination to sense you this power created by reservoirs those lightning rods those pavement annihilations or something sending one into orbits; to fancy something like this to realize what mother felt or to understanding altering someone’s future engagements; but truth must speak, this awkward disposition, where many would ask concerning our friendship: Is it this or that those feeling questions while presence becomes strongly observant? This world by mistakes so prior to escaping while a trip through faces reveals hidden emotions; such undercurrent friction this vest I see to imagine living life while able to make decisions—this world by imposition this fret over realities while two might not feel exactly the same: one might need total isolation, where dependent upon education, another might see potential in investment; this hardcore eight-ball, this side-pocket angle, where a torch is melting shut our atmosphere.  

Several clichés approach my mind but none so powerful as deep moving actualities; to chance at something embedded in oils and freed from caves while most men dwell by furnace; this fire in essence or this desire to unravel as machines trekking through snow; this city rejection those missiles in brains while inside something might need a zipper.

Classification is Illusion & Categories are Elusive

I could love abandonment if not for estrangeness while performing or playing mannikin; those mind-stars our interior installation or instructed by puppeteers; those unlit candles seated upon chandeliers or neighbors watching and forming ghosts. This space in controlled items such humans becoming commodities while summer was unusually long. I passion a forest and dream a miracle so young in this vehicle—those sudden phantoms to arrive at innocence or such sweet ventilation; to live in styles or to constrict air-passages as reborn or un-sentient at lives in essence and tears; those marvelous souls so geared for assistance and so beautiful in feelings.

It was film and rice or dice and mammon at something universe with signs.

Such melancholic bliss so affected by skies while roaming deeper stations; this mind with fens or this marshland with sterling eyes as built to perish, reawaken and flourish.

It was years to meet you this emotion so indebted our bodies unknowingly aware; such sweet and fierce rumination such cold but warm friendship while reality depletes full recognition; whereas, in parts our birds are chanting or clouds are humming about something intensely gorgeous.

Those pictures above space those reasons to distrust self while most know prior to the given situation; thereto, but modicum affliction where a man is depraved while a woman is in particular feelings; our crazed heart-scare while lost in screams where comfort seems apparent; this canyon of fleas, those rubescent intensities, or something plainly chromatic.

Serene identical nonidentity!

But it’s comfy this way and it shines this way and we vomit simultaneously this way.

We rarely become attuned about something so clear where a habit becomes firm in short periods of time. Such sweet misery, or such sweet guilt, or sweeter days at planet existence; to realize something about certain souls, they gravitate towards things that release humanness; to disappear or so lost I did not know or so found it was hours to awaken; as creatures by harbingers or hounds from hell where reality is such needing its alterations: a planet of bees or a guesthouse of gremlins while in this life a mind is filled with appearances.  

So, we dine upon realism and we sing our harmonica where it appeals to us; this soft galaxy this warm and cozy space in realms where ghosts applaud; our dynasties in gold our mentalities in silver and our actualities in bronze; such rare gifts as to give this person where all-ness is candied yams; to stumble upon truths this light in essence—we gravitate towards that giving the most pleasure; but deer in meadows but captive beautiful and wandering deer; this thing in people to adore presence or laughter entertainment. Those walks where totality is giggling or rivulets are shuttering and nice music seems estranged from itself. This life abandoned to its demonstrations those concrete pebbles watching at something gray about this spectrum.         

A Crazed Phantom Exhales

I fathom this line with eight personalities those three got through; our blanket of discomfort our familial underpinnings plus this music at those crying hours; so born to fly such achievement and dice at this claim that appears ghost; our imbalanced balance our mandalas with pain or associated with yogic rain; so low into a travesty or arising by your fierceness at fire into something frightening; this man with issues those appropriate responses to have a file discharging particular accusations; that flowing dress so low it yelled where chaos visited that session; a person in veils while unveiled by horror mirrors and the psych stays at her pose; this fool with passion this undercurrent with symphony at something too forgiving to quiet; that line is blinking this soul is striving at courage a Swan those arts at jeopardy. I fly so into this rose as unmentioned with chimes but a mystic taught by winters unavailable; but Love was actions and storms blew magic while chaos is a tool for healing; this old friend this old lover while hazel eyes are craving redemption; this curse in cries this terror movie while an infant sips a popsicle; those raging kilowatts those lightbulbs at something this poet never experienced; such revving chakras such wild yogis where a mystic was barely at rivers; those phantoms to graves this man a Passion slave while committed to analyzing something so knit it disturbs to grieve; but days with bright banishments or nights with heart-sparks so glorious to receive without providence.

