Unbroken & Shattered

So lost in you, rethinking or curious, at some typical apex; to adore a feeling, as manic souls, while mother hates me; a man with issues or a friend in me while we suffer innuendos; so determined, this frequent usage, where I could never commit; such science or deaths, such fire or lies, while theology has passed over mystics; this free-spirit, this falling essence, where Love is treacherous; such a spin or such a need to enter covered in molasses.         I met another, such dear abjection, while we adventure to seclude; our befuddled hearts our raining trombone if but to feel like ecstasy; but Love is aggressive and Love is fatal, where to capture Love is a guarantee at survival; so decent in light, or Catwoman at night, while lost or discouraged or too damn proud to relent.                      If terror was illegal, if it abided by rules, while a man is huddled and cringing by imagination; those softer features that softer spirit while so alienated from self; to die with literature or to abolish literature where a soul in undergirded in self; our deep dark respects as deep dark creatures while ecstasy seems late in its discoveries.              I have left for Denver, so absolute in this challenge, while a woman wishes me imprecation; but Love is delicate but Love is crucial or a man is a miscalculation; our last mistake our future responsibilities while after something too complete for existence; our gavels and grains our portraits and pains to shame into life a step away from falling.                     I felt affinity in you I longed to arrive in you but truth to skies I wasn’t prepared to die with you; a soul so often where flies are watching and indeed the fruit is rotten; this Negro inheritance, while inheritance reneges, for there lives a color wheel.             So absurd but Love is trillions to dance where gold is viable; to sense such lasciviousness, as it is tamed by ownership, while a stranger watches and loses insistence; a woman a synonym, a soul as a creation, while dying was quite glorious; this painter of words, this internal locksmith, while Love is too defined to seek broken grammar!   

We Select Our Diesel

We might tolerate godliness, that creature, that ill-gotten theologian; such by title, to usher in so much, while this soul is mystic; plus, a California mulatto, a Louisiana runaway, a bit withdrawn at chimes; searching into Egypt or camouflaging Africa well into debated science. I caught feelings this wind, I laughed over gin, so certain about uncertainties; such rare souls, such desperation, be it true or false—they must see perfection; our dear lives our transgressed sequences where actualities are tossed into trash bins.

Over cacti juice or tumbleweed liquor so fortunate to meet you; this retreat as intuitive so cultured we become sickened, or so distinct into battles.

I could if I tried if more was left to cry but hell to us and more to trust so deeply disguised.

—longing for freedom while undefined living life languidly; tectonic warfare so many risks into fate fury or flame; our souls uninterested or soft upon a pillow to etch out something he said; so amorous those days or so suspicious those whiskers while art would flit over drinks—

I could not compare, a man thriving for literature, or a kingdom making its appearance; those tortoise skies, or maniac souls, where a man just wrecked his guts; but lizards or iguanas or something reptilian as undercurrent ghosts—a drifting concentration, or a feudal agenda!

It couldn’t be released—as for hell to surrendering—for it was too much an insecurity; those time circuits this reminder circuit if but to care enough to become a grave; that glorious cadence, this fire our carriage, where life was too inscrutable; our fifth return, as incarnate rivers, where the ocean is breeding.

It will follow by flames, those tiles of wilderness or survival of the fittest; by something, if but to efface, if but to determine another challenge; for fury was scorned, and heaven kicked out Jesus, where one couldn’t be converted; such encrypts such flailing and gnawing, or by default to contort our very faces.

It seems unforgivable this understanding where a person ruins over twenty years; our depth of malice or this need for eternity to realize an uncanny emotion; or to look at something hated, while planting despair or to look over and say, I love you. —too many baggies or too many pints or a person despising Christ’s intention; as sphinx-chameleons or casual loses while reflection signifies total annihilation; to adore a lowly man, or to abhor a survivor, while needing more is universal.

While fire is enthusiasm or torque is flame so determined to outlive phobias; but cryptic reading by cryptic design as a soul destined in time.

It will be with us, as we select a mother, as angels with foresight; the sickness is genius, the seas overcrowded while a woman is always determined.

It Is Easy to Lose Essence

I leave those worries or carry nervousness while feeling atwitter. Those marvels we claim or our needs for miracles into darker situations; our hope or screams our minds or graves where most die by negligence; so imputed, such by cadence, where fear was prominent. Those caged addicts or those weary lieutenants or nights reclaiming our sanity.

