Intimacy Trumps Condition

 

such pessimism as it becomes life too low in ditches. sunrise feels natural flowers are fluorescence a heart beats with cadence. aquarium eyes witness existence. seatbelt convictions are assaulted. most, at some space, gnaw marshweed. it was unnatural in us, upon a dovetail, to believe against our science. fluff or pillows, engines or cotton, more life or pure seclusion. a mosquito listens it moves with caprice it sees by huge galaxies. (nothing is critical beyond its space we become experts—in so much an atmosphere our air might complain our ears might clog.) a door for entrance a surprise reknitted while angst seems intimate. to meander those days to feel seas while winds hold whispers. our footpath our gateways while things lose luster—by cheerful indifference if but to survive we call it blithe. a box holds memories a boy crafts a slingshot a mother is washing dishes: waiting for news or debating sunrise while many elements cause for smiles. ink to notes underlines undergirded so secret it feels identified; by indelible fretting morning screaming breakfast aside a raving bull. blocks are unwritten. music is invisible. our animosity seems spiritual. where lips part solemn art so saddened by pure existence. (we live in an age where problems are more important than tranquility. a person might disappear in trying solace if but to attain to nirvana: aches in allergies, pain like cufflinks or discomfort feeling natural.) a home is much more, a house loses intimacy, a child is a promise. becoming a door made gold by survival such plush carpet; singing when it hurts renewed just in time or sensing days aren’t too explicit. a journey as it flutes, familiar undertakings, presumed magnetic forces. (alert for many, a life with petals, rain gentle upon scalps. reasons to celebrate beyond sheer perception thankful with anxieties. songs made effervescent beauty soft in premise our souls believing against literature. or surrounded by fluffy memories encased in deliberate joys while nothing quite out-measures pure intimacy.                

The Inn Is Nameless

 

(“It gets easier, some routine, some clairvoyance.”) we read for clarification. the winds have crushes. rapping for one, or noises to another. unphysical wires so linked we seem while most are unapologetic. some curse with wings some generational curse its root is in trainings. graven minds. or a woman’s medium. while so far into negligence. I used to write You, between sugar apples, or honeydew melon. it seemed essential, if but to survive, it’s mainly mental these memoirs. much in doctrine those days rehashing old theology confused about so much. sweet sickness as opposed by many while fretting mechanics. a possessed woman a burnished discipline a trance woman. so great a need to make you pious so contorted when you act differently. some pride or problem in me. some reluctant identity. while it hasn’t been many years—since votes were ignited or dress codes changed or respected as orators. “It gets easier, some routine, some clairvoyance.” we say things, we haven’t a clue, while it hurts one it might infuse another. I used to write You, while eating pears, looking into dynamics, it wasn’t so outdated yet. I worship mentally. I do it all day. I look a little different now. have you seen me, I would like more answers, it might be nice to see substance? the fig for instruments those apricots for alphabets or honeycrisp nectarines. I saw a person, it isn’t often, I was a tad concerned. it denies that way, it pillages during silence, I see faces. it’s been some time, erasing feelings, while they always catch up. it gets easier, right? something we commit to. something making less sense these quarters. more winds more crushes. our departing hearts. such elegance in our imaginations. I worship mentally, a fret in many, I internalize You. to taste my shadow to eat my emotions to intellectualize something a mystic inn. such hardasses such an apologue so much us against reflection; to see one clearly such as to miss self so coarse with one acting like me. a series of clay aphorisms a fit thrown by allegories while we wonder why many aren’t listening. it can’t go both ways, but we see it does, while we make fire; those shy pronouncements those mistakes taste like wheat, our souls facing dissention.              

(my supposition is unfortunate.)

 

(I have a guess.) some say humans are good — at some undisclosed metaphysic. I have no qualm with that, or I fathom morals are awkward they mean differences in people.

one dies first another submits first or we desire comfort couches.

(I will drift by tornado spinning into sinning.)

humans try to control other humans.

some better way than doctrine; some need for virtue in others; humans become contrition or songs or birds upon wires. soft cadence or distinct harshness while exposed to un-soft adjectives; so rhythmic a curse to find an impasse as it requires a changing; sweet volume ignored ears trying something similar; each crime a reservoir each puddle a tear, while convinced change is unnecessary.

I drift. I recite. I come to something unfulfilling.

those gates those swords while vying to pass.

such desirous pressure so muffled by fair match some nocturnal evidence. rivaled by sunbursts or drastic preconceptions while marriage is hypothetical.

our moons bleeding into concrete while most desire all things: tender beauty, multiple flowers such grace in deception; a yes person, a need-me-person, while discontent with hostilities; to pray a person if but to adore humility while so absent it means longing.

I listen or parcel thoughts while ashamed of my supposition.

we must define goodness. what is its roots? how to know if I have arrived? it sounds like religion, in a carbonate, something I need if it relates to my wants.

what challenges an instinct? how have many behaved? what is a mirror’s harmony? I drift. I seize a chill. I have a presupposition. it required experience, it took years, but it arrived by postal waves. something I can’t say. something I won’t say. something we see in our voices. the open skull, those green feelings, while many lost innocence. but Love is fragile or delicate so she must be holy. such a need for damn near disbelief, such a craving for full submission, or so much a need for mistreatment. so maladjusted so dysfunctional while we never ponder such openness. such discomposure such heat in flames so much a furnace asking unbeknownst to vocals. sheer fire by adoring like winning to arise where evidence destroys confidence.

rounded wounds or implied inference while saying each is sickness becomes ostracism.

but Love makes adrift.

I want something normal, something we agree is normal;

those ideals we cleave to those reasons we exist, to find humans need a person to breathe with;

someone ecstatic someone charming someone dedicated to keeping by happiness:

soreness by desire, legacy by memoir, sight seen passion.

(I have a supposition). it becomes a jaded man. it sings to roosters. such sacred vines such succulent grapes such a bruised reed. to find in location, an avenue for many, where rosy berries are crucified. a delicate drug, an infant’s toy, where raspberries are but a mirage. a sea of deserts a bottomless burial an ocean of skeletons. what have we desired? if not everlasting greenness — if not trembling with tremors such amazement our souls speak before we gaze. (my supposition is unfortunate.) it requires inference, it requires posits, one must postulate.         

