Downpouring Lemonade

 

a tale knotted, an unknitted seam, days are most noisy, made silent.

hearts made of muscle, tissue, phones, answering machines. feeling as it feels. emotion as it blossoms. florets of currency.

removing a costume makes a soul vulnerable.

dying becomes systemic, living becomes patterns, behavior seems to make smaze.

if thinking more, I might feel a soul; if detached, I might feel contradiction.

bathing with sandpaper, grieving in quilt, synchronized, distant, only in cognizance. such raw current, much disapproval, life isn’t framed by inertia.

where do I go when dreams are inept?

what is knowingness that fails science?

a man walks a crucible. he falls low. when he arrives, many are shocked. he selects what he loves; she agrees with his hopes, only giving furious flame.

a mind made of salacity. a soul concealed by promises. it hurts when one comes to life.

Lounges, Liquor Banks, Poolhalls

 

let the magic be the beauty. nightsong owls. like firebirds.

 

losing sanity, or piecing the puzzle, more time for exhaustion. the phantom curse, those barriers, nibbling tumbleweeds. found in a vision, knowing its art, arranged to become literature. if good, it gets wicked; if bad, it suffers goodness—a deficit either direction.

 

a man tries harder, since passed biblic cuffs, monitored by his antennas. like needing x, desiring y, moving towards absence. a gray apple, an inner dragon, a monster in the seas.

 

too appeasing, too incredible, it gets more difficult to make that claim. like pantomime watchers, dear deeper insights, running faster to hear the picture.

 

poverty orphans. rehearsed understanding. if repeated enough, it feels actual.

 

it must be love, as an entity/affirmation, like roses in a sad state. it must be mother, right at my shoulder, we age suspended in disbeliefs. most accurate science, each time, same results; most approved hubris, always in sociality.

 

passed a billiard’s lounge next to a poolhall, up the way from a liquor bank. looked intently, serviced by my voice, so huge the ways we die. if destiny, it’s long but short; if astounded, it seems to make sense—no clear way of knowing, anything said is negated in its utterance.

 

too much philosophy. it’s not serious enough. we can’t deny each thought.

 

many built for systematic doubt, many play with it, others die with it. what we have is something authoritative with a dislike for authority. what we have is contradiction, melancholy, and systematic suppression—as ongoing mind control. or, sweet appreciation, without need of anything, aside for utter peace for the beloved.         

Salient/Deepness

 

I’ve been sailing for months, observant of salience/deepness, things we excuse. rezipped inside, arguing with memories, rationalizing, addressed a certain way: more sullen/somber, more mediated, absorbing what has befallen spirit. people think about indemnity, they feel pride in their fortress, any unsteadiness shatters self-reflection. I sit, looking at twenty-three-years, making a tarty decision. must live to die, must walk to stumble, must crawl to trek. I was captured a tale, wondering about eyes, how they glitter, shimmer, talk, abide, laugh. I was with desire to have more, to toil, to mate, to play clarinet to kiss. many stronger bonds, notwithstanding, our bonds, to presume in another beauty they’ve not claimed. at a serious war, projecting on to another, running from an arid mirror. preaching aside: I loved what I couldn’t keep. I perished early in life. geometry has failed its science. we debate that claim, he must have the formula incorrect, he must have done something wrong. I believe one must do it right, in order to say, it doesn’t work, in order to veto the enterprise.

 

toxicity seeps in, snakes are moving, venom drips from every sentence. I resent one for behavior. they resent me for knowing. we hold to feelings in error.

 

I was low for three days. mind-type lowliness. to hear it is to know it’s chemical.

 

social hair-fractures, heirs of genetics, personality is part original—I inherit you, my first observer, I nurse on your anxieties. more forward, more deafened, chronological distressors. a temple of thieves, a rough rehearsal, (we ask that you love in spite of our quirks).

 

I can’t analyze without reflecting, mirrors enforced on you, point back at me—some mirage, some clown, where it might be some characteristic of certain types—like a genius in darkness, the melody of the shadow, the horror of skies. softer, or harsher, as in penalties—so much silent screaming; bodies blemished, motives examined, reality exposed—hassling, gathering, making tools.