I must understand by this cave of fire

this furious winter; abased at moments, so utterly ashamed, lost or found in diaries; such angry justification, or pitted the base of miracles, while

love was draped by nylon; a crystal zinnia or a pantomime begonia while minds nibble mushrooms—this

unfair conclusion, this interior centerpiece, at multiple resurrections; or sweeter avenues, or awkward centipedes, after something seeming but missing;

such feuds with selves, such distinguished personalities, while love is both raw and sophisticated; into those charities

or running marathons, while Love only thinks of miseries.

sun-lithic sacrifice or spirit-petroglyphs after something I idealize—those terrific inconsistencies this outlandish crush while so emphatic such disconnection.

at feelings that rise or treacheries and guts while Love might so much as to live—this fair breakage this unfair dying if but to attain to suffocation; our imbalances or terror-souls after this unmeasured mirror.

but Love is herself and men crave her after something that feels mythic; a dozen hats plus a mixture or plus helium; as creatures so untidy or fevered by inconsistencies while it was life for Love to win.

I never salute you, by crazy crayons, while wondering what existence was: I see you having fun, or designing a website, or pictures of sanity and its feelings. I see you watching, adjusting elements, or stirring a platinum portrait; but a gentle or aggressive or reluctant but freezing passion—or tales about subsistence, this section in operas, if but those clear or clean creatures.

I remember this loss, something so pillar in me, while a man laughed at my mirror; it was infuriating the way it danced where one wonders what the great ado is concerning; to adore innocence where innocence perished as such a revelation to poets: our existential apocrypha—or wings by a delusion—or seeing what couldn’t be channeled. This person so esteemed, so filled with arrogance, while he took great pleasure in receiving or taking; so many years to become snakelike where every activity is distraught; as trusted by nothing, even incapable of trust where some are most wretched a churn towards cellos.

To implore on some account those sacred agendas; those few in excellence while becoming intolerant while seeking balance; this internal agility as to dine with violins or to sound a triumphant trombone; such agony in that loss, a man knowing war, where physicality is adjudged by juries; so coarse it hurts, or so passionate but torn, after sky-fury by aggravation.            

True Joy Depends upon Orientation

—you might see life, after something so gentle, or so wild, or so uncultivated; you may hear rivets or ripples or something no one fathoms; you may fear your mirror, you may neglect your soul, or you may disconnect from heritage; we never the dream, we casual the scream, so at peace with dark essence—

it was sin to me the smaze by grime by un-merciful intent; but mystic fields or meta-spirit fields so recaptured or soon rotten; such russet forgiveness or garnet repentance those firewood flares.

—you might outlive rain this cauldron of penitents this flame this woman this wrinkled air—

such rich fervent zeal, for one to its measure, as affixed to destruction;

                                                                                                barred to science or laughing in pain where hyenas gather for cults; minds with feet, or souls with hoofs, whether the thought is untrue; at a turtle’s pace by far those lines but making progress; or to lose intelligence as a crime in hell where most hate clear reflection.

Rapture in you such miracles in you but something unrelatable in you; such deeper sensibilities or carnival hypertension while souls are complaining for passion; your essence a man never would if but to imagine; such a need for mentality such a core for stability while sold each to deep unmoving traits; as gunning for erasers spinning ink into skies or loved for deep dejection.

I move through shrubberies, counting lady bugs, and unthreading hostilities; to chisel a voice or lose our rights with fire dragging its dragon; hissing beneath soil, or rhythms so sweet, where souls are sewn into societies; but there, afar in its cave, such moving acacia.

I was learning numbers or sensing strategies or realizing it really catches up: the scream-pangs the deeper opaqueness after something too clear to forget; if but to release anguish to bury it in atmosphere but minds cannot erase trauma—they merely suffocate it!

It then dwells unalert, where it is sub-pain, while able to bubble into a storm; such fragile existence into this space while you or them must excavate mother; or a palm of ashes a dream made relevant or concerns monitored by strangers.

but unread diaries or forces probing where a mind is saturated; or calibers of existence dependent upon orientation where some actually feel depth enjoyment.

Dearest Uncertainty, or Dearest Wingspan,

At times…

I become you as a fragile or docile sentiment in flesh; or pure aggression, so proud of a winning creature, such loss and gravity this soul by song; so privileged in you 😊

or so entitled it harms

if but to realize how we measure greatness;

as many are latent where a daughter is dormant while doors are wide open; but over-there, this capacious furnace this phone this declaration; to abuse or exploit to mis-value or manipulate while many are watching with closed eyes; this pit in chains as to lean upon feathers while building haystacks; such pure rhythm, such invocation, so bottled while growing oldness.           I become you

running through sugarcane or climbing towers or raiding vineyards;

but I became me, a whisper at night, a fever during trials, or a mendicant intelligence; while some are angry, others are startled, for it takes great effort to contemn such a legacy; sweet bread and jelly, or cabbage with pork, or extra cheesy enchiladas; this welt upon spirit, this anti-telic vice, so certain about something unvetted; our trust so high—people adore this—where I argue by inherent absence;

to claim aphasia those rough sorrows             or to face the human ape!