I have so little to give and I‘m learning science while some events seem so clear; this ruse by distress or this genuine feeling so close to undoing reason; or this deep nonchalance so anti-personality or one and just one this day; this fleeing feeling, this frantic fame, at ferocious fragments; so autonomous or so actualized and so near this break in sanity; to redeem radars or convert chaos in this film fevered with guillotines; our cauldron with bones our gothic midnight or a feral blast through direct its capture; alas, and gunning, this tragic thief at tortures to have a star so close—those banquet rituals this film in his guts while losing and laughing a tear to Jesus; our neighbors watching our walls wailing this tenet explosive and soon at penchants—to scar a nightmare or frighten a scarecrow while pigeons blind about one’s door; but Love was uneasy and Love was ungentle and never a day for something indifferent.

It was last night, I blazed a clove, and drifted unto unreality. I walked planks and stood battle and laid down my adventure; it was hell at tribunals, so much laughing hysteria, and lunatics asked too many questions; but there you vanished in plain insult while back into a baby’s body.

I need that gift I need those diamonds where reality becomes any damn-thing we mixture; at terrible confliction, while treasuring confusion, at carrying tanks and drumkits; to wonder concerning stability to ask a dumbass inquiry or congested with sentiments; but never a shadow while petals to fall to untint a strong injection.

This sour-sweet or unmixed mixture at something digging at something in memory; those years floating, for thus a major design, to have known so much and cleaving to time; our past in shackles our hindsight but stethoscopes where hearts are raging for chaos; or that easy suffering while reigning over proclivities so accursed and so blessed it’s hard to exhale.   

When Dead Men See

If to recodify our existence reamed by guilt too successful to ignore it—those yoga nights or those helium energies as never a person so extraordinary; our religious science our benighted endlessness or this nightmare so intimate to me; those outstanding curvatures those teal eyes at something too artistic to critique; a man’s disaster or a woman’s pride where one might attempt it if possible; gnawing grass or zipping zenith such music, saxophone and salience. (I can’t give this me I don’t claim but I need this me in you if but we die desiring our wings): “Singing it over/and over for years learning its meaning/only as accuracy/not an aesthetic/only as the most” (Voices Cast Out to Talk Us In p. 53). I awaken to the mind-house so close to feeling awakened where rose-hut havens stare in vision. I reread emotion while wondering about vulnerability or our susceptible rearview; to see and sense in such essence afforded one cinema and dying; that odd stare as if it were me while you couldn’t imagine anything different; for it must exist, else I’m a horrible person, so it does exist and I’m a good person. “Your looks upon me/what would it grow/what would its color be?” (p. 88). It was mahogany layers and looking at legacy so cured in that second. It was absent perfume and present consciousness at green-gray rays. It was ponds and frogs and tadpoles those interior horns or courage to resist humiliation. Those pajama pants were purple-blue while seeing into curvatures or demanded by something redemptive. Our pages in primrose our prim-caves in turquoise at days a feeling shared with the public; this audience for critiquing, those soundless and motion-witted observers, about something that has become a certain feeling: this island of cyber energy or this one so devastating at feelings to remove our interior. Those whale-songs at terrace and naked or screaming from the ninetieth floor; such heavy spittle such dynamic-cursed eyes by gray horizon saying, I need you.

I haven an arc or tree voltage at something too remarkable to claim. I dance blue shivers and sink into koi glen rivers as laughing and giggling adroit enough to taste energy; this field of lemons those sugarcane lips at something such a small or oval derrière; those arête women those voluptuous petite aesthetics, or born under pressure; so far afield rehearsing our first lines while Love is fresh into a trillion dollar man; or chasing for what one gave if but this sensuous slave to ignore cantankerous battles; but yours is too spirits and flaming in curious charms so charged but alert radiating from a restaurant table. I glance at an aura if but to swim across dusty algae while punctured by big billowing seas; so watered or so dry those eyes speaking dictionaries but so close to underappreciation; to feel received is more than to feel superior while topaz lakes have become our triumph; this pain in existence to die at every second while needing something unprepared to realize; so attentive or so satiating or so rich and loving and caring and one can’t stand his face; this guilt-driven machine, this need for legacies, at palms and independence.   

If to recodify our existence reamed by pain or relooking at serious trauma; this vest so untidy our hairs growing wildly at pictures inside chasing invisible people; either Theresa or Rihanna, Beyoncè or Mary, or angel, beast and mother; those esoteric vibrations this woman so aglow at something too mean for private discussion; this need in us this fortress in us, while this mansion mingles sharing chances with us: a man at his resurrection or a deadman giving his eulogy or a woman so intricate and so exploited at waves to reveal her dynasty.