Mutuality or Failure

We have not discussed mutuality—because it is difficult, where most are not concerned with its kernel. We have something disrupting us, something that lives as a maxim. It is paranoid. It is unexcused. It is blatant—most times ignorant.

We, therefore, do not address mutuality. We do not believe in it, at least not as an enacted principle. I run a risk. Some already sense it. But I will include both sides of our avocado.

Let us start with those peoples that are determined to live by justice; those darling wives those intentional husbands.

An argument is a disagreement. It is not a free-pass to do something dark or obscure. This group is mindful of that—where disputes, or honest inconsistencies, are wrangled over and wrung dry. This group is preoccupied. They smile at thoughts—while eager to engage. Quietness is not a sign where we are losing us—while freedom does not mean something crooked. This group is well balanced, or truly with Love, while needing something consistent from each other.

I knew a couple with over fifty-years of marital harmony. We imagine when dealing with humans—there must have been a rift or two. I, however, gave deference to them.

Wherefrom our steep beliefs—where a person imagines total freedom? By rights to hurt others!

“I want you to absorb me; I need you to forgive me; I desire more than I can give.” But what for an honest, irresistible innocence? Maybe a twerk in character, but such connection, where most often the home is filled with laughter. We adjust. We watch movies. We go to therapy.

There is another creature, one we almost can’t resist, one that is nearly gone. By lusts or passions, by deceit or anger, where we have kids. Let me paint broadly.

“I can’t find you. I long to become for you; but I can’t break the shell. I cry at times, filled by frustration—the room has us, but it is so empty. What are those dreams? Where have we died? I sense us while moments run, insomuch, as to feel abandoned.” Indeed, this unfeeling or callous realization—where souls have never had a mutual relationship.

There is another dynamic, one with angels, one protecting itself; where both are situated, or both are comfortable, while questions remain hidden curiosities. There are several dominions—while total dishonesty, while misusing, seems a bit sociopathic.

This one becomes more of us than anything imaginable: this need for approval, this reaching for strangers, or this deep intrigue by flattery (Those that are approved as viable, some with prevalence, some quite open). It stems from early indoctrination, or a piece of self that was not adequately satiated. Our dependent everything. Our needs to become inquisitive. Where, humbly said, there are far too many insecurities. As ever a project this need to digest binoculars—this rough, unsteady terrain—where two must become existence in their eyes.

We Authenticate, Even our Facts

There is a thin line such to live is pure deaths while some joys are unnatural. Our feelings shift others where he was acceptance but now something is unearthed; so much a cave inside these opalescent distressors while gazing as accustomed to rockets. Not to intrude, but I imagine my psych, as compelled to ask—Why aren’t you livid?

Such elements are irrefutable these sockets are inexorable while I see life as a great error; we ignore so much but essence is evident and desperate explanations engender sympathy.

Let me convey a secret—our dear design—is instructed to dissect any and every theorem—to reduce it to an absurdity:

so if it is sentimental or keeping life reasonable—keep it hidden!

I do not believe in much while humans are on thin ice but I believe that ultimate enjoyment comes by knowing the truth; it may hurt, it may pinch, but it’s better than limbo.

The middle world is confusion those wolf-dogs so kind or friendly—so wild and waiting.

[I do apologize. It was hell to carry it. I realize most are distinguished—at least inside!]

The shrubberies the labyrinth those huge problems;

            or

fortunate a curse, or

cursed as a blessing, where one is mostly nonchalant; but others are scientists, a need to feel everything, where each atom

becomes  

individualized assessment. Such refulgent strength.

Such deeper existence. While it carries pressures.

I feel unsteady about loving in this wilderness; I feel captivated or more than curious while something is depressed; this levity we hold this realistic element we grind where gears are attached to deception; a man needing complete honesty, or a woman needing accountability, while both are out of compromises: It doesn’t work that way, so we withhold delicacies, while arguing inside that the relationship isn’t deep enough. It can’t. Too many closed cabinets. But Love is deep and reaching.

[I could continue. I might not try. Where people watch and realize my errors; it becomes slippery sloped: “I don’t need to like you, or pacify you, that is our child!” But some powers we can’t ignore.]