—you have lost something where you have gained something while growing you have become independent—

by melodic inconsistency the world is chaotic while you have located pain; you know its nature, or its origin, while father is considered mean.

In speaking about mother, in my sentimental haste—I was asked, Is she a good person?

This is an unfair question, to ask a person, where healing is this partly fractured but stable agenda. It lives in many assessments. It follows a list of ingredients. But importantly, it studies the psyche, the spirit, the physical, and the social elements. With family, they can depend upon efforts. With men, it might seem challenging. And with society, it might seem abstract. If we asses by these measures, a failing father, might be a successful friend—or an absentee might be a long-ranged hope. But we also suggest that, three measures out of four, ranks high; where two out of four, becomes suspect, and one, or none, out of four, we must protect ourselves!

we have run out of space. we are situated as helpless dynamite. where we pay homage to intuition. such smoky lights, such biblic riddles, such pure vagueness.         

Reality Screeches & Destroys—What is Reality?

I’ve restudied this, such correct lunacy, such distant family; to desire normality, where disorder resides, our temperaments dislocating closure.

To blame mountains to harvest wolves while a young woman outlived her son; such a tragic loss, four men in hatchbacks, plus, a random shot; the mother passed in haste, but strong in faith, to plead the judge for their mercy. This pain I feel, this anima I live, while broken in halves. If but those wishes, to adore like charity, but a man asking for deliverance; our mangled harps or tender catastrophe or backing down this first passion.

By internality to review mistakes where there isn’t room for forgiveness; but this harsh man, those fragile egos, plus, deep impassivity; to become an android, or to seem dispassionate while walking away from pain; this lamp on high, this pill for sprinkles, or this eye seeming treacherous; if but predicaments to unleash a linchpin our courage is but for survival; but Love is decent or dearly partial, as never for this grade of dust.

By dirt and water by grace or faces while we live with ourselves.

I’ve restudied this this range of intuition while sipping existence; to sense literature or to desire structure where most are dependent upon discipline; to imagine grayness, to believe in sameness, or so cultured it doesn’t hold weight. Such revealing passages such radiant women while we wouldn’t dare imagine—those charms or such sabotage into graves and catacombs.

it

was deeper than suggested. it

altered perception. it wouldn’t die by inactivity. a man to his seahorse, or sky-faucets to existence while wondering if a creature is but human;

as nerves grow by friction or leniency becomes its challenge

into darker lights; a soul by disaster while beauty is ferocity but physicality is impossible; to ask for privacy, to proclaim a handicap, after

something that shall never remain.

  

I can’t claim, Honey, but

something keeps us present, while a soul is mis-occupied; our celosia is weary, our saxophone is tender, and our hearts are primroses;

to outwit sanity to enter that larger door or found screaming for that narrow path; as

fevered children, so allergic it hurts, where

pure mud felt serene; as minds watching, but it never would matter,

souls are content with hatred; to adore passivity, where colors are disowned, into caves such reservoirs; to deface naturality, or discard compassion, while feeling so technical.    

Streaming by Awareness: Undoing

—but lost boys raging in terror too afraid to utter incompletion; so driven it aches such ghetto solutions while reality might become a physician; those reaching messages, this torrent formula, while accused of nectar resistance; such sweeter violins a man chartered to islands if but such delirious misery; but Agony is beautiful and Agony has wishes while a man loses something in fires; this coarse moan this revving machine as time would die, resurrect, and wreak havoc; our order for business, is to write majestic, if but to jiggle something—we enjoy its resonance; this paining pleasure this nonidentity or so sure of something a nonentity; such silene sorrow, such watsonias crying, where it was so hurtful it felt goodness—

—by cursed ignorance or shadows at melancholia so mawkish it screams; to endear a fruit or to wave a pomegranate where it was death such torn freedom; after something not needed, or desperate in a manic second, while fever or dynamite or radiant affection; to give doubt its breakfast, while actuality is broken, if but to ignore this chanting ecstasy; to need breakage to ask by harmony while pain is its chaos theory—

It was vicious, Precious, it was death, grandpa, while skies sat silently; by tragic results, while we please horizons, where every liaison was damn near enjoyment; but nothing pleases, while nothing satisfies, if but to possess every pain on earth; such Promenade dissension, such deep desperation, as coming to release; those rising risks, this wringing element, where a man disputes his affections; to love like animals, to live like maniacs, while asking for those sentient loyalties; such signature grief, while a woman is watching, but a man must cut into his miseries; to face grandma, if but her last son, while life is death and death is celebration; this pyre of activity, those rich blue speedwells, where a soul might scream concerning a filthy habit.

