Spirit Indicts Spirit

 

the spirit needs holiness, the color of sacredity, both tunic and collar. maybe a necktie, for most solemn, the courage of invisibility. like pictureless souls, present, unseen, most crucial to flame; multiple teardrops, puddles of passion, the eyes are a storehouse. rich, shapeless droplets—presumed in innocence, some wonder if owls cry.

 

banshees are in prayer, they seek encouragement, they mimic the mantis.

 

the spirit is breathless, knit into skies, aside many fires.

 

into earth as time becomes clouds, most stars bear witness—to alchemic raindrops, burgundy, grilled eyes, like passionate crosses. the spirit wiggles, it suffuses its chambers, silt sits around the perimeter

 

spirit woos spirit. by the flame, unto the flame, the flame knows its flame. similar with people—knowing with intimacy—knowing two have beating drums; as tribal, rumors about the camp, the souls are irrigated.

 

more pain into deepest spiritus, knowing life becomes knowing deaths.

 

seeing a spirit, eyes to soul, makes it difficult to resist spirit. spirit might unfasten souls. a lethal, pure spirit; adjusting to earth.

 

spirit sits like a scarecrow. spirit may muse poetry. spirit indicts spirit. Old Testament Spirit. or New Testament Spirit. or Human Spirit. spirit plants crop; if harvest, spirit sickles spirit, reaping spirit requires spirit.

 

spirit will invest in itself, as one is itself, tolerance is tender water.

The Soul Uncaged While Caged: Pure Contradiction

 

while manic the soul is on display—depicting portraits, visions, appealing to wildness.

 

something in me wants to break cages—some freedom-prison, where, despite, freedom, something is unfree, trapped, while it can’t get out, it can’t be satisfied, even when it breaks free—too much brevity.

 

we might sense danger, it pushes forward; we might sense death, it begins negotiations; we enter into something extra, another world, banished from ourselves, our comforts—this is for the manic—everyone else is set free!

 

I met a person. she needed to see it. I deprived her of seeing it. she’s seen it a million times—but not in me—this becomes ink obsession.

 

a man must watch his mouth, his ink, untamed, inside a wilder soul. the soul doesn’t care. it wishes to vocalize. it likes to rev the engines.

 

as a manic soul, I partook of delicate realities, those no one will confirm.

 

we give little attention to what we can’t understand.

 

… but!

 

some doctors are privy—they’ve gone further, they’ve reproduced mania ….

 

we see it in a second—where he’s not a client—he’s a person with a certain slant, insight, mega-authenticity.

 

I see her as a spirit. I can’t explain it. there are gray occurrences, but they don’t matter. the soul wants to address her, I keep saying differently, the soul thinks the next level lives in her.

 

I’m mad for confessing!

where this is for each of the few.

while “we” refers to manics.  

The Soul Is An Opiate

 

the soul has a chasm the pain is holy the soul rebuilds photography. there are images of existence, true penalty is true happiness. to rue joys, to love like hikers, to pass on by.

 

the soul is vapor made of flesh the soul is paradox, irony, ink. the soul is remade of silk, rocks, iron, gold.

 

while a soul is a copycat, it’s unique, as it becomes a conglomerate. solitarily communal, unsuited as fitting in, rules mastered by the unruly.

 

so beautiful in uneasiness, so in need like a dying man, or desperate like trekking with bobcats.

 

looking over at nakedness, the intimacy of two souls, to humans like leaves to trees. coupled with snails, a whit of perfume, a soul finds its way home.

 

a muse is a soul, a sexual fire, two souls as soulmates; so distorted, so confused, good souls mesh easily.

 

the soul is in for out of the moment—too observant to feel natural, too unnatural to feel observant.  

 

the soul subdues a migraine, an ancient grandson, communicating with sparrows.   

Vigil Soul

 

oh dearest soul, made of fluid works, most metallic, burning wood. opal pain, plums in flesh, scratching incense. to have valor, to have suffering, much peace, calmness, so wild. a soul with beats, drums with kits, piccolos buried with ashes.

 

I come that I may vanish. I bathe that I might get filthy. I confess that I might trespass.