 

sore in art, arranged to suffer, sweet mincing anguish.

 

the silence of loudness. the battle of the reflecting soul. needing deepness, unsettled by salience, roaming city blocks. the fire of a man, the flame of a woman, attraction becomes familiar comforts, art rules, reborn, made stronger—fleeing the unbridled night.

 

for me, me personally, I fret life knocks sentimentality into some remote area; the skies are filled with trees, earth is drowning from water, any private sanctuary is trespassed. to adore is to forget—the seismic patterns, inevitability, I must lie to myself in order to enjoy company. a dear pathology. how many will confess it? life puts us in places—of self-deceit, expectation, something unsteady serves as a concrete foundation—then we grow disappointed. I might cherish disappointment, aside for reclusiveness, void of fullness.   

Susanna Was Gorgeous

 

dear confessional, as inner sanctum, so close—for essence too far.

 

I pride women—I debated mother—a grunt in an ocean, a gauge in treble, distant like machinery.

 

never touched, never lived, an anchor—filled with tongues.

 

aunty would leave, granny was torn, we hear in private homes. pure polarization, interior voodoo, taking it to pagan fire. the witchery if sanctified, needed rituals, a fire blast in mid motion.

 

purer fury in women, heaving up intestines, grieving some visceral karma—to die in stillness, afraid to move, I would kiss jazz; another desecrated, another scraped, I yell, stop naiveté, stop affection, check the pedigree.

 

father was accustomed, to certain beliefs, I pardon his soul.

 

so hard to be honest, it will hurt, truth is overbearing.

 

men are without scales. like a ghetto theologian, sugar-fire, corn-mills, a grotto in a castle.

 

I was at submission, baptized in flame, wondering about upheaval; maybe a good guy, maybe reprobate, maybe pleading beyond ether; the desk at trial, the stenographer brain, maybe many will permit change. a cloister of funny business, a gutter of blackmail, or Augustine suggested penance.

 

who cares about raiding fruit, being temperamental, abiding by the years of one’s youth?

 

I would fall, begging, needing direction; if steep enough, if aloft by linchpin, it would occur, forgiveness is granted.

 

melancholic temperaments—chasing doors, a vestibule inside, most devastated to play chairs. fiending for evolution, in sense made spirit, at webs chard by mystic sinners.

 

maybe I’ll wail in Syriac as an appeal in liturgy, maybe I’ll learn Arabic as a sign of repentance.

 

like a Phoenician dream, in an Assyrian temple, much wrath in Ishmael.

 

Hagar as friend, mother, lover, servant.      

To Inner Chambers-/To Training-/To Accuracy

 

when I began, it was grout in his veins, gut-wretched screaming, pure morosity; I was part dead, couldn’t make good, time was mockery, blood diamonds, all of Africa after me.

 

when have scoundrels died—in deeper order—to sustain inner peace?

 

language of the beasts, collapsing, unsung, another shall not be immortalized. heaving up vomit, trying to stop the pouring, wheezing, looking around, it can’t be shared.

 

rosary eyes, cloister palms, the inner monastery; talking roughness upon self, demanding different reality, losing what was never connectivity.

 

my art in me, those winds as streaming, purer intuition. a lady as a nun, never made vows, feeling like ruined. take it. take it now. take range, gut, ghosts—the rain; to skip into town, to cause a rift, a soul split in twain; parts for manufacturing, serene detachment, fated with sin/faith, pain, nonetheless.

 

much polarization. many miles away. touched again.

 

to become what I have chased, to meet stronger souls, so keen to facts—too distant for it to register. one says, “Just change, try harder, make others know you care.” another says, “Some are observant, they see things differently, they do more feeling than talking.” indeed, we say decent things, many are gregarious, others see life through the hurting. a sad understanding, a rich intimacy, for one can see more.