While purposed to exist or destined to feel, I can’t understand everything as up for discussion.   

Dear Beloved

I feel

queasy

a palm of invitations an insidious bottle:

our whining dispute

an unbearable mirage a terrible scream:

our lakes at doors our visions at brooks those precious jewels; to love as living to feel but driven our ambitions redeeming our doubts; by measurable fights, such sorrowful laws, our miserable joys; if but by helicopter our internal wheels by droves those friends: as one aborted the fragile fetus a living miracle: our casual heart-flux but cemented fire, those thoughts to persons; the writing moon, our fathers grieving, our grandparents by wisdom;

if but to fly, accustomed to fevers, this lagoon by elation. 

I met a swan tunneling immortality palming earth; that green fate, that biblic picture, those biblic rattlers; as floating men, by islands of riches, our souls trekking northbound; our silent ancestors, our tiger genetics, but flushed by America; as losing innocence, while gaining strategies, our patient souls; by sinning grasshoppers, or waxing our fences, at turns, distressed by existence; such ancient charm, such inner feelings, those questions concerning valued theories;

the sky running, the seagulls watching, but a bag of chips. 

I hear rain. I’m chasing crickets. I’m standing and becoming eager.

As children crawling, by mauling manifesto, our barbwire creatures; our wives to studies, our arts to worries, such essence working its system; by reaching radiance, such biting caricatures, our days to thunder; his gut speaking, his heart as ruts, the visitor as implementing change; as esoteric, or flying barracudas, as gifted accustomed to wraiths; those impressions dangling, those daughters amazing, by a gallon of mystics; if but with dreams, if but with censorships, if but to destroy obstacles—that man running, as leaping sharpness, while pushing a two-ton boulder; such high mountains, those unlit candles, such a scorching abrasion; as stung with silence, wrestling to break free, accused of losing nature; our panda friends, or Vietnam, our battles leasing our higher selves; those historic camps, by inner concentration, our eyes scrolling venom: as human abilities, an Irish moon, as Catholic Bishop; those reeling Buddhists, such relished Hindus, our outlandish dreams; if broken by lights, than captured those freedoms, our choice to persevere; as academicians, or addict-tumblers , our minds racing to attach our guts; where Love is brilliance, as before our times, to muse upon an aesthetic goose; by golden egg, by inner yogi, our music becoming chambers.

 

I’ll love eternally, so to feel free to float, as men unsure of positions; such climbing insanity as by mad carriages, those chariots coming for Elijah; as Elisha pleads, as Adullam begs, as Ahab grovels; by portion by thieves, as ancient agendas, our newborn Platonic(s); if but by Egypt, as assumed by Greeks, founded as alert in France; our Europeans, our American sages, our shamans by Indian caves;

 where ours becomes pain, or incremental joys, or farmer-life painted by presumed realities;

this glowing swan, this inner Polycarp, this warfare distorting its actualities; as pressure assumes, where reality is cruel, while indebted to miseries; our shifts by turns, our essence by deaths, our breaths as mystic;

to encourage, where lose has rulings, while swans fly freely; the eagle’s arms, those tentacle palms, that piano lonely for composition; by composure us dying, our souls arriving,

those flames by descending; as men churning, or mothers at wonder, or cousins decoding—this miracle called, Existence, this valley called, Insistence, this alley as stressing those mystical joints. 

Design Becomes Intrusive

I have particular

wars   

so devastating, intimately, so challenging to have adored by loss or won more her rain. You gaze at me

it must be in error, this place you designate for me.

Protected.

Well informed. While everything has become gray.

The tyranny reigns in silence while one is so intent where such bold daringness is its marvel; to imagine by wealth or to care less where one is freedom or tolerance or expenses or kids; this space we enter, reminded about obligations, or so intimate these whelming days; at sheer debate this internal clock while we wage wars over axioms; so plainly stated, or it becomes by ritual, while some imagine the world is heavily sick.

                                                                                    I get in moods where I notice my inconsistencies while I plead perfections;                    to know a person to understand a person while cold enough to ask something we can’t perform.

It becomes interior operations to never quite add up while looking at where life is sending us; this opened desert or those oasis moments where I return to this disarray; to possess instability to wrestle a friend or to live such a way where misery is cousin.