 

with kiwi paint, sculpting kiwi karma, drifting into kiwi scars. and those years, like pomegranate seeds, each one filled with blood. the soul was there, before I appeared, such a bundle of intimacy: wrapped in kidskin, sipping goat milk, palming mother’s sackcloth:

 

the soul eating spikes, a cycle made unclear, each peg is a human.

 

I understand—too much satisfaction—while a soul in cringing.

 

the soul is afire, pouring out insistence, proud for souls to flourish.

 

I eat that I may hunger. I write that I might thirst. I learn that I might unlearn; those habits, those uncritical nails, that I may unlock a treasure-trove; as miracles become human, like energies in motion, or assistance answering the charged vassal.

 

originality is insoluble, insufferable, unquenched, never censured. it lives in regions, fornicating like skies, so holy, an irking soul—pushing creativity, dying with ink, running out of paper.   

in wonder of an anchor, a galaxy, or a liability

 

the long walks through darkness the miles we can’t escape the soulprints piercing umbrellas; as an achy spirit, made livid through illusion, power belongs to silence. multiple penetrations, as a wolf eats meat, many more parcels in trees. aside a boulder sits a man struggling to move it. he must carry it. it’s too heavy. he will die proving self to manipulators. those rooms are filthy—laundry sprawled out—webs and spiders, bugs unidentified; he brooms under the bed—pencils and pens, dust-bunnies and socks—a notepad. many screams are inside of tales untold where they slip into swirls; many carrying pain and restraint and anger. the soul absorbs its inversion. a small incident becomes a reason for war. as this is true, there’s an issue, to whom do we listen to—in what capacity is something small? most anything can take on a life—most solutions come out of desperation, considering grander scales.    

    

the soul relishes in deepness, settles with rain, pours into meditation.

 

if it was easy or hard or scared or frightened—if it loved or hated or cleaved or resisted—it had a place in humans.

 

I see places in woman as stars bright in space with scents wafting from a dungeon.

 

there’s much in the soul of humans,

running into it as we do,

collecting an inherence of calamities.

 

(mutiny is a hawk, a pawnshop, one must be so much to receive so much.)

 

—we have such in common, living the penalties we live, enduring the agonies we knit.

—something matters, needing unconditional acceptance, rising in essence. removing pots from the garage. replacing old paintings. cupping gallons of indecision.

—too unique to be understood, too ambitious to be loved, too much integrity to regret being human.

 

in wonder of an anchor, a galaxy, or a liability.   

Seers Appear Before Us

 

by multitude of words we find a soul’s flaws, his faults, his failures. the soul is shredded, her mentorship is treasured, most assert more than networking. you give me business, I give you likewise—you get upset … how to play guitar, how to avoid the violin, at some stranger’s piano? breathing oxygen, I will never touch you, a woman pleading innuendoes, a soul with Woolf in her. I wash clothes, the linen smells like lavender, the clothesline has my business. many will praise in accordance to being catered to. a cold soul can’t get angry—by a colder soul. music is blazing, hours seem a blur, time seems fraudulent. I doubt anything, I give it credit, while many try to match my temperament. America is my home. I haven’t let go. the soul is my liaison. another was picking. she plucked a nerve. I responded—to no avail. I get tired, listening to uncertainty, it hasn’t said a word. another was at me, as we each are brilliant, where another is following those imprints. it seems lazy, where one labels, while no one investigates. we just presume truth, honesty, exhaustion of the case. the soul is content, lonely, gregarious in private. some trickiness, so alive, a man is a loser to walk away. what we adore, another jilts, with needs to come back when she shines. the penalty of the soul, the beauty of the eyes, never quite certain how chastity works. such a small/large brain, so well reserved, afraid to sit in front of seers.  

Soul Is Fiending

 

the soul desires what it cannot reach, it puts it to life in the living soul. the soul eats poisoned grapes—it desires bane—it leaks into the soul. we experience the soul, at given intervals, we live the greatest of our days. the soul yearns for sugar-apples, licorice, breadfruit. if to become soul, it would be too powerful, the soul is wilder than wildness. if protected, we yearn, we desire the totality of ourselves; eating salmonberries, mushing raspberries, developing amusement parks. the soul paints what it can’t have—it desires what it can’t reach—it masters anything close it can’t see; like pottery, the good with the bad, the soul is strummed into silence. if but a delicate soul, while it yearns, wildfire in loins; the soul is passionate, direct, advancing in its indirectness. upon a wildrose, a soul sits, it just watches itself: feeling vibration, musing upon names, receiving and returning into an orbit. the soul irrigates itself it loves others more than self it takes pleasure in company. unfasten its scream, divulge its terror, unmask its trepidation. such in soul to have in life while all that it cherished remains in veils. the end of the soul, is the beginning of the soul, the soul is in-between—dangling in atmosphere, rolling through spheres, winnowing mind-fires.   