 

—for years the silence was remarkable, the inner aggression was pluvial, interior

     mind-prints were picturesque, stately, filled by aesthetic—I learned language to   

          identify gravity—sure waxing anger, deeper confidence, cultic grins. they

               can’t take one’s pain, they will discard it immediately, they will walk  

                    with a flashlight flickering at signs. they will prove you.    

The Inner Monastery

 

 

eastern bodies given to extremes, many monks, ascetics, martyrs. experience seems similar, across globes, fresh baked croissants. the cinnamon of the desert—the jam of the cave—Luther grappling with his brains. religious bodies, forcing construct, favoring restrictions. the cloister existence, the ashram life, our bodies as instruments of conversation. to have lived. to have died. to have an old soul.

 

miseries. trying to subdue sorrows. captured in a never-ending blizzard; older with each return, golden by sunshine, enlove with the face of enchantments.

 

we haven’t measured in quality the imbuing legacies of women; as candescent color, opalescent emotion, irrigation, signs, flowers, souls.

 

western science does those things. neurotransmitters are decoded. doctors know their curriculum.

 

to float is spirit, to be present in soul, no such thing as becoming entirely free.

 

Pacific Islands. souls at the cliff. unembodied spirits, sitting in stillness, making music with a piccolo.

 

damaged or complete, albeit, complete, unfree, palming a freesia.          prosaic absolution. a bride we cherish. most understanding in our insistence. to have adored, to have determined, while many, despite, certain pains, despite, attitudinal hazards, experience more goodness than badness. we speak of something deeper, a mental portrait, malaise made holy, petition by penance. an inner storm. a driving whirlwind. 

when things seem correct, we may feel dizzy, with alarm in our arcs. much a tragic harmony, a mystic travesty, filled with righteous trauma.      

Skies Seem Indifferent

 

thrown into ice, eating fire, it starts feelings, such

angst in phantom eyes.

 

we never get clear. weather is silver. minds lose links, chains become cures,

we can’t eat our porridge.

 

bleeding bleach. dirty dilution. rebels repenting.

 

much science, anthem remorse, it was heaven, lost, watching watches, each second meant destiny.

 

autumn arrogance, bold brilliant beauty,

such to fight, like furious, as for nothing.

 

anxious wraith, calm winters, laughing to break boxes. looking at ants, carrying a ladybug, feeding a squirrel.

 

deference given. depleted quickly. most wish for luxuries, riches, a person forever with leniencies.  

The Theater Is A Stage

 

going at it, rebaptized, speaking tongues—a tale dangerous, hands trembling, eyes screaming, demented, hard on sanity, like bent in atmosphere. eating beasts, running through mirrors, aside an hourglass, mumbling sands. living close at it, hoodie tight, a pair of new Asics—the respect I give, if but reciprocation, it’s astonishing.

 

dearest distraction, minds laminated—with chills, pagans, pure, raw dislocation.

 

roll one for me, inhale one for me, look possessed for me; life at it, Rick James at it, a young Teena Marie at it.

 

a slice of cornbread, a glass of futuristic, watching how souls break free.           blocks imploding, homes trampled, most art is made from gut—living like desperate, the value of the artisan, many can’t feel too much nuance.          

 

I listen—it sounds like make-believe, it’s remarkable; a poet bungee jumping, a metaphor, in midst a jungle supplied with inkpots. to dip in gold, to explode like disappearing, seated at the foot of a mountain. all these trees like paper is free, I nibble leaves, I count veins, I shake ideas like dice.

 

turning away, like curious a dream, I wish I could; to invest much time, to dance with affection, purely moved by a harmonica. losing youth, rough in time, against a strawberry patch; sensing it’s a trial, living with intention, aside from running like shrews.

 

a new energy. I must grow. you can tell we're all possessed. it’s a fear, the wrong one unlocked, and hell will shine.

 

at a different dialogue, most mythic sagas, suffering the succession of struggle.     

Justice, My Love!