Some Place Between Paradoxes

 

so meek at times, to inherit a globe, while waiting for violence. the marrow of the bone, while one decompensates where most are foreign to its language. by stars to scream by welts to dream a man is a hostile butterfly. to watch wildness to succor blindness in such a vein as electrocuted — by richness in breeding by creeds in defensiveness by running water upon dry desert — those cacti while we strike for liquids such thoughts to why it happened. to beguile a snake such raw verbiage where most just strike. so loved such provocation while essence churns. I would have much or survive off little so much concerned with dynamics; the soul rushing, oils so discontent so maladjusted. as reality is different, for each person, so damned or blessed! it’s a silent problem, it’s often unseen, while we claim altruism. the passion in one so absent in another while most are waiting for sentiments. an abandoned man, an addict’s child, while dysfunction becomes so accepted; a fused man an effusion mystic so much a child of happenstance. too strong for company too much attitude for friends, while avoiding that rare stringent feeling; where pain is mistress or victimization touches tongues, where one is angry because others aren’t trying harder. suppertime for voices, such sweet laughter, while disguising some element we each decided to ignore. those skies on a lonely day those bars upon reality’s lane or so low it must get better! forced to seem nice, to swallow a bear, with a leopard screaming in one’s lungs — the fire of the needy those deeper reigns while a tsunami just arrived in our ghetto. such shyer cries such radiant drills, when if it hurts, we often traumatized it. upon a ladder seated half way up, speaking to an official. so tender hands-off, so unspoken much sympathy, or so caged, we cannot see! the fury of the lion the remedy in the lioness or beauty so fair it becomes jealousy. a welkin woman a disruptive woman while gods sent for redemption. an eloquent scar, or indifference fought, as for care under holy garbs. grounds undressed, or souls so fierce, to unravel unjust justice.  

Roof Cavern

 

I pray you understand such feathers in June by wrought justice — so fought for such dementia so much a dear love; to ceased existence to laugh for miracles advancing into bleakness. I pray you understand so near his castle such galloping to rescue you; those fires in storms those brains in fleeing while thinking is an enterprise. so much attention as given to luminous those cats just watch. abused for tenderness so executed for promptness at fears concerning sure proximity. to sit as it arises, so sleepy come July, so unstable come surrendering. do say so much don’t say absence while it meant too little. an accustomed blending a raft in canyons while in dire respects to have survived. a fantasy to abandonment a whirl in dreams where a soul must regroup. divorced from self or skipping beats while glory is getting something on time: those phones ringing those dear elements while I try harder to concentrate. by fret of fury or fever; so close inside so distant at arrival while seeing you would be its definition. a soul at cliffs a man at fringes too unwrapped to speak clearly.     I listen while it distresses where rules must apply.     I pray you understand those empty meanings those tiles on skies those glassy tables such ash in screams such dusky horizons at function if but to reveal by justice — of its masks; by disregard of midnight or terror as a sport so many monsters undisclosed; at fair horrors as deeper disconnection while weary if it gets to its location. some landmark woman or tragedy made clean while obedience touches a sore/sour space; so much ugly beauty such an ugly voyage where looking discloses irritability. some furnace some cave some thought vetted by emotionality. I pray you understand the jealousy in men while we see us in others; so cased by rivalries so keen to subtleties while adventure seems premeditated. by stature of one, by pride in a woman, to know one cares prior to losing. but a citadel a giant remedy while we keep many so closely. by artifice to suggest it wasn’t before it became so factual. I pray you understand. sweet gentility. sweeter instability. while knowing it comes one second too late.  

That Breaking Second: It Hurts!

 

dark coffee. grandmother’s brew. if but wise in absence. the horrid truths as fires so rebuked by winter. the drink when sober those bushes symbolic or guava in Fiji. by an allegory, some hidden measure, typically moral or political.

the music was a reason the pain was an invite, as meanings into windows. those pears were secretive they wouldn’t talk, concerning becoming witnesses. a soul might unravel the fibers are milky so much the last leopard.

I felt bad. it seemed appropriate. feelings are density. brains parceled out, fragments as whole evidence, initial emotion as clarity. I feel her. I feel others. feelings are frequencies. so low or too high after confidence. bloody napkins or mother’s addictions while father got free. the jail sentence in a little room mother forbidding dinner. a cup half full same cup empty while we scream at perception. the earth is chancing the devil is laughing, we can’t escape lusts. a gun on a table a bullet under her tongue, she wants to play delivery. a body naked, as never so gorgeous, a man can’t say too little. such discomposure, so aggravated, if but to have so much more of living. a railroad a train track a honeycrisp apple. a pail of sugar an acidic itch while fever was meant in vanity. a scar at noon, a fret at morning, too naked, too nasty, (what I hate I become!). but a clay pot but mere pottery, to ask why it must be?

I couldn’t picture rain it was aloof but right at shoulders—those jasmine cigarettes while days are gore so terrible to us; the fire in shackles, such voltage last month, where time is such a blur—the same day the same minute as just repeating similarities.

if to rewind me, such knee-jerking, where security is a feeling we need—as creatures running while looking backwards such a raw ass camera. so slumped forward in such a stink where one has tried so often.

The Barrow Is Compacted

 the lady is schizophrenic — highs too illusional — such rich discomposure. she’s alone the rooms are velvety pure elastic the walls are swimming; pain is soiree jazz is pitiful onlookers are passive. the genre is delusional those faculties are unreliable cartoons seem like reality. webs and sketches, dreams wide awake windows peeking in; so curt such exactitude everything is literal. 

mockingbirds are weary such a long voyage to hear energy. 

I met her early in science. I was aware of roadblocks. the map was gray or pastel or jasper. lions entered by caves, such raw shrills such southern screams. 

we drift to another, a woman diagnosed at fifty, she became sober to learn she was bipolar. her countenance died it was heartrending, her moments before retiring. 

I might feel gifted where others are in contention while deeper pits show suffering. by tempest by gamut if but to reach clarity. the pith of the jaguar the sodden bone while misery is someone’s comfort zone. our construed compassion our dependent unisons or tragic opus — those prying funerals those tiny deaths if but to see what others are living through! 

pangs so social. stereotypes so natural. black art condemned for its memories. a signet on normality a consensus complementing its own, a kid misdiagnosed.

 

both passed over. both are still speaking. joy is up for debates.    