The Powers They Share

 

it isn’t enough to take, in some wagering sense, I must be devastated. the pain of the iron, what I can’t defer to, a sage might ask for emotion. so close at his door, flashlights peering in, a man on the floor. many ripples go through him, lightbulbs shattering, a man must record his obituary. to love like adoring, to know what love is, to offer me a proper definition; where I might understand, I might feel intensely, this thing with wings. love isn’t static, concrete, a universal, have I made it clear? it changes from mind-to-mind, its arithmetic is unsteady, it flits in its moods.           it isn’t enough to take, in some asphalt sense, I must be destroyed.           a person is an affair, inside self, outside of spheres, in some fantasy—most daily.           the dream of a terrific soul, some angel specialized at loving us—this is all the soul wishes for.           the skies are dusky at night. I sit for a moment in others. I look right, left, I become concerned.           there’s a secret, most do not see, if I think of it—my spouse thinks of it too. no time for virtue, the clock is ticking, I’m losing luster. a need to be spotless, to feel complete, to unzip, unveil, reserve a spot in eternity.          love is defensive, or comfortable, it takes theatrics to seduce it. we’ve seen it all, so we need emotion, the tetherball wraps around its pole.           it’s not enough to take, the one must be devastated, else the project is a flop.           love isn’t an axiom, some guaranteed aphorism, some truth never could it fail. if one knew the secret, to two made monogamous, the powers they share, most would go mad before violating the union.

The City Is The Farm

 

over a cigarette, about a year ago, looking at sunrise; the depth of the hummingbird, the fields down south, like life is on repeat. similar thoughts, similar praises, same disgusts.

 

I’m losing me, changing daily, now, again, it looks like love.

 

the pride of the penalty, the fall of the filter, like abused loving more.

 

shots to his soul, volts to his temple, like communing is too damn cold. I wanted one, I was sick inside, never to get sicker.

 

infused to dream. attacking a new chalkboard, writing solutions. I was weary at dams, swimming against a wall. I was higher up, laughing in a situation, I know hospitals. the fear of the novice, this dirt of the casualty, the fallen in screams.

 

woven into hassles. bleeding the skies. like invisibility living as seen. so cold a riddle, so true a fact, perceptions are realer than reality.

 

I kneel lower, climbing downward, I know a secret.

 

sworn to ambition, a thousand lines, did I reach you? a million more sentences, an avenue to palaces, too damn beautiful to fly away. to elicit a response, to feel illicit, where cartoons no longer work. slinging self into a situation.

 

dusky virtue, abased in problems, where it’s envied the freedom others exhibit.

 

I watched her, so damn rude, so disrespectful, balanced in necessity. I caught a fever. it was much offensive. the situation is absolute.

 

I shifted.

 

it sounds like passion. skin tone—more an entrance, more an execution. most gorgeous crops, a sickle is dripping, like most are going ballistic.   

Fire Flickers Orange Beginnings

 

wilding out, threshed, bleeding, God knew me! blessed. sick in bells. so real it became failure. the moon is lazy, it never behaves, like a ghost impolite. no tears, please forgive him, flipping off liquor. the problems, the plight, so passionate about her face. I was lost. I was found. she keeps her distance.     I mask out, I play charades, I parade in silence. so determined, so penalized, like detours to Phoenix. I loved, as best I could, I fell like a ballerina; plain Jane, plain pain, to flicker like flame.

 

died at the alpha, came back at omega, no one sees this fucking plague. how in hell against vaccination?

 

we might fight, some shit is silly, like rolling without tags.            

 

wilding out, threshed, bleeding, God knows me!