—what by longitude or what is the deadline where one hides because pain has seen her face; this faith practice, this imprecation, while so certain a child by highest redemption; to hate for it leaked out, to feel but self-remorse, while a daughter is mother’s sullenness; by chance at life, while roaming with wounds, or abandoned to city jungles; to do as mother, to live like mother, as to settle like mother; this gamble this guarantee or those eyelash begonias; such sexual creatures, so fraught by anguishes, while some just need a few victims; to hate all men but need a few good men while deeper into a third child; so helpless our actions, as reprobate as Judas, while so desperate to create a new chapter; by blood or brine by deaths or repentance, so off into seals—

If the Guardian is Vicious, Will the Child Dislike that Gender?

I purchased a clinical book. I read it slowly. It took me three months. And then, I reread it. Those marginal highlights—this marginal existence, where we argue for center page.

I will be honest concerning a fear—I don’t want to see us this way: us, is so vague, humans are so casual, and when they aren’t, we feel warning signs. The book spoke to blackmail, misogyny, and worshiping the one that hurts us. It seems counter-intuitive, but the writer is a psychologist, well-renowned, and, thus, has studied too many cases.

Let’s imagine, Glenn: this battle-zone, this interior war, this unsuitable guardian. If mother is primitive, or pernicious, Will Glenn be able to forge a loving and careful relationship with women? Moreover, if father has abandoned Glenn, Will Glenn be able to trust his male friends?

Sore sounding dolphins—while eyes are mythos—where interior was restructured!

There is this Swan, we can’t imagine such reach, where there are several male figures playing mentor; not in a bad vein, but more as feeling a void, but will the Swan have particular gulfs where father is concerned? (An unruled determinate?)

Let’s get a bit rawer…if Alex can’t stand his mother, and nothing polite can be conjured, will Alex come to despise all women? (that seems raw enough.) At the other spectrum—if a daughter can’t identify with father, will she distrust men, and always sabotage her relations with them?

(It is a touchy understanding.)

It seems there is an argument—a running deer, a gunning marksman.

Lisa was five when her father died. Those good memories are buried; for Lisa did not process death accordingly. Lisa considered it abandonment. Lisa is now twenty-two. She has been with partners—but something forbids her from intimacy—as it is described by physicians. Lisa has lost components. When she makes love, she breaks down in tears. For some, they console, Lisa; but others feel too detached to stick around. This fortifies a notion, that men abandon women. Lisa needs help!

What are the rules—in an abstract structure—where existence is but un-sturdy yarn?

There is a man named, Lion. He was deeply abused, even hospitalized. His abuse ran twenty-eight years before he was free to seek aid. He works with a group of therapists: they gently nudge Lion to unveil his emotions. His relationships end horribly. He lives for quicker gratification. And he does recreational drugs. Lion had a tender lady. They chased normality together. But when given an opportunity, Lion slept with another woman: a wild creature, an abusive creature, something reminding Lion of household dysfunction. The question we examine, while keeping to rawness is, Does Lion have a chance to reboot and live?

So many therapeutic hours—such innocence becoming monsters, where it depends upon something intrinsic. Some chastise physicians, while trying to deny mirrors, or steady at retraumatizing our fragile status. (How is the puzzle missing so many parts?)  

Dear Juliet,

I re-trek your prose. I grill each word. to imagine after pure trauma. —this old leopard this intrinsic displeasure murmuring over so many nouns. sore agony to seem so close where it hurts to fathom your kef. such caliber, beyond average, where a man doubts his reach—

I tug a clinical life. I’m dearly inadequate. While willingness is fatal.

Marigolds or zinnias or magnolias or bedstraw plants; those bedside angers or slight fever elsewhere while contention desires poetry: to live this woman to dine upon Asia while so antisocial; this pathfinder this mountain dweller provided with nothing but your prose; such smug alienation such self-centered anything while a compassionate contradiction; those satire queens this interior protagonist, this Madagascar; so many social mirrors or so much social death if but so many eligible winners; over whiting with shrimps, or wine with banana bread, or times so utterly with soil; those others laugh, life is so knitted, while some are without depth; those fires you set this resonance you beckon or this kite you shredded; those tender catastrophes so indebted to pain while a woman dies every day: I was so supportive, I was so gunshot, where I met traumatic resistance; such soreness, this hatred of men, where sanctioned women have become lesbians.

