Seeing nemesias bloom, to
depersonalize losing, enjoying the mystery of the hills. It can’t be sickness.
Not for such stature. (But) sickness starts up high—a differing perspective, a
knowing of all the rules, a gentle giggle at tides. It was early in there, calculating
in there, seeing self and others in there; an empath in there, a quick foot in
there, another chuckle in there. Certain cadence, no one can out appreciate the
lost one, on front arc, feeling each dialogue, pulling back as to return to
earth.
Over those
buildings, in an alley, near a crevice, sits a soul, a macaw, a desire, as it
appeals—never what time yearns for, mostly on time, never full-on satiation,
bleeding the fabric lining, tugging at religiosity, nevertheless, spirituality.
I
was a lad, a lovebird, it never mattered where we were.
It surprises how indebted we are—to
solar spirits, to souls held in furies—to earth—to sunrise; by a phone inside,
to have dreams inside, to take courage—every element against winds; pieces of
identity, here in America, never quite perfect—over plums, grapes, lemons, and
guava … a battle in a moment, a self in disappointments, a measure of
excellence … the puppeteer lurking, the invisibility lurking, self becomes some
creature—by hands, thoughts, and illumination.
I
was a lad, a lovebird, it never mattered where we were.
Oh Shapeless Consternation, movement
of eternal faith, so sullen and normal, aloft a cistern; a vestige of triumph,
a soul like Trace, an author before her time, making trails, waiting and
waiting, soon to receive the Great Illustration. And raindrops include essence,
garbs and science, so listless at points; a pit of penalties, an unshod
feeling, a man filled with foibles. Trying as it lives, if close enough to ask:
Do you have a feasible plan? If not, let’s discover one, let’s become
altruistic, let’s live a little. Never another presence, never another
infraction, never more than a spirit passing by.
I
was a lad, a lovebird, it never mattered where we were.
Gnawing at invisibility. Asking
bigger pictures. So much time, in such a short time, to need friction, to say, “See,
I told you.” And to receive a human, a soul, minding his business, on his
journey, scooping up souls. (No greater redemption.)
An inmost scar has
driven a soul, a spirit has come forth, so phlegmatic, so sightless, with
sight, enough to know—it never stops, and being harsher, we participate, learn
the channels, or croak.
I
was a lad, looking at a coffin, the winds were wet and wilting, my wings were
underdeveloped, and patience was gaining power. I could see people—as in some
emphatic, empathetic sense. I was still young, naïve, running some number in
life—yanked asunder, bipolar, as they say; some force wrestling with existence,
justified for emotion, seemed insync with logic—a nature most deceptive.
I
was a lad, a lovebird, it never mattered where we were.
