Feathers Seem Rainy

 

Turn into vision-light. Ache with fever.

Become pure darkness. The ghost bleeding,

oils leaking, the majesty of one

he couldn’t persuade. I was dead,

listening to Gospels, trying to

become a good person. I met an

image, I heard a sound, I realized

most are better than me. Elements.

Humility. Soft sung serenades. I

was born again. Given to the times. To

feel good, to relax on a summer day,

void of this, angered with this, not too much

sense to make of this. Eyes swell. Hearts wax with

fire. A soul becomes saddened by that. Sol

liaison inside. A person inside.

Not many are aware of the worship

inside. I was naïve. I met a

feeling. She arrived in an omen. The emotion of favor—sought to amend, hoping I would possess this cure: too much understanding! Indeed, self-aggrandizing: nay, just speaking a given truth, with many in true rain. I have a seed. To hear those wires—to demand of the universe, to know for elixir, cauldron and faces; four steps behind, one step towards dying, to know, as a fact, we were born headed in one direction, despite anger, despite love, despite children. Too negative. Not so! the good of the human—the dream of the beauty, the feeling of being alive—the rush of the winds, too many would have lived more! Can’t call it quits. All of it wrestles out. Humans need much more than what can be given. The poor indebted. The fame of the farmhand. And Love is a mystic!  

 

Specifically

 

It was nice, I think. It was a glitch, I believe. We seem similar, carrying that monster. I raved over your prose. I was eager, I suppose. I never said a word. I acted indifferent. I could’ve given more soul—I wasn’t aware, I wasn’t prepared, I was drifting. It wasn’t you. It was the dynamic. So much to feel one wave, an energy, overpowering, to elope upon an ideal. Another is goddess, another is mythic, another is Catholic, another is yogic. I can’t lie, I haven’t a clue, I muse alleys, I turn into valleys, I forget to laugh it off. I wander into you, perusing honey, knowing a part is contentious. I desire to know something, how is it, are there differences, are all humans one color? I notice a grave essence—to mingle, to adore, to release—most magical mystics, suffused, dripping effusion, trying to escape, for rank, for stature, to marry for power—the hope of the novice, the elbows of the giants. I was judged. It was without favor. The high chairs!    

No Need To Believe?

 

I need a remedy. Life is fraught by rain. The winds are wheezing. Kids die. I sense I’m losing. I know for some winning. The blues blaze in King. Not many will find her. Not many will know life. With patterns terrifying the watchtowers. Humans are made of science, religion, unidentifiable sequences. I was at the gates, gripping roots, tragic in cotton, looking at cornfields; I was released to mother, a woman in miseries, father did charm, did filth, left one addicted, kept moving, never looked back. Many know the patterns. Many hold it secret. Like the hell they can’t fathom! I relax a muscle, tense interior, laughing—it hurts so good! It became normal. The fretted life. Winds wheezing, father’s a bishop, mother’s a nun. How hath it happened! Hanging on, wrestling the deep ocean, released from father, given back to God.

I need a remedy. Death is alive with wings. The fires are internal.

Harder to ingest it—the farmers are running madness, sanity hath become crooked: a dear problem, just abandoned to self-majesty, too gorgeous to whiff or swallow.

So askew. Too much drifting. Like ten years into death,

and they’ll resurrect my prose. And they’d no need for envy.    

Last Sky, Middle Sky

 

Many documents. More notes. The

observer is goddess. As we feel, god’s

point of view. The message in blues. Trauma

inside. Days with jazz. Another observer.

We value our positions. I was with

error, with grains, fingers moist with soil.

Webbed. A legged man. Rummaging midnight hunger. It examines itself. It keeps a reason—with joys, turned anguish, the highs for several lows—the courage to remain with balance. I can’t where others relax, too much history with humans; knowing how we affect souls, how we dissipate, so close to figuring the skies; can’t tell much in dance, at angst, laughing, it’s been a hard day.

So near; so tolerant. It comes with time.

Not waiting, but waiting. Something hast to

occur … mediocre excellence, a

few infractions, for a human, she did

remarkable, he did decently. We wonder on notion. We wander the sentence. We must examine mistakes. I preach to self. I disappear. Sitting closer to mirrors. Walking away from mirrors. The world is devoid of mirrors.   