 

the last to make celebration, the first to curse himself, the dotted line, the contract, pleading redemption.

 

spinning diamonds, the last performance, loving one too sick to adore passion. so wicked, a sickroom, a straightjacket.

 

I loved like absent. I was never present. I lost trying to admit my flaws. so detached, so analytical, so keen, it destroys privilege.

 

the first yacht, the dirty millions, those I forsook. it was clause, provision, like lawyer say, “Get ghosted!”

Black Licorice

 

like mystic dice, or alchemic skies, metal into liquids—nothing to eat, nothing to say, with everything to believe in; it must be better, the laws of poverty, pure grit to escape—no more Welfare, more buckets of faith, in the church line. a brick of cheese, it might last, cut the mole off. many signs, many symbols, anything silent is a psychopath. some exaggerate—he must be pliable, reachable, bendable—the plight of blackness, immediate aberration, simply upon color, ethnicity—they look differently. ain’t nobody listening, nobody but a few, we adore, nay, love the few.

 

          faith was rebuilt, try completing science, try aching in private—the force of the thief, a bag of farm chicken, a stead of steeds—more laughing, forgetting agony, none fall enlove like those dying. beautiful, tall black woman, so provocative, too much to conquer; easy winds, mudslides, grinning under sunshine; too busy to run, too involved to pretend, so delicate, we trust you. it never ends, it becomes terrific, such rain on seas, another inch—into sky rise, so low, we need more machines. tragedy struck. seated in pain; the excuse is terrible.    

 

sirens screaming, a face in itself, to look, where moons shine; tears against gravity, rather give them to God, precious sorrow gets us closer.

A Bucket of Water

 

          maybe we desire stimulation, pain, epithets, laughter turned sullen. maybe the ghosts are bleeding—as electricity—bouncing body to skies; a furious pagan, a slave of crimes, sentenced last turn—running with giggles, Medicaid ran out. getting high in ghettoes, the bone aching, the marrow intoxicated—so precious, so beautiful, her faith in a cell—the mood of a minority, the margins for terrific sin, while skin becomes boundaries; fumbling my life, more liquor for souls, mother watched as I grinned—foot to pit, snakes with groceries, it was difficult developing discernment. days are daisies, deserved in dungeons, drugged at the asylum—black folks facing depression, like prayer hands in a text—fathers doing years, it seems accepted, rehab becomes furious—trying against skin, weakened to take a blast, the counselor is an addict. the judge is worried, no one is listening, he goes deeper into pills. life is funny, the puritan is angry, the laxed are suffering—all are unstable.

 

many are worrying, many are stifled, many more are born to poverty. a miracle mindset, never hopeless, albeit, close to dying—the fields with pleasant words, as long as over there, with plenty claiming universal love. we mean something different, we mean sex, while a little boy is emaciated and a vulture in waiting patiently. the vulture knows its legacy, it knows disease, it knows the death warrant.

 

          back to a psych, back to mentality, back to jibbing and jabbing and jiving—all is orders, while complete on paper, so unstudied by self. sirens raging, mothers too low to jump higher—my mind tripping, looking at what some ignore, we desire pure beauty. a little different than me, same affliction, too wise to hear my shit. the condition has conditions, the fire is furious, most carry a bucket of water.   

Pictures Live Inside

 

I have adored what I cannot possess as one hurting himself. I have thought of beauty, mainly in others, terrified I have lost reality: some core creature, some caveat monster, while I muse upon nobility. the problem is harsh, the understanding is harsher, It will never be as a person insists!

 

while reality becomes ideal, idyllic, impure, one may see a conundrum, a sphinx, much disappointment. it happens in people: I see goodness, I long to have it near, it has its own life. is it persuaded? does it vacillate? it appears to know what love is!

 

I have no qualifications, outside of self-reflection, needing something unhuman—some essence, substance, familiar in our history; a walking inconsistency, whereat, a deeper casualty, or too consistent to garden true reality.

 

here I run a risk, nevertheless, I must ask: if gentle friendship, with a weakness, does one turn away? this is a deeper question, it demands altruism, it shuns pride, ego: if we mesh, if love is radiant, do I veto you for your errors? of course, violence is wrong, mind control is ruthless, but gentility is hard to manufacture.