Inside Ambulance

 

it becomes more fury as agitation, I can’t quite picture it. but I try some uneasiness some balance in discomfort. a must to live it or become consumed while gentleness is observed. by science of an introvert by music of a pianist or contrasts leading into marriages. a piccolo on its table, an academic at her studies, or more, an ego offended by humility. we could make collages or become existential with imbalance haunting us. we never quite capture or exhaust or develop some property inside. but children are running, matchbooks are hidden, we drop a tear in anticipation — of turquoise scars in turquoise skies where Condition is always inevitable. we count on it. in absence, we search for it. we push boulders through forests. my costume is old; my aesthetic is mature; we know sophistication when seeing it. each person is a column some distinct category with certain expertise. each person is an orb some atypical or common ingredient — a given angst a restricted environment an ever-breathing development. I walk tense by inconsistencies. but I fret disturbance. I expect others to be on point — to carry responsibility to zero in on accountability, scholasticism has become a scene. I watch elders, as set-in ways, while existing systematically. a pragmatic vignette taking monotheistic shape where interior mandates are pastel or opaque in some giant void. I walk this missive this poem such prose. ideas change growth happens, if lucky, two are growing in a given direction. so, essence is disturbed or dungeons are familiar, while we mourn if others are getting it together: sure welkin faith or ethereal ether where one needs more tangibility — other than a concept, even more than consensus, something with a color scheme — a majestic solitude an inner conviction, for those are what people die for. more than Form, albeit in truth, inner operations are sturdier than exterior frustrations. to tread forward, to insist on winds. filled with irritability. those blurry lines our souls inverted while pleading to cease a given habit.    

Scale The Qualification—Before Getting Raw

it’s been tacit nor trusting crescendos, many stars falling. mysterious lakes silent moodiness where no one is budging. a crystal of a swan, a glass table, about knee high. those un-imposed limits, as to sit through behaviors, if to ask for much unearned sacrifice. I heard a cliché. it wasn’t true. I didn’t argue. so much mud such weary weather while most do as they damn well please! a cave in recession an art unqualified or a critique from a novice. so decent by composure. so indifferent concerning ignorance. where most are playing a sullen violin. the mountain has briers, emptiness has tumbleweeds, or marshes have anacondas. to chase a snake while it slithers to wonder of swampy terrain: a watchful alligator a mental caiman or some wild crazed hyena. so much to fret over while innocence is crucified. dinosaur instincts forced into some city where primitive behavior is scorned. those demented men, those hysteria women, where it’s but a scream—to fade into bleakness to have courage where it didn’t compute: those cells such creeks while a mild monkey offers a handshake. I know we choose to listen. we often heard nothing. our worlds are around us. this means much to an ethicist. it intrigues an atheist. it’s like gold to a pastor. different reasons for different feelings, while we care to increase the integrity of existence. if a group rises, where ten advocates for love, if but one is hurting it wrestles the group. so close such music, while many are saying, “We know that!” indeed, to know so much, to do so little, while expecting our slice of pie. a territory inside, a representative at times, but more demanding what society has opted not to give. so much a challenge. it creeps into those worlds. where many are flying in silence. to find reckoning, so clear inside, while a voice might mean more. dusty skies, filthy pools, or a raccoon on a late night. brewing penalties, classifying arts, pointing where it’s necessary—determined by something unqualified.      

The Mental Woods

 

the vacuum sucks at flesh, by memory into continuum, a diamond woman such sin, I know it’s hard! scrambled eggs, bacon sweating, plus, biscuits. a filthy foot such odor while Love is laughing. that smile those hinges so unlocked for me. blood gravel a cultural gavel while treading through Mexico. too much to resist too salacious to touch where loins bled miracles. a palm of ash for resilience a pile of trash for manuscripts while headed to class. “Mrs. Rooter, are blacks different, must we suffer?” so cold so coarse, it’s been this way! we grow accustomed we sense momma where it’s too damn incredible. a man beats a woman, the police show leniency, such a man walks away. a different reality the guts resistant a month before the Watts Riots. so many empty-men such cobblestones, everyone likes Jesus until it hurts! too true to guts, I need utter bliss, if but to hold to anything. such a fire, if but a few, to believe in spreading smiles. a paw for land, a tail for losing, where most want to become the head. if but Love, if but a problem, while we judge character based upon sex. such excellence such raw unforgiveness where a few adore regardless. such Capitol attrition such rolling capital so flooded the dam has erupted. but hell to respect or hell to flying where feelings become wisdom. pure monotony or purer lack where we ask, “What is my purpose?” a thud to the noggin a hatred for what hurts or too much confrontation to look at reality; as a mind shuts down, or psychology feels raw, where one is accustomed to coddling; so struck so crazy, in a world so harsh, while father is moving through gravity. those mythic cries, those real realities if but suffocated while breathing. the mud is heavy the marsh has a taste the mayfly is screaming, “I told you.” Matthew struggles, if but to feel clean, while it has much significance. Francis is yelling, she thinks Matthew is sick, while he pleads for mother’s safety. but a tour such radicalism those alleys are filled with pimps. to scrabble an alphabet or reason through meta-sociality while father is strung out!  

The Chase The Noose

 

I looked I caught a glimpse, it distressed me. too much flying as beauty would hurt so accustomed to grave lights. those prints in sands those clumps near existence so acute by resistance. at far fires as internal wires so clothlike so much chaos as captured creatures. to hate by love or to love by hate, it feels quite sickly. the sickle to roots the ravens watching as if I knitted a scarecrow. too much to handle if full throttle so threshed for a rare specimen; as aloof at chimes or showing women at chimes while a man knows if he loves her—so caught in rain those drops like witnesses those plums like loquats. I fiddle a freesia I lost a zinnia, now a black jaguar is aching—those roses in buds those mantises in bloom where a classroom wreaks of indifference. so many victims, just because, where it feels heavier. some violence some eschewing some dynasty in its dungeon. but Love was robotic or big eyes or heavy on a plank. a thatch of straw, a bled forward miracle, such mange in madness; to flip a sparrow to deny such promise while giggling with chiefs. an indigenous soul so much as gunning while raped for land, women, and pride. so black these nights so disregarded, everyone riding what Harris has done; “but Obama too,” indeed, pushing harder these nights. I rum it up I go sober I write while low, but nobody knew! such a slave to it so much enlove with it as a man just released from surgery. (I loved like a fool. I was mantic like a lieutenant. I mashed my brains into a different sphere.) too many clauses too much gorgeous where Love is a streetwalker. to fend for ages to deliver a child without a father to claim. such dice so frantic such a gray button: to live forever as a sick man looking for new prophecy. at a timekeeper or those fence-keepers, while asleep broad day (the sun is heating—or against such raining as thunder was privileged). too close to defend it, too far not to want it, as a man-eating Wednesday sorrows! so much to hold on while Love is free, the last to fall for an old con!        