They ask questions. This therapeutic project. So much depends up our answers. But here we go: Are you able to enjoy things? What do you do when depressed? You should walk or exercise or call a friend? Do you have any friends? What happened to such and such?

A person feels aware, or needs to point out the gray, while we assume certain realities: I enjoy one or two things; “but those things are isolated”; never-you-mind-that, they bring me joy. When depressed, I read, I write, I submerge myself in something meditative: “I don’t hear you saying much about other people”;                That is gray. Something sticks with me. I believe we have a naïve way of approaching others.             “That sounds like isolation. Try to make more friends.”

There is a chasm. It’s not quite apparent. But interior philosophy takes the lead. We are oriented. It is evident in this—some people will accept it, while other people go mad about it. Or our definitions: for one, friendship means acceptance, for another, friendship means to meet me where I am at.

Everything is an issue. Not too many answers get away. Plus, there is this need for consistency.                      I sound gloomy. A man watching humanity for years. While some behaviors are indicative and universal.

By Essence if Attuned

—my heart burns, or evocative a volt, or a semi-tornado—shaking violently, thumping at chains, where privilege becomes entrance—

…days at horror or years at culture to sense invisibility; so much to receive so little to give while many aren’t taking that wager; by major intrusion by deeper concentration, where one makes aware something is watching….

—it was bright those nights it was remote irony or so close we might endear this feeling; television was grim, cables or wires or gates and fences or adored for our negligence; those hours in presence or admiring visitation while one shows by a centered path; this other element this interior musical while life was dear to strangers; our cattle mentalities our liberated doctors where in was too intriguing not to chase—

…she sits with worry she listens by fractions where the countenance looks uncertain; one is selfish another is altruistic or both see things unintelligible; this fight to grapple this map in our brains where giving in is sheer uneasiness; so spatial or nude so lost or certain where most cleave to certitude—that valley of aircrafts those vestibules slamming doors while passion seems uncentered; fleeing into skies  or looking where pain was sweet while one holds familiarity….

a sparked clove a visitation while we must study Jerusalem; for something is designated, or something is concretized, where two groups are feuding; while she knits God, another begs God, where another does both; such leery fire such weary passion while filled a man watches his actions; but deep concentration or deeper alienation insomuch we need each other; by handmade energies or desiring one movement, if but to rejuvenate our connection; such battle or grit, while fettered to our dynasty, insofar as ceramics have become mediums.

it’s premature but I believe you and goodness stems from anxieties; to adore as leaving or to capture pure angst while anger seems universal; if but to tap essence if but to reveal you, if not to me, but rather to self; so powerful or so misunderstood while you want something but nothing is definite:

I’m tasting gin, a bit at a time, to generate a feeling: I’m trying hard or maybe too hard where one feels discomfited by such insistence: I’m loving by diamonds or fires or flying low; such determined

fuel, such magnificent flame, while Love is giggling; such a given uncertainty or looking at weariness-cries, if but to cherish while aware it hurts.      

Inrushing Swan (Revised)

some are at terrors, disputing existence, laughing while mourning: this shoebill brain, this kleptic excitement, our dreams flayed by fears: as casual monsters, as not but gnarms, at wars spewing ink: that activity heart, those cloves but smaze, or destinies showered by insistence: if but our shadows, as shorn our visions, while watching for repenting our tyrannies: by faithful scars, so inborn our lease, our features as slanted demons: that wolf near landscapes, our Chinese rice, our shrimps sautéed: a woman to secrets, but furtive lands, scribing as senses pass by—if wilderness struck, our essence by thieves, to cut with silence the mineral swan: those power-apes, those elephant mind-drapes, our furious cheetahs…

as men dying, while forced to apologize, our white men a tear emphatic: that shifty churn, this fern to cores, at leisure compelled to reason: by deeper passion, such steep resistance, as it feels perfect to feign our righteousness: the absent father, such others as complete, or siblings relishing in soul-born parents. 