 

I’ll leave that to others, as not trying to convince, but if it happens often, in different situations, with different people, one must adjust, or cleave to the ideal.

 

many beautiful souls, lost in art, losing self—in humans, in powers, in decency one creates; with film inside, cameras inside, moments documented, outlined, as they live in us.  

As a Human, I Keep Learning

 

just a little bit for a daredevil. screaming for noises, alarmed by loudness, needing unreality, nonetheless. so novel, so amorous, so impatient; as carefree, incurring damages, carrying an existential scent. years make an austere queen, subject to slips, in a world made dishonest. a guarantee is a promise, in its passion, despite, gremlins lurking in shadows. otherwise, abysmal, sweet despair, aggravated by devil-may-care. at times, loving her wasn’t easy—she would say something similar. if to impart my story, if to find an audience, some present antiquity. so bizarre how it rationalizes, brains protecting themselves, alienation seeming unavoidable. so discreet with pain, “All is well,” seated afore a closet, face wrapped in knees. uneasiness is a planet, module C, sheer morosity promised flowers. an internal heist, a kidnapping, like winning is inverted or haunted.

 

woven by daisies, thinking on immortality, feeling quite mortal; rebuking constantly, particular head magic, presuming this is friendship. walking an engrossing leaf, poem, pain—in its fruition. attuned at moments, insync, so synchronized: a flash in cameras, a good second, if to feel complete; as passing into oblivion, a remembered itch, eating sociality.

 

by a taste, it smells like water, it hankers like poverty. toiling over frost, trying to get closer, pure agony in our eyes.    

Watching Is Much Work

 

I listen to the unsaid. I miss much of what’s said. it seems like pain is on an island … all alone, watching birds, praying to a phoenix … a fireball, a mystic, a yogi. I seek differentiation, to analyze subtleties, while probing similarities. most don’t mind dying, if it shows resurrection, if it means you will love again. sure imperfections, intangible weights, the last albatross. to have lived forever, it seems cruel, nonetheless, most die too soon.

 

I felt fever framed in passion. your body is contagious. your lips are pouty. I haven’t a clue. years are catching us. dying isn’t as beautiful as before.

 

I intuit to a flaw. I cleave to discouragement. winners advance quickly.

 

so much a charmer, merely gazing, feeding ducks; a believer in essence, as swimming through darkness, a bashful, audacious believer. to have touched in spirit, meant so little, you perceived I had peace. so terrible we become, so gifted like skies, most put wonder on you. to carry it is heavy. he must be a miracle. I couldn’t do what he does.

 

it’s amazing: a soul wants another soul—too weak to sustain unsaid soul; where unsaid soul needs admiration, to die in the metre, in much using, a soul uses in return. I haven’t a clue—with all my running—if only to gaze a little further.  

Observations

 

sandpaper the surface. repolish the face. anguish has become sweetness.     I was aloof inside, numb, unable to reach me; pathological, unsuitable, relishing in detachment. some things, experiences, should shock us—alter our perception. as a man with pains, or with hassles in veins, like re-abused in several screams. to have died early, traumatized by reality, or suffused by love, spirit, dynasty … furious creature, living a furious life, many spoke of the resilience theory … a soul able to bounce back, because of perception, those issues approached with wisdom.     Love is anxious, insecure, fleeing horizons; Love is water, quenching thirst, the sun is blazing.     to have sincerity, when it aches, we assert incorrectness … I’d rather hear truth, despite its flame, then hear lies, so slow to unveil.     so freewheeling those years—they were brief those years—memories have seldom to make comforts these years. I sound one-sided, so unilateral, maybe there are witnesses: vital, spitfire tragedies, children made into stuntmen, better, ropedancers … such highwires, such beautiful faces, it still crushes inside—raw behaviors, trained irregulars, imprudent, deliberate mistakes.     much hair-raising activity, while trying to make sunshine, it seems real all the way around … from East Los Angeles to Brentwood, deep essence, shifty zigzags, eruption due to displeasures.   