California Trauma

 

I dip a Caprice I laugh at gin the sun has its influence. society becomes suicidal such a word I have a hard time using it. wilder whispers wreaking havoc a haven in destruction. so mad about media so caught by media it becomes a paradox. such coarse weather so wrangled so indecent. I ate Wing Stop a heart pulsating a carriage for a newborn. inmost thoughts so alive in you it feels perfect to sex with you. such a feeling a landline where parachutes come one to a dozen. a coffin birth a refrigerator curse while most are asking questions; to see beginnings to sense mediums while wild a delicate machine. a hybrid child something so conditioned while catching angst from each side—those caring apples those peach pies while Love combs by a hundred strokes. too nameless to catch her too nervous to affect as a change in its millennial. (“THE DINGO ATE YO BABY”). so attractive so sophisticated such a raw filthy mechanic. so reptilian or American such brushwork to condition a scar. we ran faster we took a polygraph, several failed. something so gray such inadmissible evidence, while it slipped out. but a drumstick for a drummed/thrummed society, while mob fever is deadly. but to lies so curt while Love is defensive. to plan its extent, to believe as it feels, for otherwise a man is a fool. such trauma such a family while adults spend life trying to unlock it. furious frets so captured, with peas for dinner. flyleaf notes diaries for membrance where mother wasn’t considered nice. surefire molestations a ghetto serenity where people select new kinks. to perish quite often to accept detriments while claiming to love—where love is impossible!   

Phronesis

 

I aged early on. I remember a tabby, a dark brown comforter, floorboards, a big cheap television, beige smoked covered white walls, a furnace, a small kitchen, two rooms, high running water—some type of bath tub.

it seems hard to see self. most people never gain coverage. it’s like death where media forgets about cultures.

church wasn’t meditated. it’s more of a tailored habit. they were babysitting.

storage space or storehouses or barnyards. to listen, sense inconsistency, but utter nothing. we must nod. we still do. anytime we sit for lecture.

I regurgitated, choked, or recriminated sentences. (where does critical thought happen?) for many were wrought by emotion, disgusted by commonsense or it seemed absent.

(how do you tell a person something isn’t clicking?)

we had a Persian cat. I gave it to granny when it was a month old—I was seven at the date.

 

 

something aches but undisclosed while a world chases excellence; known as perfection, adored for comforts, where wildness becomes deliberate entertainment.

I speak about nothing, or I hit it on its sky, while rain would drop, I would go out back, taste a bit, feel a bit, but return to sameness. by core we invest by argument we listen but each is tender tenacity. “I am right, period! to disagree is to wage war. I must destroy you!”

it was a woman to fall at an age where I was wintered.

it was pain mixed with ingredients he compelled a certain adventure.

one would say, “Don’t leave!” another would say, “Try this.” “If not, someone else will.”

a mellifluous tone a static voice so low it seems inaudible.

 

I speak of nothing. I say a few things. while a motor is running. some treasured engine those exhaust pipes while reaching into America. by rage of its possum by curiosity of its raccoon or stray animals chasing cars. to live in a house, to find comfort in a house, but never secure in a given house. or traffic lights, or school campuses, ever, to a degree, alone while moving. people do not nod, people watch, or cultures entertain their culture. a wise man becomes what is missing, he’s made into a necessity. one must teach artifice or suffer invisibility, while most have a saga to share. (but what for little worlds: jobs, careers, church—why else do we leave our homes?)

 

we need groceries. we need clothes. we need a park, a bike, skates, a shikoku(s), chihuahuas, or a St. Bernard. we need existence, on a baking sheet, where our turkeys are just right. such ripe persons, studying personhood, fending for a place at our tables. a heart for communion or voltage for communication where passion is choking us.

Wrung, Dried, & Wet Again

 

a little country music a bit of snow-mind those winds hitting in gut in mind in piano     as creatures green-blue such wild magnolias     to breed animosity to have grief so close it feels distrustful     as looking for some reason if but to disavow     those chairs are rooms those ghosts are memories such sweet fire arising by points     insomuch as tender features locked in admiration soreness made me love you     much wreckage a few zillion poets to have tables as lampshades     so shapeless so alphabetical while most house in metaphor     a small gnat as a building our stomachs growling     those pages scribbled with existence as lawns are mowed every Monday     to outwit mirrors such harsh pain where mother holds a candle     certain vigils a man his soul a woman her art to die with me to arise with sympathy or so lost it was devastation to touch brown fire     to tame a jaguar to live in flame while most are seeking one person     such minutia such manumission if but to die again     one shout such silence where one has been screaming a straight millennia     I examine too closely where I see mirrors while concrete is stubborn     but nothing is causeless seas into grins while spirits look facetious     by nauseous ink or rabid ambition where most are sacrificing stability     those curious cries such venom while bitten interior leaks pus     mental phantoms are itty bitty mountains such contradiction is souls where father carries a guitar     such wrath upon crossfire as saying so little     a night as clarity such yelling in neighbors by wrath too uncertain     I watched when he left another came in another is on his way     spirt might languish some days are malaise such couches smell like sweat     sweet into childhood those silhouettes before existence became glasslike     as if cretins so touched headed to Mt. Olympus     a woman’s 3^rd eye a man’s 5^th failure while begging appeals to most hearts     a myriad of badness such anti-morals while one says something like forgiveness     thisness as thatness or repetition     if scholarly we see discussion if uneven we sense omission if gravel we see offensive rage    

Home Haunted Sharpness

 

we fluster each other it’s quite natural, majority are won by insecurities. (self) included as to look, to see, to feel, where airs are haunting. miracle of culture dreams in Harris ambition in Obama, surety lakes or screams so aloof with those standards. so coddled such pains so electric such voices where we marvel at King Jr. passionate leftists or delirious chains too much shame in doing what we love. a mind in professors a feel in psychologists a rescue in psychiatrists. but a man is mad, or paranoid, for he waited six years; such ribbons or blood purple with dynasties seeping inward. upon a ladybug into charity so many alms if ever cleansed. so weakened by lies so engaged it hurts, but if knowledge to aid it would destroy; so omission is categorical or disfavor is frontage while clear furniture adorns our house. a goblin such creature if only to unveil—too vetted, cakes were silence to have (carte blanche). I was eager to see you it was nice as we soon departed. I had ideals or fire some cage I wish to share.     hard on self or elastic with sociality while most might change behaviors. some scream some factory where dolls are made for families. to adore little Jenny to playmate with toys where mother is rock hungry tired. or 3 a.m. in flames, such an argument for nothing, who will acquiesce first? so much to die for, as designed to pick a cause, while often we call on Gandhi. our heroines our heroes where most are disappointing, or most have serious threats: the vandals in the priests, the addicts in the preachers, the experimentalists in the doctors. too cured to be sick too many feelings to grow numb such fever in our darkness.     