I sense a soul, by strategic madness, our palms moist with uneasiness: to trust lightning, as fire about guts, while feeling capacities:

such vexing hunger, such pitted goodbyes, such as promises fulfilled by deceivers:

that winter’s handkerchief, the Pauline destiny, at a three-month curse:

where Love was gentle, confounded by mudslides, whereas, it felt good to witness relief:

by elegant vase, those wood-panel geese, our suspicions come yearning: as souls collaborate, as Hathaway revives, as daughters lay claim to genetics: such a racy heartbeat, such fueled mystics, our agonies splayed across infinity: such ghetto syndrome, or graves rushing to shore, at passion for Love without hesitation:

such notorious station art, while winking at panthers, our lionesses striking for arteries:

as women marching, while timidity is set aflame, the ache of minded politicians:

our kingdom might suffer, our gutter-born travesties, those lakes reaching to supports our rafts: those crazed griffins, those spiritual crows, such as darkness reflecting inversion:

by pinecone parrot, those mice squirming passed squirrels, this aunt debating positions: as men live, a bit frantic about life, at boulders pushed upon high: where souls perished, our daughter’s passage, while enchanting Olympus. 

I know our plight, knifed by innocence, or torn by allegiance—this fretted armoire, this cloth by scripture, our hopes for something normal—as abnormal beings, feeling inadequate, purchasing a nightmare from strange forces: our odors sifting; our garbage afloat; our aches trespassing our allegiances: if but to exist, fueled by inflection, where arts become Victorian high-rises: those castle tenants, or Nebuchadnezzar insanity, or this hand appearing without origin: our trips to Xanadu, our transformed albatross, our Moby Heart resurrection: as men of war, or women of knitting, while crocheting a village of sworn resilience: the mother at tears, our sons to prisons, the father as giving where lack is perceived: as wanting perfection, to give in blue-blood, this survey concerning our steepest yearnings: to laugh by grit, while chewing insanity, fiddling for space scrolls: the high desert, those valley deer, our eyes mourning for failing to exist.  

I know your challenge, while cleaving to your dreams, this passage as hatching spiders: those destroyed begonias, this trampled heart-breath, those insidious undercurrents—as feeling frustration, while smiling, nonetheless, if but this cut to simmer into diamonds: our wild nightmares, the extraterrestrial, our esoteric seconds: where something appears, this inner essence, our psychosomatic friends: as fueled for penchants, our pensive moments, where resistance transformed the inner swan: our ghetto charms, our ghetto styles, our kingships constantly surviving—as death to breeds, or life to wafers, sipping our communion.  

To Keep Company or To Exist

—such horrific photos the Congo is deprived our sympathies are depleted; something is tugging, at each avenue those bold days are cringing—

I would love despite our horror by essence so core with division; crimson purple or violet openness so cursed to have our rivers; a man seeping, into life damages, while a daughter is seeing our Country; city bicycles or skateboard mania while some are naked and skiing; this blood blue wound those suicidal outcomes where I sit pondering a lovely smile; a man with issues a problem too wide where sharing it makes things troubled. It’s so easy or so dismissive where a person is amazed; No dialogue. No representation. And no empathy.

I wonder about us, this flame for our own, where a stranger can drill himself!

Too agile that way or too courteous to self while life this way must be privileged; our cozy miseries our delicate sorrows while music was once so pleasant.

I’ll say less and more emotion where it becomes a lottery to love. It seems so easy, for we unveiled, while, thereafter, the scenery became cold or distant. I need more, this frame in chaos where passion has become by mythology; looking at etymology or studying our auras where one is so damn gorgeous; this thing we never mention, this delicacy in a person’s eyes, while she hopes he will always see her: the first Xanadu the first resilience the first Zenobia—to exist like dear distraction or to infuse like pleading lusts in such womb-haven the stars are taking photographs.

I have asked for something we emote to feel where Love is not able. I have written into something I cannot decode while I ask for too much…for most are incapable of feeling intensely, not as mawkish, and not as ridiculous, but as interrogating existence: those eyes so committed our souls but values or reaching something speaking enchantments.

