Journal Phantom (Stream of Consciousness)

This portrait in there it has something a thread so common such life a bomb. Those diaries over here those fireballs there this curse this luxury this spin; such a remarkable stance such feet that talk such posture and aura while aging. Those hands in this thus I live in this to stir and demand and chance; at escape and found or found to escape so colorful and love just had a conniption. I see familiar pains such growth and captivity while a true man knows his bars; this machine kneeling this passion explosive so contained and free or lost and wandering. I love like winning to have terrific spells at mind-matter and trite moments. Those hackneyed platitudes this river in settees or angry and devastated but glad and relaxed—for catastrophes are normal and losing becomes perception while grinning two steps towards evaluation.

It was you to remember those years in classes alienated or received—but ever so far and never too close while looking like something arrogant. This whisper as it dances this portal as it shifts or this dynamite a life crisis; so plush with reasons so ashamed of politeness so enveloped a replica of colonizers: oops!

I must a cultic delight or cryptic a feeling at fey and Swan—this bandage leaking this mental oozing our fevers our hearts and screams. Too into you to get close or too at this feeling we call emotion and gone for running where your eyes envelope the skies. Our pond with feathers our wings with pressures while a man is so engraved it feels good to appreciate. Indeed, a shift as not to say those lines but hell to winds those days cuffing literature.

I redeem and feel ghosts this whispering irrigation this iridescent smile those arms at targets this fey at guts or this trapeze bleeding and broken; but a man’s regrets listening to his dreams or at a catcher’s mitt too oiled by conceptions to catch; your days with me if but for a second they rev this incredible emotion—this paradise palace this clever clarity or spoken for missing and found in a smile; as insecure creatures looking at an insecure moment where a man might wonder if things are going to get worse. Those furniture cries those fortunate cellos at piano and violin and feeling quite uneasy; this essence we live with those nights we sit it out or moments we really need to speak with our daughters; but Love is esoteric and Love is human and Love just broke violence.

It was incandescence and lights and glory were agonizing and sun-soul watched. This feeling like something is rising is a reason to sit stillness else to phantoms and haunts and grizzlies. But famous for arts and crazy for crafts this passion in us so aloof it demonstrates convergence—(to truly need more deliverance if but to sing while deeper reality is comfortable with what it’s become)—this mystic ruler this tenuous design or this tentative salvation—our years in purgatory this California sin-wine at cups so empty a drop might overwhelm. I just looked into this rolodex I just saw a deep desire so aggravated I just untucked autonomy—this wild season so afraid to adjust beyond us this fire this demon while days are critical and structured: such perfection and handicap, such melody and chaos, while I know more this tornado.