“Talk to Us about Love”

 

love is a costume, or piccolo, or an undressing, “She is thunder!” too academic unless rosy something a hint of syrup. I begged for aura or ego or vulnerability—our last collage our color such fuchsia raw black whiteness. cubic algorithms by aesthetic locks so treacherous its column. most need if you to die if us so close to guidance—by conception so uncooked while we grill ethnicities. the fire as it churns true desolate familiar if but dead still grieving! terror as theme or discontent as motif by quality in a soul’s damnation. a curious man is a free man, never permit it to die! what is love but sadness to lose love while I try to enjoy love. such color scheme such penalty at automatic suggestions. those lines by tones by much disproval. missing form too sporadic such caprice in signs. (too clownlike to compare we admire by contrast we dread while differences have made slaughter.) such prescience to know for certain, anything nuanced shall endure wrath. our women turning to women, our men churning for men, or heterosexuals damn near despising each other. such heterodox fever, or raging orthodoxy, while a person turns against self—those fires such worlds to sword as Samson a slew of naysayers—to mean disagreement a reason to perish conscienceness.

 

love is kitsch or genre or sacrifice. to hand power to flee if hard to have children with people we despise. or close knit such radicalization such perch or porch or patio.

 

Love is an idol. I commit idolatry. to destroy innocence. I sip cognac I listen opaque lights I distance from pastel absolutes.

 

            cheers are in us blood is dripping our sky is filled with acid—brimstone to existence blessings to crossing over we need love. to tickle a feeling to shape a vignette as souls struck by invisibility. such likeness such caves so acrid the desert is seeing colors. our dear camels those laughing toes while harnessing precious pain. such scruples as without meaning such cries as without volume too sure no one listened. how to settle on love, it must emotion us, while too close to fret stealing love. such depth such deer eyes while fretting tomorrow. like lemurs in habitat today is not noticed yesterday isn’t a memory as another day is sameness: this is love, as something ever present, we need not register another second—its second is here. its glory never left, it only gets better, we remember an instance ago. it never ages it never deteriorates it’s immortal. all thoughts are one all reality is us we have never been apart!       

Through Intersections

 

I dip by Caprice a leftist working his wheel—to stab further hitting Sunset to meet southern care. sworn in deaths momma’s son as bled dry—replaced with ice a slither of light a gate on frontal lobes. a camera flashed a Daisy laughed the droptop kept rolling. soda pop for winning an iced drink for drifters a cigarette for the uninformed. enjoined for success charged by lightning at a bar resisting. I hit the door, a Jewish location, Love bought drinks … a blast a swoosh something deliberate. so much an unction so little metaphysics where a few know my identity. by seat of souls by a need to pursue where a few are on parade. I laughed, it was funny, Love had ideas. such company to fly where we just by sun. such a chameleon so dedicated, surefire into calamity. facing cirrhosis those tiger eyes those jaguar fingers. a panther bite, a jackal’s grin a hyena’s smile. so confused where it meant science while most have an issue. sailing down Crenshaw I pass an old house the corners are desolate. pupils dilated floating to a Cal State I exit Bellflower. a soul at a stop to purchase a snack decided on a Burrito—those feelings smelling like perfume, but what the hell! so tailored such a view where most pass her by. “Just try, Love. Honor a green light.” she passed on by. indeed, looking clean, but smelling funny, plus, eyes glossy. a cold truth, we enjoy liquor, but refuse something liquored up. I hit class, so much dynamite, a bit nostalgic. some need life, others need a person, I needed an exorcism. Love was popular, a European Cheetah, I asked a few questions. softer into tender, such oxygen, a soul is a bear. a shower such giggles to arrive at an exit. too delicate one is seduction while Love just called last night. if it feels complete, we make it whole, another sandwich for a reason. a picture here a photo album while they love to gander. coregent souls or anxious people while it must be mine. so much deception, especially, to begin with, no one knows those last sessions. by wreckage to adore, so shapeless to adore, while stopping was never his agenda.       

Automatic Writing

 

it was difficult as to understand what we see. it was a challenge to reflect on what most become. so close it’s tiresome or so much gravel one is forced to see. those cherries those lemons where two become much of tomorrow. I project too often. I want but lose. the soil is coughing. such bleeding like addicts some ghosts—as a fever those blue whistles a man is groveling unto deaths; too hopeful too weary such a guarantee—this dying shame as becoming pain to rain in with cats; the filth of passion the dirt we eat so soft so automatic. to hate men or to loathe women while needing, nonetheless. a ship is at port a melody just shifted a mind is at its cave. to swear inwardly such predicament so tethered to tattered remedies. our sameness or hardcore cliches while some sense something too trite. the same tryst those similar diamonds, in fact, they were bought for a trillion women. by a familiar Rolex or familiar perfume—as so common, it begins to infuriate. such simpleness, looking for grandiose, such sickness called by its envy. a man with low stature, to mingle while mangled in a world mad concerning innateness.

 

(I met her, she snapped, she was carrying something. I hit a button, one simple question, but I was categorized. it would never be peaceful. it would always be resistance. so I resisted what came to fruition: the negative fire those sparkling flames while two despise what they see: those irritabilities while hiding status such fury in eyes decoded. so indelicate such hard tornadoes with rage in our Hawaii.)

 

stormy glens such as never forgiven while one protects what she has built. this is union, so much invested, where to lose it comes with dying. those trees such leaves such dust mites. a bed too intimate a man allowed to satiate, a woman reminiscing on another time. thrown, too backed against, slung to feelings. warmed up, devastated, but still asleep!

 

(I was asking questions, she became defensive, she didn’t need me to miss her anger. small irritation where they hit buttons so deliberate—this becomes fretted gut. the hope is to bate to ignore rules to build something that might self-destruct.)

 

so patient while it runs out where it’s rejuvenated, for Love is her wind her fire her skies her valley her deaths her ink.