 

let me be a poet, winnowing reigns, water falling to asphalt. let me love like a child, with needs of a mother, with worship for a father. let me love!

much terror in those eyes, those jasper clouds, those numen beginnings.

if giving more, would more be enough, would animals appreciate storms? an undressed allegiance, broken in elegance, suffocating for mighty screams.

let me adore, with hope of amore, sweet, delicate paramour. to seize you, to abandon others, to have what never hit earth.

to tell you now, the best of me, a mouth filled with praises. quiet

majesty, loudest pain, sullen moon.  in love to live,

as estranged to die, with one so many tri-mentions. heart maniac. soul kleptomaniac. too kinetic to keep adjusted.

a knotted soul, as knitted to knocking, a puppet searching for a puppeteer. if

passion,

let die blockage,

again in arms I must master.

let me be a musician, afraid of total darkness, trembling with turmoil. accused for walking by. cherished for saying hello. brought into justice, my Love.    

Redeeming/Remaining

 

the room is muggy, murky termites,

a muddy chin.

I sleep in walls, deep communication,

brainstorms

might locate mores.

 

it’s difficult to assess behaviors,

dependent on ethos,

pathologies elude swiftly.

        

the fire of majority.

such rulings. an acceptance of  

pantheon water.

 

we’ll see new harps, we’ll hear cellos,

we’ll play

violin

inside. we’ll be loud to have lost,

uneasy

while

winning, most will desire attention.

 

the room has clouds, murk springs, a

muddy

conduit.

 

nightmares are different, they

make for

attentiveness, whereas, most dreams

are forgotten.

Sunday Morning Music

 

you are cataphatic with colleagues, apophatic with strangers, quite powerful in spirit. I blame occurrences on brains, we might know more to that; presumed, not evident, not as crucial as is lonely—in some force of the word, in some comforting loneliness. I don’t believe in what I experience, albeit, I can’t explain it away; the ousia is susurrous, a whisper, inner houses are noisy. I rethink about you. I leave you be. you creep back in; woe to a man that scorns a spirit, woe to his sanity, where he must learn to maneuver. you have power, skill, reserves—as it fires through interior, strikes with force, I was a subject of my experiences—a person of concern, a moving animal, quite sullen, quite quiet. we felt irritation. there are ways to respond. when they differ, a person is attacked. most sensitive creatures—unaware of depth, frequency, while knowing certain results; scientific spiritualism, rabid knowhow, to a degree where most feel secluded, hidden, like monks, hermits, sound, as it shoots becoming energies. some would silence pontification, not as a bad word, more so as explaining, to our ability, functions of something oozing from brains? some are possessed, (all are possessed), where some are awake, as terrified of entrance, nonetheless, operating by spirit. it seems comforting by definition when such live internally—until challenged by experience.

 

you persist. you waltz. you will not be ignored. you do not forgive. thus, you hold a grudge. you can’t tolerate interrogation. it happens in life, coming across insistence, it rides out for decades. my granny told me this. I was suspicious. I know now.

 

morning creatures, funny raccoons, a new possum has appeared. crickets are consistent, they serve as examples, many are not interested. one was disrespectful, insisting on grandiosity, many play guitar with humans; as faces understood, anything seeming smart, not necessarily each other, it seeps in though. by silent birds, chirping, at an awakening, I try to live that way: singing, agreeable, morning is Mozart, Beethoven, Chopin.

 

I take issue with souls. many take issue with color. many more take issue with each other, despite, noncolor. a certain, albeit, unspoken, hierarchy, an internal hieroglyphic—where males are insistent, women negotiate, all attack where it becomes venting. I seem to say we pick our projects—those we are comfortable pelting—where some see opposites as reason to strike. many will try. it is unavoidable. many will not submit.

 

pure resilience, as it comes to mind, we create a situation, knowing its authenticity, while writing it up as anomaly.

 

this has been a concern.

 

a diligent person, a spirit person, is misunderstood. beauty looks differently. aesthetic is challenged. a steady stream becomes irritation.

 

the left hand mustn’t know what its brother is doing. although, they must work in unison.      

Cascading Wilderness

 

on level near a fig tree next to a box of diaries—sits a child. he peruses his ancestors. he has color semi-muted. it sounds strange.