—but your prose this limited soul where an old danger nearly crept; our tabloid faces, our faceless rivers, where a soul might die too much; if but a feeling than more to resurrection insomuch as we die to live: I saw flying squirrels I became a desert and I have walked and talked to a grave that is breathing; so many chainsaws by so many sea-creatures while I pet and groom if but forgotten—

sweet

aye-aye concentration, where insistence is challenged, while most husbands never meet their wives; mind-flakes or blanket exaggeration, while

fairer sex depends upon words;

waterfalls freezing, sheer flame overcooked, or ceiling fresco under metamorphisms; where oceans boil, and wolves trek upon lakes, while

a man might give existence for framed sincerity.

beautiful Sahara or

this otter sensation, to grapple with linguistic misery; those bleeding cacti those leaking mid-brains where prose studied hari-kari; so intent on fragrances or so aloof to

losing while moths flood noetic valleys.

I’m a banshee mulatto or a slight underpinning or nights seated so closely; pure agony to invest in life where one is penchant otherness; such prose dancing into fury, while so deliberate a man is enflamed; such mantis celebration or such souls damned while I never knew what I asked for; pure sugarcane or bamboo sonnets so uncured growling at the wrong physician; to exit this dynasty or to enter such legacy as a man unkind to himself.

Upon a London Grammar Petal

—so many wayside cameras, so touched, to die feeling goodness; those locks with shadows, such umbrage & forgiveness, where something is pinching. at granny such cries at pa such deaths while nothing has changed. we

get better, we become imperceptible, while appearing to ourselves: this allergenic, to sweet perfumes, while his skin is dungeon dust;

an unborn spirit has selected its mother where angels are asking questions;

but a missing man—adoring his jaguar, such mud those sins—

I chase ideas I vacuum this soul while knee to pain; but a sketch to outbreed his breaths, unlucky or blessed that pace; those fears but figments those diamonds but dreams at wharfs waiting.

aside a wilder prose, a leopard by metaphor, but rearranging spots; a swan or lapwing or dessert with anguish roaming this pitiful condition; such snow un-churned such oils flaming while a man becomes torque.

volcanic

cigars, an icy forest, or a trail

of watsonias—such terrible rain, the alleys are flooding,

upon a dead existence; such determined urgency so lost those clouds while climate is foggy.

I was transfixed or transposing at terrific executions. I died and leaped where souls giggle by clown faces; such anthem persistence, while a person is delirious, if but something—a god-damn guarantee!

It bubbles up, as fierce illusion, where every damn conversation is abstract!

There’s nothing viable, but kinetic sockets, while Love touched a violet.

so many skies, as to imagine, this glue keeping its course; by cadenza or gate or fire by water into a sullen star; as bane snuck a peek & noticed closure as to erupt & break silence—this curse we adore, this skin we learn, or this concrete we evade.

boots

or nakedness, running or churning, at something—it doesn’t make music;

but arriving slowly, or repainting values, where even Jesus was angry;

a ghetto mural or a ghetto wall where a child won death;

such aesthetics

or years studying beauty, so close he lost sanity;

indeed, blackness is a genre, where pianos play softly, while we attempt a loyal duet; those letters, as they form structure, where cultures concretize literature.

Fire Leaf

some elements are broken, they can’t be fixed, where a desperate man tries harder; by ignoring physics, by cleaving to beliefs, while some hopes are ill-calculated.

I’m not a sycophant, nor a robot, while nightfall is turquoise-purple. those few events, as revealing essence, to conclude concerning resolution. this puddle of screams, this in-faced deliverance, or framed by impossibilities.

To meet so many versified in one person to then ask for normality.             It’s absurd!

The project is skewed. The tenets are entitled. To breed or creed or persons!

I hit a light, sudden into turbulence, so,

I sparked a cigarette.

I retreated, for the war was a decade, but I have it not to give.

the tint is heavy, the tinge is cold, and I can’t abort prose.

but what to honesty, while mirrors are murky, where a man might hate you.

so volatile in measures, so rebuked from life, where a person gives you nothing.

indeed, we charm ourselves, for everyone loves us,

while Sindy in neurology despises our guts.

but a drug, while functioning dearly, and fully sober enough to pass judgment.

where a man is an outcast, while

never for entrance, but it feels nice to reject him, anyway.

I heard a violin, so I turned to see, and

it was projection.

such lightfast years, prayed over fantasies, while

composing like something’s wrong.

I met a woman, but I sensed a doctor, the lines never blurred.

I met a professor. I made her a muse. I lost keys where lines blurred.

but not to discomfit, or more to reality, where I flit with

a few desires.

such dull boulders, the repetition of water clashes, to find in time us

humans:

those trap-wired fences, this person a fire, this feeling negated.