 

running but unfound an artifact in a garden to have lain eyes on a foreign woman; to want with desperation to eat tumbleweed for Love is a prostitute. so much gunning as needing to revamp while he runs back into himself.

 

the life of the pimp to feel angered if one arrives with god’s gifts.

 

the passion of a woman as there for recruitment if but a man with his head in her arteries.

 

so much a truth so gutted in time, but a man must never think of self.

 

trekking through a society, an Armenian community, I’d never met such a woman. we arbitrate pedestals, where one is a survivor, I thought to all the pain I might share—all the moons we might charge or suns we might bemoan or heat we might generate; for this is love, the virus is our airs while trying to adore one promise—the kiss of strangeness or a body we crave or a woman looking so different: our dear illusions, where a thing is true, a person will change for honor!

 

(emotional development in a world her soul her actions her deliverance. to know a deeper existence filled with compassion as too close to ever rest. such leviathan whispers such monstrous murmuring where one searches for addiction—thought but pain so alive as chasing to coarse through autumn with recklessness—by wreckage of its internals so much communion I vomit or so Asian dishonor floats by death. a sick poet looking for grace so faced by fierce resistance. to prick a man to pet his disability or to have set a design where it speaks anger—those courage eyes those exquisite fingers such to have become devastated. to hold envy to pet jealousy so much concerned about paranoia. but life is metanoia as sheer convergence as despite our direction.)

 

soreness in a sound, pain in something written, while we must look at out parts. to feel discerned to relegate to a class while evidence says—she might fit anywhere. broken fixtures feral phantasm so dear to a phantom in us. a bit defensive a bit to rain the reigns of a woman he might never meet.           

50% Havoc

 

such nerve in me the lioness is angry while globes spin. the devil in me those cages in me while I pass out shame. like a bicycle ride swooping through Santa Monica headed to a beach path. so much he was born, so deteriorated, plus, a collar. to carry iron to animate on call, while feeling like sewers. I was a tourist running through cities a thief with long hair—so cursed, thus, uncured while whispers drove a mad participant.     but what was it, where innocence is protected, while most are anti-metaphysics? but a package deal atop a tabletop so deviated it felt like Reformation. to bother Love to still adore Love but Love is discredited. I vanish at like 11p.m., swerving doing ninety, I see blueberries.

so much that saga, so scheduled to persevere, as to come across her. we corner self, such red thoughts, where one is held in sky esteem. the same wilderness those four kids while never a good relationship. to play father, to argue daily, so sexual it feels like addiction. but relative love for relative souls, it might seem perfect by emotions. but ghost to winds like candy to teeth such a sweet tooth.

 

boiling water a plush kitchen so clean it feels like heaven. a soul man a traffic lamp, eating vegetables and beef.

 

such those authors those pseudonyms or a woman with a man’s name. a bag of sugar, as placed in trials where its 50% havoc.      

The Spoons Are Supported

 

upon mimosa flowers or gazania dreams such poison in loses. a bit of mango a glass of sin while we concern ourselves. tactile woman or boundless sugar too surreal to call by fence. legs jogging too hyper-creative, most say something must give. a jamesia feeling a freesia gown or trespass on one’s own life. as actors or figural clients where ethics, most silently, are bankrupt. so pictorial such muffled screams, how does it feel to seem invisible? lifelike phones or life-giving computers while sitting, sipping, thinking about things that never work. mature emergence aside silky calves, a man desires so much she winks at.

                                                            gated heaters or mature furnace or refined like no one will sense—those eyes those answers or human discomfort. this is called normal, where hiding is not first selection, but forthcoming is deliberate. it sounds like fire, but truth to souls, deviation is pathological.

                                    such vehicles such volume sized women such height so cold this season as traps seem set for flame a cage a man writhing. one more chapter one last round while chaos is meant for affections. to dispute or decide upon names or music or a woman hoping she keeps peace.

                        our database has errors. treated subpar. while we raised a village. I saw an insect, I saw it in a restroom, it felt familiar to be near that way.

            by surgery of a lion by inner company to have cared not enough.  

Wind-Watching

 

I’d never thought to it. by trials to hint to it. it just seems unbelievable. humans have a capacity, where ill-favor hits, while knee-jerking becomes concrete. 

 

you are fever or platinum or temple

too much clever work too little ink

as a furious fox a devilish fork so

polite or delicate fire as but one kink.

 

 

days heavy or eyes caped such more

to give.

 

 

I have sailed to me if but to understand flame in a land dripping pride assumed in pains or captured, too much so, to ever relive, those feelings those scars those dreams.

 

I learned a new word: mountebank—I will never use it again!

 

it gets difficult to think passed those radiant screams.

 

I am easygoing, just read too much, but I wanted to share: a little smile or word-caressing while tackling some grave axe.   

 

            love is uncaptured still moving while laughing gayly such cheer or one las beer at the Hub. those days those flies where it takes so little to dislike. my insecurities my defensiveness my inner irritations—so much as a turn so much to inhale while many might smile a bit. muchness or mossy intellect or thatness, so uncareful so much more at seeing while ladders are etched with, “Joseph.” I would have outlived us if not for life to imagine things simmer into a similar stream.

 

            I was watching or noticing I saw a few mistakes. I read closely, I found an epithet, I knew it was 2021. it can’t be like that, it can’t sing like that, with so many watching.

Noisy Winds

 

Able spoke of screams or little itty-bitty dungeons at trials for Cane is violent. Ruminating suffering where coughing hurts, trickles hit cotton—the blood of the carcass oozes. Able sought clearness, or lakeside comfort, seeing shadows with horns upon knives. Too much to reason to tactile to slew where Able would never slaughter man. By a gate next to a rock aside a well—a delicate penchant a passion as lowly too holy for more was left—a heart accordion a breathing loss too much to face; Abel ran, he kept running, it’s been ten days and ten nights, just running.

if met it would un-rule as so close to rules at brink or cave seated with one book. a man reading legacies or after mercenaries so decent or cursed such varying deaths. a tattered, tethered soul, or badgered by buildings where sunrise is blockage. too swept to defend too humble to war, we indict his father. tender sweet devastation, to have sat at his body, to have slapped Cane.

by essence we never speak, by indelible problems, where it doesn’t mean much to crayon walls. by reservoir internal conduit so splayed so sincere skies look so nearby. looking at fibers too fallen to awaken at sudden an entrance; several creeks fire across both lakes a soul made of water: emerald lions, rhinestone seraphs, trumpets, horns, a swollen zephyr.    