 

daffodils weep. dictums encompass terror. deep sorrow suffers.

 

souls boil in lava. the child becomes a man. he dreams of a bigger picture.

 

florets feel sunburn—a fount becomes a waterfall, deeper anguish cascades. many hurdles, but mango eyes, we die undistinguished. knells are sounding, the town is filled with hummingbirds, pain is decorated. if to love is to unbalance, two have no right to love.

 

magenta petals. an opus blurring. celebrated for proper suffering.

 

          softer gashes, gnawing pressures, gushing flesh. a horror in screams. a jasper bat—

          near a jasmine hydrant.

          suffocation. delicate certainty. many have more faith.

 

a drink of poison, a frenzy for the beloved, an ache found in flux. rarely would one sacrifice, never would one die, we lose a fact, this element, found inside, might jump for love. an unidentifiable entity, invisible, defined by words, lacking reach—made lunar.

 

studded hopes over fallen wings to look, at one introduction, to affirm passion eternal.

 

by a gut-phone, to find in memory, a second, to have vowed to excellence. the seas of islands, molehills of compassion, marble dusty into dusky tomorrows, like dusky windiness. some snare for a Lonestar, safety in souls, unzipped into eternity.

 

sour or sweet, stampeding emotions, to have cherished contrition.    

Mashed Out

 

off a cigarette, off a Mike’s, lacing tennis shoes. brand new denims, fresh black t-shirt, a dirty feeling. ignored it, mashed out doing 50, the streets look different. passed a black & white, faces all into me, kept moving forward. I remember buses. I remember penalties. I feed on repercussions. Love like an hourglass, a portrait, something euphonic. another gift, an expensive mistake, with one near his ghost. heart thumping. trying to concentrate. one pushing for a heart attack. like fuck it! it doesn’t matter, a tear into badness. warzone prayers, a mantis sister, a raw mother. so existential, the day is fragile, heard word—a locomotive died. in my shadow, looking at you, worried it’s never going further. many dealers, smashing down Venice, the battle is political—came down from prisons. like green light, like fuck it! like too young to live it. brains all around. faces with matter. mythic, methodical, magic, or actual? lost a friend, many gone, it was different. people graduated: posse life, tagging life, crew life, gang life, bloody murder life. I looked upon a map, I pointed, grabbed a ticket—was gone eight months. came back to her, unknowing in her, like he never mattered in her. filthy mansions, interior Corona, like fire in a basement—it must get oxygen. I sit, thinking. I like Scarlett, Rihanna, or Kerry; I like living, I like mathematics, I was skeptic on astrology. some traits, some music, when I saw his brother—I couldn’t reach him. like 32 years. like what the fuck! I mashed away. many had feelings. I wonder if each know survival. it was lost, we got ghost, anything mine is yours. something simple, a speed chase, like this is his name. I mashed out, I saw granny, I caught a taxi, like warriors lost grounding. never my life, always a soldier, like shoes make us fight better. by twenty a lost soul, never saw him coming, it becomes panic.

Months Before Birth

 

I wish I would—dipping into a coma—like 15 realms, a ghost in bone, marrow, blood and arteries—the life sentence, the robber laughing, the deacon cheating. hit church for serenity, disappointed in calmness, they think he’s a victim; like genotypes, seeing my family, like phenotypes—a scammer with a soul.

 

blue terror, Isis ravished, the Muslims on a mission. we differ in ingredients we chime on a rug, I’m at the sun. ghetto existence, ghetto living, a nine-year-old, serving a double life—like 50 years.

 

I wish I would, I never sung it, I was on a roof dancing—I was flipped out, they shot across grass, a seven-year-old drinking Alize.

 

more reddened passion, purple fantasies, gnawing like sugarwater. much sugarcane, much winning, watching as pain unravels our integrity.

 

I wish I would—I never felt it like that, dipping, slow it down, a territory known for its development.