I sense you, this angry young person, while dealing with such blackmail; screams and cries and rugs and water to have and hold to keep and suffer; such relegation, such camouflage, while becoming a chameleon; by emerald ink or silver palms where a few things are not important; upon a zinnia or painting lilies so core at sacrificing privileges; a do right person, a defensive person, for self-regulation is achieved softly; those days to essence, as what we see—it possibly is; a skeptic that way, or a fire leaf, at dear rain.  

Interior Disagreement or Rejection by Ecstasy

It's open mic in there, such another loss, where behaviors were pricking. The meadow was deceptive, the crime was aphorisms, while we need some acceptance. There lived a child, fraught by poverty, where one elder encouraged her. Those deeper stimulants those cherished tidbits where others were removed.                      I felt discernment. I washed her face. I was effaced. This edifice city those taller buildings while inspecting genotypes. If your eyes dispute me, I only ask one favor—ask self if perception is rooted-discomfort; for we become our angers, as chamber-born insecurities, while needing something from strangers.            This time beefing invisibility, in want of particulars, while it felt good to vanish.   Such a beating reality where some are granted indemnity while one must be careful; for ears listen where eyes are upset while in most cases, others demand more of us.         By strange palms a man might fly—or come to an impasse.          Our controlling traits. Our richer necessities. Where some desire intestines.            I became passive. I became assertive. Or I refused while I endured.    Those mental tides. Those interior elephants. Where many loses were determined. It was some time ago, enduring disdain, where a man needed closeness. By a subtle design whereby a man might reject his integrity to become derision: her friend, her project, where a few are too obstructed to understand; but this is reality, while many hope this way, where a person sees humanity:                    those zinnia flowers alongside those trowels right next to the water-hose; indeed, a man looks at a woman, with something conquering him, reminded dearly of deep rejection; or a man is disinterested, wherefore, pain ensues, where a sudden chemistry is embedded; to have essence disappear, where pruners were bilking, at some faraway camera.                       To let souls be or to resort to creativity after something desiring its motive: such saws and shears left in jungles where ants are thoughts; a carved heart, as to implode the message, if but to prove an inner lake.        

What the Child Inherits! Part II

If but rebirth, if but mental satellites, if but a dearer legacy.

We would live vacantly. There was death and dishonor. But a child is inner seas, or deeper legacies, while a man might come to loathe existence.

I disappear into her visions; to know for discomfort or to realize dissention while a daughter must evade circumstances; this gentle, distant creature—this metaphysical element, where residue seems so graphic. But Love is a machine; and Love is watching; where I fear destiny is failing us.

This lot for pressures. This blade of grass. While a daughter might ask: Are the days colder to us?” And a father might prevaricate until a daughter asks: “Are we unstructured?”

As to adore the Angel—or vigil closer—to need an eraser. Those reversible eyes. Those social caricatures. Or pantomime mannikins whispering into winds. But Love is science, or Love is unkempt feelings. Where mythos is unreal and logos is held hostage and pathos rules our decisions. If but to watch but distantly. If but to intervene with persuasion. While many people are not concerned with right actions; but more with receiving carte blanch; this inescapable force—our miracle essence, where partial participation is a plague.

It becomes universal decadence: I must own others in order to pretend something by love. This refrigerator, or this faucet leak, or hours with unbelievable silence; but Love is agile, and Love is temperamental, and Love has some questionable habits. If but to adore unsighted! This human miniature—as mother might smile—as to give no less than her facts.

The child is a young lady, faced by the faceless, while cities seem so pleasing; such homespun advice, while disapproving of guidance, while becoming something stern; this map of instrumental articles, or this chapter in sexuality, or this need for contraceptives; for pain is eternal, to happen upon a STD, one that never strays far from home; indeed, so light an issue, but if one adores life, and needs to marry, this will be a difficult discussion, and one might lose the person she loves. So casual our display, where some keep silent, where soon a child is concerned. But we never desire breakage, upon a hollow foundation, to crucify a person, and then imagine by love. Where trust is established, in heart or mind, to then sudden upon blisters. It kills a person, where most wanted beauty, if but to adore someone precious.

The young lady listens or probes or gets lost in studies; such a fierce creature, where life is crucial, while accumulating karma.

A deep dark soul. An illumination center; maybe partial to meditation. An intense student, fleeing from something ugly, where one is too honest; as killing self, or harming skies!