When Global Angst!

 

the sin by genetics those phantoms or mother’s fears; a rampage son a broken, cracked wall, those dynamite scars. to learn hate as some privilege where others must kiss ass. oh, for respect, such a light issue, while never a day to give respect! a heinous appetite, a thundering occupation such raw, bitter vinegar; as coming sugarcane as dying all glory, the world has shattered! some diatribe something liquid something about the born woman! a shawl bleeding meraki failing as cast to dregs; the forgiveness of a smile the deceit in hostility while sensitive souls hurt and scream if but to bleed. it badgers its dam it entices its debris it laughs while a second away from crumbling. the fight the all-time fight while one might show mercy. army fatigue blue eyes such a comrade dying: guts hanging, a black fist, to have known the beauty of souls. filled skies southern acrimonies or penchants in a soul falling harshly. those veins, sweet vanity while a mirror has never been interpreted. snowstorms, wind-raging, such color at the sawmill. those feelings those deaths while mother new an ex-slave. granny ran granny departed it feels empty in a room watching a dead body. the spirit left the kef is gone those days looking too terrible. a cacciatore a blighted watermelon so curt so frank while he never spoke. the vine of lenses those caricatures while we laugh at cartoons; something to get away, a little rose, while pleading with welted eyes.    

Have They Looked Closer?

I was pressed for time. Mother was ill. Her liver suffered from cirrhosis. those years running pain those trials with liquor those over-consumed seconds. a lady was present. but the coroner said it was an accidental overdose—an exploded liver. she’d taken codeine for some time. so, how is it this way? the pain must have been crucial.

            the manager found her. she was completely nude. she’d dragged herself across the floor. a desperate day. a desperate sign. a desperate covering.

            it comes to us a phantom a swoosh into a desert sphere.

            I have tears to soil or seeds to unleash or deep anguish to discuss. I have little time for museums, or disconnection, or silly, nonsensical disputes. the cliché is simple, life is too precious, too short, while many footstep, thin ice. such city snow, such a blizzard, California is pitted!

I see visions at unpronounced segments the chair is laughing the mirror belongs to father. an entire life chasing smoke so much dear misery. beer foam longer pipes a 50 piece in a given moment. such strong genetics such creeping whispers while aching in houses. “It was time It was quick. It hurts to let go!” I was unsteady about a fact, or unclear about a feeling, while relieved to deeper spaces. such writhing jails, such internal prisons, plus, decimated by depression. the want for existence, while sitting with little training, those golden years given to rawness. ink seeping into cloth. blood boiling is terrors. or horrors flooding Noah. so many eyes such superwoman thoughts, while we say, “I’ll do it later!”

a phobia of it, a repulsion for it, while one must kiss it.

            those feelings are unusual, those fences are higher, the background is rich mineral. the cactus is never lonely. its observation never changes, unless uprooted, forced to travel.      

House Creaks

 

so visual those deaths so skinny his wine such gulps for vanity. at touches or remorse if but we presumed correctly. by false dreams by rich deception a bit amazed at what’s happening to Britney. this aged passion such caged passion, if but more to announce a little. I was a kid then, or a growing thicket, as tolerated by intolerance. I was wilder then, I yelled back when, it was crazy to become silent. but identity in a jug or pills as character or drugs raw enough to discount morals. so softer she was, so distorted over ethics so ashamed but still revving. too much to assume if but goodness while different strokes for dependent souls. rich means appreciative—of those nuances—where others find them as irritants. so, a woman in a million women, a man adores a million screams, while others run faster to get away. “to hell with it. he hasn’t said much. we must do for power.” by silent worry by scary dreams or nightmares wide awake. the cut of the bone those telephone wires as accursed for a glance. the noose of his life the fury in his bed the mechanics he desires. a soul at deliverance a soul changing where it’s hard to please old company. to manipulate, to tease realities, while demanding something irregular. those bottles stacking or recycled women where a soul is running his deserts. abused or laughing silent or loud or in-between riding a parachute. so close, we choir our guts. so enlove we picture our wealth. while watching too closely angers. such a wanderlust such an echo where loving used to feel so natural!      

Dearest Daughter,

 

we dwell in chaos insomuch as uncertainty by whiffs of more almond bread. cages are about us, lack of clarity, wrestling myriad messages. most disagree with measures. most harbor a harbinger. most art is won through trials.

            born into lackluster. or reasoning it should be different. or unconcerned for it hurts to care. it pains so much, we ignore it, but it’s so close, we must reach it. to live beauty, to have a wife, to journey with footprints; an adoring feeling, an absent reality, as dangling in dreams. by impassioned wings ramming through fog so celestial all is illusion. cologne or perfume. skirt or denims. heels or boots. not as questions, but more of ukiyoe by study of ikigai so determined to master meraki.

            to know aeipathy something all consuming some concrete in its abstracts. by a powerful pen a glinting eye or bulldozing happenstance. to have died a bit to have lived at dams while filled with alertness, subconsciousness, to become a part of our zeitgeist. so many intrinsic debates such internal sulfur while anxieties are washed by a gentle glance. or inherent disbeliefs so furious in science or earth as filled with kinesics — more social energies.

            as a creature of tentacles or angered concerning disorder or bonded by hopes needing fruition; to live forever, as an ancient soul, while delusion is chasing castles.

            much is unsaid. I take things for granted. in a world quite favorable to its youth. by strength in silence, by mystic weariness, or rationalizing something so close. catnip for a kitten, debates for adults, glee, mischief, or ransom for spirits. where uneasiness comes, for no mere lightness, otherwise, it might simmer into cosmos. as we should believe, where we might believe, while displeased by conception. sweet dreamwood sweeter acquisition in a land offering phantasm — or hardwon cubicles as mental pillars if to love without qualification.     