 

most at basic instincts, lofty thoughts are offensive, lofty souls are disgusting—just want it simple, those breasts, those cakes, those eyes, lost in zones, lost in game, I know we lie—it feels good!

 

like naïve, like a panda, faced by a gorilla.

 

gnawing bones, laughing with jaguars, at a cheetah’s recital. I wish I would, it might feel good, to get away from myself—to fall enlove, like thugs, sipping vodka—a few as zealots, a curse in her eyes, many feeling good

 

—watch it happen, no more potatoes, no more bacon—a giggling man, a fearing man, we asked, “Why is the pain so funny?”         

 

I wish I would—like disguised from myself, the anthem screaming—the fathers are smashing, just did ninety down a block, his son in trouble.

 

I wish I would, never knew it, like seeping into a routine.

 

damn what they said. damn what they heard. I’m glad you haven’t figured game.

 

streets made beasts. we shook a mountain of beliefs. I wish I would—like a person is dumb-school.

Most Are Gluing Pieces

 

I need love from love, like lions need comfort, like humans need trees. some fable, according to fire, an interior chamber. pure impurities, assigned to myself, simply sweet nectar. mirrors without faces, skies without horizons, deaths without the sting. an unreal portrait. it isn’t true. most are chained to promise. I’m missing bearings, essentials are unfit, I approach looking for the punchline. it’s unsteady steadiness. irregular regularities. mainly, it’s shocking, distressing, mandatory—to look vigilantly, to count inconsistencies, from a person harder on trusting. where one is adoring, made a miracle, raised from a good family … it seems painful, an illegitimate child will wrestle life away. mythic or factual, we shutter to make a claim; while one is too much fever, certain magnitude, a miracle minded pleasure. I was absent many times. it seemed natural. to seek the beauty in womanhood—to sing praises, to exalt physicality, in an unphysical realm.

 

if to love as love channels, tender flutes, cellos, and violins. to capture a glimpse, to know with heart, so many wounds spell glory. never enough said, when so compelled, never a soul, so alike to chemistry. the nakedness of valleys. those fitting allegories. the myth of the sun. to keep loving love, to maintain an ideal, with life screaming at naiveté. sure into my eyes, sprinting into my brains, affected deeper into wilderness. so difficult to say something, like a soul finding words, like a shy poodle.

 

barking with subtlety, when shall I learn—of deer, snakes, jaguars?

 

I would meet terrors, in suggestibility, with needs to unveil love. some abstract term, requiring description, we can’t just say, “I have you in my sanity.”   

We Speculate, Never Quite Clear Though

 

I give it more, always resurrected, pure neatness, pure blackness.

 

court cities, comfort curt enough, like country fires; like flies at gnats at gunning like it hurts—mashing out, blasting in-brains, like never room for change. no one listens, they can’t feel it, it never went depth enough. a fever losing its life, a dear friend, so much anguish between skin textures; like power in us, to take a blow, too many had to die; more frankness, more curtness, so blessed to have survived;

 

a name while here, a dear martyr, like political courage.

 

more to knowledge, loving some creature, like hell on his conscience. freedom to watch, liberty to hear eyes, while one is cheap, tawdry, debating actions.

 

we might do as selected, repercussions are ours, while many can’t breathe.

 

I was sick, laced with flames, a flicker of failure. so close to nothingness so closer to nothing, like fucked, gunning, leaping fences. a damn problem, the way of life, rare to believe unsighted. eating arsenal, rolling gunpowder, puffing a military—a militia in us, a cave in gods, like ruined, a riot, riding into bullets.

 

much in officials, gritting his jaw, watching, like meant to suffer disgust and croak.

 

dear officers, how in hell to protect with carefree indifference?

 

I see a woman. I see a trick box. I see a friend—as noticing, a gift blasted off wrongness.

 

it’s my fault, what in bleaching, like the house was repainted, like I can’t see, like new behaviors just pop up. I must say it, I do apologize, many kill their imagery—linked in damages, another new gesture, many with opportunity.

 

so lit so gifted so much fresh air—showing emotion, emotion free, some problem killing where they designed it to drill.