Too True To Believe It

 

… the fever we feel, so lowly made on high, it’s hard to rest; like convergent spirits, a rare moment, a most appealing insight; running water, into a basin, I’ll wash your feet—only if you let me; I’ll cure your ills, I’ll unchain your leprosy, I’ll die for your salvation …. women with kids know this feeling. men with souls feel this sentiment. so far into knowing you, like inside of you, making a space for you. if to touch the hem, I’ll be healed, by your faith it has come to pass; by your belief to move a mountain—by your courage to have uprooted definition—by your heart to have come into my chambers. life is rough for the public. life is mental for the isolated. pain is universal for them both. I wonder what monks undergo, as underground creatures, living unveiled in caves. the flight of the soul, gunshot by ghosts, traumatized unto salvation. many know secrets—of how to unlock you—where a good person will monitor what she has released. shamans are ethnic. anything touching might be ethnic. history doesn’t unveil all the shamans, sages, while we read the Vedas. many gunas, many pains, much yelling to awaken you—more silence to touch, as a space in guts, a ladder one must climb: many gargoyles, many dark forces, as higher becomes addiction. nevertheless, sweet wines, many candles, it’s not repetition; it’s a state of mind, a place to gain entrance, a space made esoteric. I’ll tell a secret, I run a risk, each can do it—most will need supervision.  

The Adolescent Inside Knows More

 

the beauty in vulnerability, its chaos, its destruction; a soul living incomplete, always disconnected, ever trying to make it home. with fury building, lashing out, magnified by stranger palms. so holy, for she swims in pain, no offenses, many trespasses. blood vessels popping—aside glass made steel, ferric castles; to have died forever, if to live forever, such pure contradiction. a soul is denied entrance, he roams endlessly, he lands on one struggling—the funeral of furniture, sweet campfire romance, with injuries mounting to skies; a soul we love, is a soul we desire, where monopoly is so difficult, damn near impossible.

 

I was low one morning, I thought of a person, I entered concentration. many have not an ankh, so mad with bells, with fragrance wafting serenely. voltage, or hello! at terrible frustration. many veils unfolding, many unyielding secrets, at times too close to breathe. needing security, cursing security, like dying for security; the last pamphlet, detailing our lives, too much empty space—as to climb walls, to kick pebbles, a soul sits on the staircase: watching, incorporeal spirits, alive, yelling in silence; pure beauty, to have body, more mind in its torture …

Screaming Lungs

 

over the hectic years, placing perspective, alighting trauma, hearse and grave; more winning, more curses, mundane days; the fire of essence, made into bloodwork, a ghost in her spine. sensual woman, gifted woman, like pain makes us sexual; the fight of bulls, beautiful red capes, such danger in our cries. take the cemetery, role play our art, muffle each scream; with knotted bellies, horrid guts, swimming where people are addicted—such fierce love, such passing legacies, such streaming to alleviate you. murmuring, cursing, begging like a snake in a pit; torches and pockets, pants on fire, wonderful entrance, gripped and dying. too much, too sensual, a person must be careful—as not disgusting, but just enough, to ask for everything she protects. symbols of fierceness, signs of chaos, symbols flushed, reddened, washing her back and chest.

 

over centuries, chancing ships, chasing rainbows; moping mudslides, gritting tears, most hectic centuries. coming back, too old to be young, too great to lose fame; arousing sudden evil, gratuitous evil, so wicked it seems impossible.

 

lights flickering, how else our ways, like church bells at 3 a.m.

 

so undone, so close, it seemed guiltless—the rumble of the soul, the vibration of loins, like towing her lungs.

 

most precious gem, most romantic arc, but a belt wrapped around spirit. to chance in you the glory of pain seduced by our reflections.  

Discernment Is Ancient

 

I have misunderstandings. I stand underseas. behavior addles me. the lands have gardens, the deserts have tumbleweed, humans have caprice or balance or a combination of both. most will combat critique, steady on a debate, as aware enough to dislike critiques. that’s enough on that.

 

oh magnetic source, souls of time, the waves are crashing on the mountain. silt is moved, designs are uncovered, spirit is in the air. in the distance—is a torchlight, oils are burning, concentration is demanded. the skies are neutral, one big gaze, the planes are fulvous. tender, raw dirt, palms to soil, fruits reaped in season. it seems important, aside a breastplate, the madness of the scientist—the poet, the windy clouds. if to see like others, if to see others like me, nothing seems to appease much; wildwater, wilder hawks, it tends towards mimicry. gunshot pressure—beautiful street art—but days are filled with cushion. those rising states, coming to a space, in which, it becomes reclusive, changed, made complete in silence. maybe an unwedded belief—where it seems evident—with expansion comes isolation. upon a stone, with sand bearing witness, I give my sandal. an odd gesture, for a woman’s hand, moving as we endure.