Masks Seem Existential

 

such strangeness as wrapped in peculiarity such flies hovering — or gnats by irritants by station in some scream. bottles at pavement, glass is shards, too cold to feel but numb. some escape those eyes or a plural touch. music is different in some vein. closeness is security. while I desire to believe. by hourglass to envision, or stoves leaking gas, a man might leave his home. too much ambiguity so razorlike too many ingredients. I saw sneaky, by clauses, a decision concerned with self; an abandoned bed a new sheet or a new comforter. so often it kills, while an eye is turned, we congratulate wild strangeness. to live through others to need such freedom while desperate for security. but a magazine away, from some hectic disaster, where I need to relive agonies.

            an oval silent face. we intuit what we see. one might determine his fantasy. by a thin line, such interpretation, while dusting our shoes. trekking pathways confounded by pathologies, but I need to believe perception. it helps to exist or something existential, while I might secure delusion. those peppermint fields, those sugarcane smiles, so downward over her. I located a pearl, it was found in mud, so I rinsed and buffed it. others might covet it. so I hid it. soon it was anxious — it needed to get out, it needed to become a part of some elegance some world where others are filled by lust. I lost that pearl, I rebuilt that pearl, I created new terminology for that pearl.

            it doesn’t matter at some people, those distrusting treasuries, while nothing breaks our dam. a person must walk on by, he must harness his loins, or realize such craft, or baiting, where hooks are bloody rust. those tussocks those blades or an interesting squirrel. to have seen intricacies or to sense mechanics where it’s nothing beyond one being located: but flaming water by drilling guts or sullen into one’s reflection. such writhing freedom. present disinterest. as one looks too deeply to see. we left peace, we hitched hiked sadness, we became angry someone saw more —than masks or treasures or even glory.

South Central Mathematics

 

the water was running. the tub was overflowing. Love was soaked. (she awoke shaking. pills were spread about. I couldn’t panic.) sleuth was nearby, the gravel was silent, the skies couldn’t renege. by a long year, obnoxious hurting, too much vomiting. (we have rules. some are archaic. a rule is a response to something gone wrong. before that, we don’t make the rule). Clark was fourteen, over-exhausted, the armor of ambition. he trekked alleys. we used to chat. he kept a cigarette. too deep at streets, too wise to relax, over eighty thousand put up. at life too early, known for conversing business, but some elements must be left covered. Shonda would visit, she was Clark’s pulse, she kept with tweeting. Darrel heard whisper, played closeness, and murdered Clark. he fled with Shonda. a sloppy mess. Darrel is doing life Shonda was just released. (it becomes Nintendo, the same happenstance, we knit probability — a soul running or a sage in growth, if components stick into sockets; a frown for Terrance, a fret for adolescents, or alphabetical destruction.) a man goes wild, a woman is secrets, both are muffled. (a scut for luck a superstition for sanity, a bit humbled by scenes.)          —too dear to let go, or tragic delusion, studying enough to let go. some paradox some box while one pursues his delusion—          dusty debts or dirty business so many borders.     too much candor or too deliberate while testing is science.     such citywide misery. such citywide liquor. such citywide churches.     (a soul frets ghetto boffola—(raw laughter)—wile cities feel like dark jungles.)     passed-out smelling with odors—screaming at cars, arrested for public intoxication. released, passed-out smelling with odors—screaming at cars—indeed, arrested for public intoxication.          a deep feeling a dear fret such a message inside of a message.     our first response while normalizing disorder where it becomes the go-to.  as needing to study, to discern ikigai, too much interior unforgiveness.          to know gaslighting, to wonder why it hurts — because they see something good!        

So Subtle, We Laugh!

 

in contrast to self, meanness would express as islands coming to shore. swamp breath marsh eyes so much feeding on weeds. a mayfly so sick, I saw it dropping. we mix freedoms we approve with bias it feels good to select a side. ardent writing so many tropes as designed to ignore fevers; those wooded women those iron women, or one just present. to sit in feelings such pure debate while something essence is nudging. the insides are quiet those planes are set inward those dingoes are polite — those lovers no words those faces no names while seated in a coffee shop. too removed to be right too wrong to claim peace or too revoked to climb higher. some scam in there some person with venom while a mirror reveals the arcane ghost. to secern in mind, or decide in mind, one must treat me with respect …

indeed, much entitlement, many twitches such a nervous system. but Anguish is laughing, getting stronger, becoming a parasite. such favored animosity such a slant in appearance — it’s so subtle complaints are like laughter!

I don’t fret some way or cage like that, where freedom is colorful; a gate in fat a slate in rakes so baited can’t escape it. a longer hustle those desperate years such introjects, while beauty is a riddle. too physical too emotional too hypersensitive. such fences much failure into something too feral. caught cases sewn in mistakes as giggling with Jesus. a metaphor — as one would ask, “Are you mad?” too subtle to pin exits, such ingress to feel mazed, while an egress left one where she started.

            to measure truth as accepting irritants while no one quite carries out those demands. much bias, greater concerns, where something is off in us. to see color as deaths or a-color as suffering where it seems melancholy is like Covid-19. sure teeth to gut such tugging for freedom while rules change in definition. curt or passive?” aggressive or subtle? a buffoon or lawyer?     

Too Much to say, “I Know You.”

 

so much madness as we call by love too many aches. to unlock in self some space some shapeshifting. over rosaries or atop its feeling so much thirst — a lit candle an image of pinpoints as listening to utter disrespect; as coming to conclusion, so braided inside, where peacekeeping is meant for the few: social crumbling or interested kindness where certain avenues are kept clean. 

upon harmonicas into a valley so neat aside a goat. 

it feels correct such placid undertones where one is dissatisfied — those faces we find those faults we dismiss while most merely pardon themselves. 

such fulvous roses such a black horizon, indeed, for them a stick, for ours a pardon.

so mapped such a compass — a woman died!    

such beige propaganda, enough to enrage millions, while we hedge on our interpretation — so constitutional, at dear points, where one says, “You haven’t gone through nothing!”    

magnetic emotion such bias strengths where most are unfriendly. too deep in silence or too vocal one voice or so caged it’s explosive — those green blades those clumps of grass, while beaten a step afore deaths.         

I face myself. I ask about decency. I have become a part of our Condition.

such amaranth fretting such aggressive absence while most feel fervent concerning emotion. so disesteemed or too powerful while we often say, “I just don’t like him/her!”         

those trees look differently. those Capitol voices sound differently. our freedoms seem elastic. a fire is stirring a fever has arisen, we have seen frantic whips.

so driven to disapprove so gifted to persuade, while we get nervous; such thoughts, in such a flavor, as, “Beat what tries to resist.”         

by wheels in dungeons or freedom coming while elders wait, watch, and wiggle. our masked cosmos sweet blue skies while losing a little makes us appreciative.    

but it becomes pain, as manufacturing illusions, if but a need to redeem something untrue.    

why would I chase a fox, it hides in caves, it knows its terrain?

those Beijing wits, those Vietnam crevices our American eyes. to have measures gripping me, to hide a problem, while mistaken a title.