It’s beyond our capacity it’s lascivious but sedated, it’s Greece but singular, or it’s Africa a solitary family. It must be unlucky it much be calm and relatable, or it must be ironic and damn near satanic. To whittle in proximity to whistle where the griffin bilks or such rainbow eyes laughing at me; but something is critical, this ability to enact, or this fantasy as something we replay; those depressed states or those elated states, and what becomes realistic and according to whom? To be too close or too nearly go batty where self-portraits mean so little; to adore the well-beloved or to want their discomforts while one feels every peg in their bodies; as never another thought, as rarely an insecurity, while frozen for others; this crying part those deep books while many keep company.

Just Indoctrinated

I paint with feelings                becoming lethargic                  or revved by webs.

I saw a photo. I wandered nearby. The image returned.

Love is esoteric. Love is terrific phantoms. I wonder if he sees her: by driven eulogies, rehearsing last rites, a beacon to the community.

It hurts to introspect                while spirit is endearing                        where a daughter might drop a feeling; such effulgent indecision or inverted understanding where we must blame ourselves; but pops is watching and madam is surfing while granny is                       pitching a few quarters.

Those ambiguous emotions                this quadroon machine                        while reading into physics; by mental mountains or to see a crutch where something alienates while slowing pace.

The art is ambrosia the essence is unique but most siblings should feel proud.

We disabuse as we must                     for an infant just died                 we must grip life to feel her heart beating; this dearth of concern this virus sent to us or radical assessments those wires and roses.                         To have a little panic or to adore this life where the need is tremendous: such a ruthless condition         such air or volume                  where we appreciate something honest.

By shreds of angst                  by deep yellow violets or                    by pure contradiction; to have desired more where behavior is scrambled to find us running up the highways: but a sparkle but something we understand where a soul gives his entire flame.

—we entered the graveyard

a spirit was tippy-toeing, a ghost was inquisitive; the gate closed, a casket floated, beneath it were names;

a witch counted twigs, the essence, the ousia, was hunting;

I read the headstone…

guts were instinctive the movie was on record those eyes were forgiving; daughters played double-Dutch, young adolescents played jumping-jacks, where elders were drinking firewater—

we seem undone where the boiler is icicles yet our interior is so awake; by currents some seconds by religiosity for children where some were just baptized.

Intuition Requires Time to Vet

It began years ago. The numerous auras. The nova-guts.

I was naïve      or stupid          or underdeveloped.

She pierced essence by crowbar or pliers. I could but I couldn’t—where eagles war winds.

The plight of distrust or thoughts undocumented or cults at brains.

The weather was stormy. Lakes were icy, deer were nervous.

I haven’t said much.

Initially,

it was attraction, but modified, nothing crazy, just recognition. An oval face a thin castle a ruckus temple, to have life that way; the sky was furtive the feeling was flustered where a person slaps their leg.

I sat on a sofa I watched ingredients I hummed a song; nothing too great, nothing intrusive, while stronger souls have fallen:

thunder there or cohesion there or cries and violence or balance there;

while counting leaves or touching water or kicking tree trunks; a sweet squirrel a bag of peanuts

such reminiscent déjàvu.

It was yoke by fire or substance by doubts by thoughts and platinum;

so far into minor waves or so lethal by intrusive caves—

to advise myself or to look while impatient or decided to avoid other exits.

I see images where days are blurry insofar as dynamics are made clear; never a death in us or never a newborn shadow as facing something too influential;

the first symbol the root of voltage by inrush or interior.  

Rain might return.

The dust or particles the pash or prayer by life or detriments—to stir stardust or to maintain dances where it was more than we expected.  

It seems inconsequential it seems unsung while we wrestle over injuries; but blue-black magic, but green earth, while our end times are close to our fretted times.

Increased momentum or standardized suggestions while souls are clumped together; by indelible reproach by decent approach where it becomes wilder those days.

It began months ago. The sheer reality. The limelight terrific.

To desire something this great effect where a person is psychosomatic; the unveiling might determine those nights at rescues while a guard dog just had puppies; the cycle of existence or souls debating attraction

or souls negating our intuition.

Jareb & Angelica: Unbreakable Breakage

You stop-up the sink, run warm water and wash your face. After you brush your teeth, you look in the mirror and say, “My name is Jareb and I must make it through this.” You think of Angelica, this fairer incredibility, where pain has become beautiful. You sneeze. A slight fever is coming. Plus, you feel lethargic.