Many a Death The Living

 

Tears swell, thinking of goodness, surprised last year was so raw. We tatted flesh, shot dice, drinking into a new liver. Another is gorgeous, I muse her name, never as complete as desire—those lights flashing, doing a million down south, trying to laugh again. We lose sight, life hurts, we believe the unthinkable, and God was listening. I shield a self, it’s too dramatic, so ostracized, I hear it in eyes. I know it’s wrongness, mother was a charm, I can’t let the memory slip away. Ocean to sky. Deceit inside. Where a man tricks his mirror—if but to exist, if detailed in dirt, the filth in dreams. I hit a corner, leaped inside, asked too many questions, usually, silence is loud enough; gut gear, outside is father, I asked his name—so new, a white stone, the blood trickling. Hair of wool, feet made of bronze, to forgive 70 x 7 times a day.  I relived Hosea. I took faith in Jeremiah. I lamented like a soul was ancient. To walk in decency. To commit infraction. To cross waves with one too obscure to adore. Last dice run. Last Newport. Many a death the living.  

I Can’t Paint a Picture

 

Wanting, driven crazy, too viral the beauty; a man with issues, a woman with pains, could it be, would it be? I lose sanity in mirrors. I avoid mirrors. So much unthinkable love, so sure it’s real, so true, what happens to alone men? Praise askew. Answers too convenient. I desire something radical, life altering, most reckless for a soul. Abandoned blues, forbidden reality, shivering, shaking, begging for sanity—it can’t be excellence, waves and ways, each traipsing wires, too bold to sense an escape. Thinking about it. Afraid to live. It might hurt. Peeking around nightmares. Pleading the beloved. Watching, tolerating, forgotten inside, aiming at unreality. I can’t paint a picture. I fail so often. I lose out; it was never close enough; a soul remains traumatized. To eat apricots. To sip wines. Talking like it’s a miracle, so engulfed, so whelmed, trying to impress Light. I must dream. Life back to its curse. A filthy baptism. Wasn’t truly worthy. It sounds this wave. Accepted, notwithstanding.  

Postmodern Relations

 

Dislodged from his mirror, determined to return. Unearthed. Unregulated. Urgent.

Knowing remains unknown. Willing remains distant, unwilling became closer.

Wood burning. Trauma elixir. Penchant toleration.

Upon a suggestion, spoken precisely, to have touched the rough islands; accursed souls, endless jazz, deeper south, greater discomforts.

Logs piled high. Spiders scurrying. Grasshoppers leaping. Asleep on the inner fire.

Casual investigation. Arts collecting ghosts. Minds throwing voices. To have been too close, self-attacking itself, eating memories, proven inside, never uttered at church.

A mind to its interrogations.

A net tethered to a boat.

Reliving what we find in scriptures.

Interior Tepee

 

I felt idle, facing memoirs, abashed

on some level. I heard her pleading,

planting seeds, sincerity is of

question. If it matters anymore,

roses as mockery, funerals made

symbolic, treasured, once terrified. Life,

her rules, her fame, fortune, memories, dreams.

I would ask if it meant clarity. Souls

facing memoirs. Souls rewriting vignettes.

If getting closer meant existence. If

longing meant fulfillment. Soil, moist vines, grapes,

laughing wines. Tapestry in curtains, each

pleat with spirits, unlocked memories,

many of which, unknown to its soul. I’ve

desired something askew, private

battles, faced by morality, sensing

it was delusion in its scar. To

listen to a foolish man, dreamt in

fiction, so much raw reality,

recess is unrelatable. I’ll drift

gently, repainting walls, creating

religious murals. In ache, in

transition, alienated from

passions, rejoicing in a sad mystic.

By Senses

 

What have you seen?

placed upon a diamond, passed by, given a ribbon

—the bone blue disgrace, artistic pains, family deceased

—the big sky angel. Re-valued; the first of all pages,

no matter disappointment … no matter treachery …

alas, life was given ….

One rolls in dungeons, listening to a

jukebox, certain jazz on repeat; a

bad influence, arguing against signs,

most seductive, more stubborn,

could never repay the debt.

A chuckle hurts, lungs form prose, from bottom to gut to mind-art;

knowing me in seconds, the way we congratulate our prudence

—most colorful of souls,

never a greater passion,

damaged, gifted, facing rivers.

Math and rhythm;

all of what is left to give, begging inside, smiling and smirking, the start of Revelation—judged and cast aside, loving and ruled, if but one fair beginning—those with ears, let them listen, those with eyes, let them witness—by touch, taste, and smell.     