 

some elements seem normal—the key is discernment—while centered enough to know differentiation.

Do Needs Require Honesty?

 

much friction, frequency, furnace between us; much disenchant, desert, delusion. I was drawn like fires across a plane, like deer to streams, like water tussles dams. some cartoon person, searching for freedom, stalking bibles, built as a buffoon.

 

galloping gently, gathering fruits, hoping upon a flagrant moon.

 

I looked at a match, it just sat there, it doesn’t have mobility.

I spoke to a mentor, to see inside, many might attest one’s growth.          Love was different; I think it was the pain; otherwise, nothing was between us.

 

a lock needs a key. a box needs an opening. most people need a friend.          so many concerns, loopholes, inclination, probability.          I’ve said too much, while saying nothing.

 

the garage becomes a storage space—similar to hearts, minds, reservoirs; to have been closer, would it be murder, dealing with idiosyncrasies?          some

never go too far. we must admit that. reasons are impossible.

 

invisible intelligence—nectar with wine—bodies defining longevity; mental church bells, souls

running home, we never discover until executed.          it doesn’t come as a forewarning, negotiation, rather, here it is!

 

I have projections. I don’t have facts. I know each drives a person. some beatific madness—some innocent mistake—it pays to carry marbles. such fantastic auras, such deeper audience, made perceptible through hurting. if captured, I have no promises, others may promise all the time.          I came to understand—a deep secret—honesty doesn’t determine what we need to hear—plus—everything becomes mundane, trite, repetitious.

 

I figured she might alleviate that—un-weary me, I never thought if she would be happy. a selfish thing, presuming excellence, like one person’s love sustains the union. I needed obligation, preferred depth of love, I needed her satiation.        

Lampshade Glitter

 

most compassionate, unordinary woman of discussion. bold enough to be modest, alarmed enough to feel concerned, fortunate enough to care. seeing you in essence, an excellent example, a paragon of passions

 

—aloof at moments, defensive at times, hidden from public access

 

—wild enough to volunteer.

 

abuzz with patience, a driven machine, an intimate listener.

 

uncaged from self, near altruism, sexy and shy—born bearing bark; to carry pressure, much demanded of you, a mind made for business; figs for breakfast, ransoms for souls, many depend upon you.    

 

a sensuous woman, one can’t ignore you, nor understand your light switch; made of brick or glass or it’s interchangeable; born into money, enduring struggle, specializing in esoteria; weathering snowstorms, carrying sharks, eating eggplant.    

 

while peeling an orange, or slicing a pear, most interested in another person’s pain. maybe a wife, to a friend, maybe detached from men

 

—a moving woman, a heartsore woman, a humorous, glittering woman.    

 

seeing a world filled with wire, you climb for a friend; most dedicated, most self-effacing, most heavy but meditated:

 

glowing, absorbed, driven by inner computers

 

—computing data, filled with evenness, educated, with a minor is the humanities. loving, gentle, kind to the suffering;

 

maybe a church goer, maybe too scientific, maybe just for the kids:

 

structure, reverence, community. most phenomenal woman!

find us …

 

  

find us like spiders in cracks, the new black, fanciful faces. find us screaming, knowing our destination, a little flippant. find us abandoned, damn near succumbing, with pride in our spears. like spurs in flesh, we woke up, the demon is on layaway. too much concern, the new black, our culture touching atmosphere—the love of blackness the curse chasing, much togetherness in times of destitution. love is black, sages are ethnic, life is origin.

find us laughing in seas, raiding ships, like pirates for riches. find

us …

with inmost tales, with a rabbit in pocket, with agony at flames …

find

us on the playground, late for church, speaking of casting ghosts.

yes! find us …

beating drums, at nativity, always root or nothing.

find us as cowboys, galloping through deserts, making moonshine.

the pain of the animal, the dent in genetics, when medicine was magic.