You grip the couch or shred its pillow in reaching despair. You have never died like this.

The walls are enveloping the sea-ceiling is hanging the rooftop is somber. You have collapsed this way: the birds are unvocal life has a screeching sound.

You start to wheeze those existential lungs where something wars inside: conflicting thoughts, or raging angst, or beauty disbelieving its calling.

It was terminal agony so close to threat where guts curdle and lies give warmth; such terrible questions: Was life in pain? Was the sun on sabbatical? Would the sky ever croon again?

The days were benighted the soul was whittled—by love, through love, and for love.

You take courage but a silent prose while aching in sulfuric misery; for Angelica wasn’t celestial but Angelica was heaven, such semantics such contradiction insomuch as a whisper. 

You cruise inner memories—the sweetest memoirs—where Angelica is lily or daffodil or something born by riddle. Those signs, they wreak absence, where a mind should be awake: those rhythms so gentle those oversights so harmful while if but to redeem Christmas!

You stir up integrity in an attempt to know life—you call Angelica.

The phone is softest despair, that voice languishes, it is found most miserable, it whispers:

“Such was darkness those precious rivers so torn by action versus immobility; to have sheer power in a world fraught by desire as an animal distinguished be rationality. It is never to hurt but more to live where anguish appears and laughs and causes confusion; but you die with motion, Jareb, you air by doting, and you never give reality its voice; such pure perils so against nature while we ignore genetics.”

You light a cigar while drifting into introspection where something is lenient; smoke fills your lungs, there’s a stench in the waves, but those words, such tasty vinegar, they appear so sweet; if but to love like heroes if but to fly like heroines if but one repairing dance; but pain is resentful, it haunts and mimics itself while arriving at the surface without a proper announcement; it boils in frustration like miserable feelings where one might adore but humanness agonizing over betrayal: the thought of sharing, even by convention, it destroys innocence.

You need something stronger—even Cognac—or something to aid in writing this disaster freely.

You guzzle until its blurry, while walking or pacing in order to articulate the grief. If only Angelica, this newly built skyglass, if but a cry for eternity, if but those minds as one.

The phone rings, it’s Angelica, you know this space too well.

“I’ve called to suggest more love.” But Angelica sounds unclear. “I have loved you, Jareb. I have died with you so often. What is it that gives us life and winds and sunshine and gloom? I need you to need me. I need you to curl up in my lungs. I need for us to get through this.”

You feel unsteady, but rinsed, and life seems to make its journey.

“I need you, Angelica. But agony is building and destiny is laughing while love is giggling. We have come to this space quite often. But I must adore you. I must; for life is gray, the hedges are high, and I am cringing to see into something I can’t contain. Our miracle minds. Our miracle hearts. If but to consume this universe!”

“Yes, Jareb. I am filled with remorse. I am bitter with sweetness. But we have taken turns. We have churned romance.”

You listen closer, but there is but a dial tone. 

In an instance, you feel silence: its pressure-fire, it’s incompatibility, even its darkness. You feel wrapped in seaweed, you sense a seahorse, while an octopus is crushing your chest-cave. The tears bubble intensely the earth is hollow while something hallowed has become of something so irregular. You hear breath, it closes atmosphere, and you remember instability; this cold-hearted avenger this blue-black melancholia where pain is sour but adorable. You snatch the phone, but numbers escape you—indeed, you remember the combination. Angelica answers and you suffuse her being: “I remember cucumbers and salads even deaths and privilege. I fight to loathe you. I die to create you. But fighting is unstable and deaths are nebulous. I find love in you—too enchanted to sing or too silent to feel—but such a rush at life, so creative in pictures, while those aye-aye lenses pour into something we cannot see; such pain with glory such passion with misery while a man has never felt quite alive. Angelica, come to me!”

Angelica is weeping. The mind is horrors or adventures or blue aliens. And then she says:

“I know your name. I hear your voice. I submit to our turmoil; for it is life or roses or petals sprinkled into spirits. I know your prints, those paws, this mind filled with pyramids. We close chapters we barely eat we die while floating upon driftwood. This feeling, Jareb, this uncontrollable elation—while confined to aging and hurting and screaming. I’ll come to you by sweeter days. I’ll come, Jareb.”