Dissonance Has Become Our Eyetooth

—your smile is hefty, such wrinkled strengths, by maze or clarinet; to come so far, close to two decades, by wandering wonder; those charms as perfect mistakes while so close it aches to breathe; social motifs or mastiffs groaning while intimate with ghosts—those mental creatures or those correct responses where one needs to get it out; ropes or jumping-jacks, those round squares, such sweet contradiction—

I often think by years where essence is fire or flame is boiling; such sugary remorse such needing a stranger, where we might not mesh.

it took time to rehash us, it took momentum to unleash us, and it takes courage to reknit prose; as an angry assonance, or a raging consonance, while normal becomes dissonance; our advertised selves are most unlikely if but to unveil it might hurt; those tacit umbrellas those go-to philosophies or a life lacking human depth; but father is an outcast where life is so rich or plainly put—He has not suffered enough! This fifty-year sentence, as a gray-haired man, to arrive upon a grandchild.

—you may feel indelicate but anger is natural where one is determined by mother; some things do not account, for stained pillows, or puddles of muddy tears; an apology seems defeatist, a ruby seems uncultured, while negligence seems appropriate; to die so early where others can’t feel if but to know those private wishes; a cage unseen, an emotion made dull, especially, where perception becomes consensus; if but to disrupt our lives, to adjust to something loathed, where ear-pressure is yelling about disorderliness; but a tolerant tale, but give and take, while sociality is so gangly—

I could rave about love or blackmail by emotions or wait a silent, infective pain; to speak with others, this lack of intensity, while balance seems to rule our cultures; despite, anomalies, despite, aberrations, we seem to suppress our waves; this California casualness, this open and closing wound, or so active our minds activate; such revving royalty, such rank and damages, or so damned it is not about to happen; indeed, feelings intensify, this remoteness amplifies, where one is tiptoeing longitudes; so cursed or deprived or such a legacy those eyes while good works are received by good works; such secret understanding, such private deductions, while fire is wet; those granite furies, to imagine our mentors, as fully accredited sages.

—it was indiscreet my way, where one desires silent kef, if but to look perfect; damned by truth, rejuvenated by darkness, but when I think that way—it becomes disgusting; to churn society, to unleash hell, while forcing one into a relationship; this is sociopathic, indeed, pathological, where too many people are psychopaths; this ground for breeding, plus, our mothers, where we must deceive in order to procreate; such as a thought in you, but secrets alienated in you, where many elements are hiding so mature in you—

Warriors Barely Agree

I met a warrior. This helmet & haven—this sensitivity.

I felt religious, looking at sobriety, while moved by force.

Such astute receptors, such fierce reminders, while a warrior needs womanhood; if but this pain shrouded by warrior-hood while in private—it gets heavy. A bag of requirements, a satchel of notes, plus, fire! To have died by color, to have resurrected by elegance, so exquisite, so rejuvenated, as an indubitable warrior; such surefire deaths, such rich capability, while knitting a uniform.

I was decisive—for the spirit was aware—in those spaces we cannot see; such uncanny occurrences, while gripped or sedated, where it becomes guessing; torture before closeness, or anger before pleasure, or ostracism before acceptance; so cured but cursed, while so scientific, soaring or studying subclassification; to meet like wolves, to study such prey, while attempting to rethread mummies.

I digress; looking into fertile fields, or pausing to eat a berry; those deep oaks or this peek at society where pain has become mostly perfection; to dance unnoticed, or to play pretend, while most know things they shall not mention; not even to spouses, not even to mother, while many hold sorrow for decades; such remarkable courage or filming at dawn if but to arrive looking at riddles; or seduced inside by mere contemplation where it seems too real to subside.

I return at times, to this difficult region, while mostly by attendance; those pure causations, to become outraged, as never to unveil our participation; as to hate his guts, where he defended his sanity, as opposed to holding it in and dying softly; as preferred the latter, if but for image, while a woman has distressed her child; but equality means money, where chivalry must live, despite anything challenging its authenticity; such freedom such ruling radiance while a man is three steps beyond his cliff.

It was amazing into this challenge where I imagined mother was deceased. It seems so harmless, while one is the perpetrator, to decided an appropriate response.

—but a warrior at illumination or a core member of preservation; but inscrutable hostility, or referrals through time, while reality is self-manufactured; to decide an action, as to determine a response, where it benefits unsaid action; if not this course, than something askew, where we say it’s an erroneous response; we block humans in, this changeable variable, and we suggest—all should behave accordingly; indeed, there are classifications, for each askew response, they are then labeled; the ungiven response, jeopardizes the privileged response, where the privileged response benefits the perpetrator: it becomes perceivable!—

If Decoded, Would Unsuspecting Love Us?

I was inordinate, unlike most people, where I’d look for monsters; right in that person, such fierce clouds, such poisonous skies; those uncanny hermits, those holy albatrosses, those black-tarred oceans; but so distracted over terrible beauty where a man is searching for clarity; such Asian hips or fluorescent chests with legs or thighs screaming as centerpiece; our frontal poses, our dreary lakes, if but to arise at something incredible; but unaffected that way, but dear to deaths that way, while we watch how we pair with others; arid winds or city loneliness, so crucial or unchanging; (to envelope soddenly or to crave salaciousness while so sick infidelity is dismissed); but cursed concrete but murky horizons or orange speckled with human blood.

I held a baby so to hear its heart where memories spent and days were honored or illumination passed it back; this deep windedness this interior wasteland but so precious grappling air-flames or reaching for darkness; our greater thirst, such innocence, while we debate those souls; so frightened to exist, for life is so unholy, where one pictures complete bleakness; so cursed from birth, until a living human, sprinkles water with a few words; to wonder about scientists, to become so angered by them, where if it is pure faith—we have a time honoring it as concrete!

She took holiness, and dishonored it with malice, while trapped in her predicament.

Such sour doubting, while we become stringent, as requiring so much in order to resist; our starchy garments or clothe bleeding in order to give our solemn wishes; to drag our children to purify our losses while many live vicariously; (but a feudal man, or an unethical woman, where one would permit fifty years to a lie; only to come with truth, where one is dying, if but to rid self of its debris). This metal meal those ghostly wolves where a deadman becomes gossip.

The pleasures of love, or the greatness of forgiveness, while lovers are running a marathon; so battled in us so crucial in guises while a man would like to pursue his screams; those padlocks or sockets this flame internal or days on a settee wandering through a darkened aura.

I live for something unusual, this want for another’s inadequacies, as we grow into weather; like leather or climates, like birds or eagles, to soar like angels this tarred sky; or Agnus whispers or Keri cries while a man is starving for trust; such vintage remorse such killings softly where a man never gave way to becoming loyalties; to narrate my life, strung across pages, while a novel has revealed my sins. This runt of a seraph, such gila-minds, while a man is crazy for reptiles; our leaves unveiling our pavement screaming or our meadows holding secrets; where trees yell, or sap bemoans, while a word throws off a given sentence.

Ghosts are trapdoors. This hallway is tarantulas. This synaptic gap echoes. While we absorb phantoms, the ambush is perception, where life has become surprises: our lizard tongues, our forked confessions, while we know if decoded people might run from us!         

Leopards, Coyotes & Mirrors

There’s a ghost in me. An intimate creature.

I see wings, feel trauma, as forced isolation.

There is cadence, uncanny elegance, and mind-drums—as thrumming instruments digging into rhythmic murmurs after psycho-social outcomes.

The moon has laughed, over earth’s predicament, where sunshine is vocal.

I have loved or soared in you so close to dying our curse while fleeing into avenues or cypress trees where excuses are being delivered—to ensure concerns to cater to agitators where music is sweet deaths.

I was a late comer, everyone knew my name, but something needed perfection; glamour in bold, an erudite letter, or an erudite woman; so removed from me, so into beige grass, while pieced together.

Pure turquoise sky-pangs, so many evening coyotes, some are likely to get through; an eerie noise, a relentless foe, while seated on the veranda; purple lights or ravishing beauty where a man learns his boundaries; so destroyed those years, while able to reach, where I get in these moods; but fevers were cold, relaxation was wild, and I was at something recreational.

—but never forgive me, while feigning perfection, where creeks are aware of those infractions; as people laugh at insanity, or curl into knots, while knitted in disbelief; to whisper about us, to exclaim in fury, where one is obliged to entertain perversions:

Our Machiavelli arcs. Our gin with cranberries. Or nights weeping gravely. This instance I experienced, where Pain was moaning, but it wouldn’t give a reason. This havoc on brains, this succubus by feelings, while blackmailed into giving comfort—

those years by scars or screams or both; so useful to no-one, so ruthless unto self, where a man sees a gift and becomes enamored;

such paining truth, but Misery needs a friend, while Misery is completely inadequate; this reality about healing, where most are by a violin,

as coarse, abandoned creatures. but a file these days, but non-responsive these mornings, appalled that no-one is at their mirror.

We expect it isn’t us, we live this way, while it must be them. Or we feel intensely, while angered no-one is making inquiry, or the few that are, we drain their asses to death.

But what is left, in deeper essence, a man feeling like a ghost?

Those deserted eyes or that penetrative gaze where it takes time to adjust; but once in that space, it is hell to that person, for we responded to something perceived in us!