You sit by consciousness. Angelica’s prose pours into pavement. You resurrect a little, this partial existence, this railway this brain, this blood and brine. Pain is intricate. It pushes and pulls while molding and mining. To have lived with chaos is to appreciate nuance during seasons where such passion is devastation. You light something gentle, a scented candle, while musing upon a revving fever. Your emotions are haggard. Your feelings are but a whetstone. You feel sharpened or semi-adjusted while waiting for something that can’t be broken.

The Ghost of Us

I paint to feel so many deaths so deeply messed with; our banners our mid-ridge helicopters or so unclaimed it was heaven to die; so with you or so gone or complete devastation; the blue moon the raven sun while stars tripped and fell low; earth like winning, pain like winning, this aim like grinning; a small child to fit a palm while love wears its finale; to backwoods this scribbling ant while I fear bulbous wits; so many loses so many crosses while pleading for a friend’s soul.

Such bequest such rest, Love, to have met and need reverence.

To imagine Mary aglow with Joseph while it becomes Israelites.

It can’t matter, it must live, while I search parting hell; this ocean this grave those farewell penalties; so suspicious so calm while it was life to freeze; by gravel to confess this deceptive mind where a man must be careful.

I see hectic lights or roadblocked potentiality or curses tasting like dynamite; so gone those days searching out Black Jesus flames, or unraveled sensing a box unfettered but captured.

His haven his ghost or deserts by creeks sipping indifference.

Wild hibiscus or torrent seaweeds as identified by those we adore; but fleece or inks but gallons of determination but wealth or struggle; such gas the distance such restraint the magic where invincibility is a nightmarish scream.

It becomes its wires its thoughts its deeper ditches; it shifts while normal it lies while pavement it laughs pure silence; such abstract math such concrete abstracts so rich its hemispheres; to perish a mere cub, as mother-bear went crazy up at Norwalk pitching quarters; so filmed for violence a partial aberration while daddy swore to an apparition; so floored and demented or so appropriate and demented while an argument might mean our disasters: I hear it afar this red/white paramedic while momma is screaming in a padded room; where was love and where was aunty as grandma came and passed a cigarette; those wrinkles those facial bars while winded and looking stoic: I disappeared!

Too many to discount but a few to hold tightly while Love is a mixture; this behavior, as it must dictate, while permeating ever crevice; such power, such rebellion, while a man is sick for you.

Some Try Harder

I lost integrity I sold it in mid-traffic it was given for cotton. I loved by nonchalance we touched fire and once I lost it, it appeared to be love. soft comfy wine velvety winter teas as souls converse by sorrow’s anguish.

we design to exist, while flushed burgundy, or insisting self is irresistible; those tales we intuit those grains we tug such puffy ottomans; by cataract crises by longer disputes if but to love such upheaval; our dabbling toothaches our lips such sweetness while fire is arranged by flickers; so cursed to meet so damaged to separate where a later thought pitches its devotion.

so close there, so irremovable, while one is determined to cuff; those lawns in Michigan or those tales in Manhattan or our voyage through Tibet; to reminisce upon petals to have felt false elegance or to love like passion costs trillions; removed from us even scolding us with sheer existence percolating us; so many miles to freedom to arrive in Canada or revisiting something underground; as prone those ashes or accursed this life so unsteady but centered.

                                                                                    I would watch us so declared to absorb us while fixation led to poetic madness.

I wrote like living I flew my kites I saw rosarium in clouds. such forced screams such bodily aches if but to go too far; for we never confess where blockage is prominent

instead we harbor our guilt.

I depend on you reading, to fill in the breaks, or I determine for more clarity—the sweet smell of laughter those forces I harbor while Love is hysteria I’m sinking softly: to

look at magenta if tears need by comforter while smiling or feeling solemn joys;

                                                                                    as met in solitary fiddling a mini-jukebox at some essence feeling closer to pains; our intimate legacies this stream modified where reality is consensus;

moving motion or twenty-years to issues while grandmama cut the cancer; a miraculous fever or voodoo in boxes while a chain of links threshed my door.

                                                                                    There was interior loudness I was close to Africa where pure essence transcended;                   by ravished nights or mid-morning it flew into its cage; this body shivering the lake midair or those ripe times;

to have remorse for

extravagance or to need but unlikely if but to know the deadliest love;

as it becomes obsessive, as it possesses ghosts, while in trance I conversed with a wraith; our guts, Granny, our lost seas while the ocean was there last motion;

this desert greenness those island grapes while I kept the

scorpion’s poison; in deeper mud this emotion for elixir where some refuse to live; those kitten eyes so steep our pride if but to live or soar or closer mimics.  

I Will Love The Adored

I utter spoils or screams as one facing his dungeons. I soar by miseries as last to make vivid while affected by years; to feign as normal such a rush to evince where souls feel banished.

The lakes are dry the desert is ocean where an old scorpion is deceased and stinging; to become his torture or to become his angst insomuch as demons are hunting.

I have lost feelings where emotion becomes countenance or visceral anxieties probe our eyes; watching where unevenness becomes stiffness—or catatonic determination; by wells or caves or dynasties and flames so threshed so gouged so ruined. I wait like I can’t exhale I wrench through graves like I can’t rebuild or I sit decorated by dishonors; to imagine such fervor to become mystic disadvantage or weary it would bring us displeasure; for the octopus is on land and the whale is conversating where an elephant has become belligerent. Those sea cries so embedded in atmosphere while Love has been such a miracle.

I fed a mannequin

                              I ate venom   

                                                  it seemed the nights were spawning;

or close to fences while digesting barbs as such a soul wrestling wire; but Love is young or Love is resilient while deciding to resist critical thought; this chamber by interrogation        those welts unbeknownst to essence            where existence might pester;            both energy and zeal so long into eyes where one day            and sudden a curse         the endless night grew softer.

I will love the adored creature sighted into a senseless measure while we die or create a private bastille; at satchel or iron so ferric so complete while Love has been denied; those features endure, the wilderness is haunted where deer seem so casual. Or there one resigns a pot held so black while days seemed but snow; this misused feather those onyx wings if but so attuned to determined screams; such tanks or trailers by such misery or wealth while one is too close it hurts; as fatal ferrets so formed in grease or too slippery to grip existence.      

Genet Red Ribbon

I sense us but not all the time while I cleave to invisibility; but grade school mythology while writing letters to convey something better said; to sit in concentration, watching or dreary into a state of affairs—insomuch as dying so young. I remember beauty or semblance thereof while longing seems so juvenile; our marble tablets our deeper allegories where we recite and need to relive our fables. I image a novel a glass of tea and an hour to bedtime; our dressers as witnesses our music setting its tone or so gorgeous the mind can’t respond; those awkward seconds or one so attuned where so lept into midnight silence; as thieves in hearts or kleptomaniacs in spirits to cuss for fun and judge us later.

                      Our masks are so believable.

Our souls are so contagious. And it

      was damages and twilights or penalties.

How so enlove or a minister stalling where Love is oblivious? those trenchant ditches such a pillar of a dream our nerves scattered to skies; such mauve music such jamesia pain indeed to recommit to jousting for something growing in distance; a man as his charms a woman as to inconsistencies while we meant for something temporary; but island skirts or tropical lusts if but to remind terror those welts or storms; our guts at wars our minds at issues while a person realizes never to love misery; but relished anxieties or merry-the-angst if but to enter and clamp by sorrows; this dense reality to redeem something dying as evident it might cleave and adore by eternity. To have resuscitated or to give existence a man deserves a conversation; our odors running our bodies freedom but a person is living for such fireworks.

Maybe privilege is ubiquitous our hours of sacrifice where each person knits their huts. Maybe loving is unique or meant for a few like most are invited to leap; such purpose in us, or lightweight existence, or so deep into-it the walls are melting; as carnival realities or entitled delusion while some are meant for devastation.

                                                            I arrived unknowingly. I was champion of illusion. It was pain unbeknownst or agonies feeling

normal or poison so detested it felt like flame; to taste helium to nurture confusion where a person is curious about such fiction;

but a tent or evanescence while pure capacity is often initial receptivity.