Once The Anchor Blossoms

 

III

 

At the sawmill, palms filled with debris, sweat dripping, filled with silent shame. The company we keep inside—those portraits, maybe a voice, to have loved God. Spoken that way, religion became private. The ache in its heart, the training in voids, wondering while wandering. Like pseudepigrapha those miles, to glean a percentage, like hearing one’s phone voice. By an eerie angst. By dear memory. To have seen a face prior to meeting unsaid face: familiar music, blues, jazz, a natural feeling, a familiar understanding—the moon was here before. In art, it becomes tasteful, it seems offensive, to have known a dream, to have nurtured a scar, with memories blocked, chasing, we have majesty in the blues. It wasn’t meant for tears. It wasn’t intended for jeers. The face became important. Soul food. An aesthetic charm. Some never erase the crib chase.  

 

II

 

We love the blues. We hate the verboten skies. A deadman feels existence, right at gates, sudden incarnation, a forgetful memory, until triggered. To remain sane requires a dose of insanity. So much science in harmony; so much religion proven at the fence. We love the blues. We hate verboten skies. A soul is eccentric, lotic, framed in visions—the beat drumming, those tales verified, it seems alchemy has a secret. Running through weeds, face filled with sweat, running faster as a heart pumps—the majesty of freedom, doing all to survive, the oldest seeds were desecrated. We love the blues. Much is psychogenic, an inner talisman, Sybil has a sister. Half here, half there. We kneel at the gates, frozen warmth, to worship the verboten skies. Taken on measure. Pregnant with earth. The baby became tenets. Sitting. Chain-smoking. Redeemed. Can’t loosen the inner anchor.

 

I

 

I imagine numen. I see invisibility. Each promise causes friction. Running through sugarcane, scuffed by thorns, toes sweaty, dirt flopping, bathed in mud. Candy was sweet. Salt has become notorious. Begging roots. Unlatched. Granted mercy. I imagine colors. I swear to goodness—where life is redundance, undull, trite at points, something new proves innovative fire. Soul flame, sickle to skies, tiptoeing a great gulf. If proven worthy, in a world filled by lusts, and one asked, one you adored, would you sacrifice for us? I sound childish—needing redemption, in a universe fraught by naturality. What have we? Anthems blaring. So passé. I was clean as a baby. I was filthy as an adolescent. I repented as an adult. Years meant religion. I became yogic. I landed upon a mystic farm. Such a heart—ruined by vacancy—more to singing innocence.

Emotion The Wall

 

A feeling alike to dispossessed. Maybe a curse grieving. Getting loose, lost, levitating in rage. To slide across fire, to eat ice, mythology on shrooms. Love made couth, nunnery patience, trying to fix the lure. Poems come. Poems dance. Only a few become legendary. I was sickness, deregulated, anxious to meet Faith. In a foreign tongue, Mesopotamia rites, screaming what God was feeling. Baffled at Jesus, what type of science, to explode, defeat death, untying its sting. And Moses, eyes glued, feeling like betrayal, crumbling at the entrance, eyes slanted.

What I want I do not do—what I don’t want, this is what I do. Speakers blaring. Angels’ skiing. The meanest woman alive enlove elsewhere. I was smitten, I could feel it, it was misery to emotion life.

Having goodness, intricate unbelief.

I read her prose. It seemed deliberate. I started to yen, to clamp a feeling.     Where has life gone?

Hanging like a poster, watching as unanimated, the dolls came to life.         

The Maze In Beauty

 

If the mirror is intense, it laughs, dig cleats into skies. Oh Gothic Charm, seduced and went berserk, sure fury into a scandal. Mental repeats. Northern dialogue. To swear mystic means misery in parts; to assert she knows psyches … a dying soul might fathom mercy. I was wandering. I saw a scenario. It was indicative of love. The lake is so wet, sure eager, not many are on the ship. A grand belief, misspelling identity, close to asking why the spell if never to entertain its message? I long for majesty. I churn for ingredients. The flicker is in its flame, Love is aesthetic, gifted, most nun-like, a seductress of woes. To have labyrinth, to eat at mazes, to enter such desperation, shouting in ecstasy. I should’ve lied when asked, “Who is the thief in his mirror?” Bugging the dynasty, life has giggles, Love was all a soul would enflame; sad eyes, or determined to silence eyes, gutted and bleeding if but to seduce the fever. Torn in halves, never with excellence, desiring perfection—some aloof pain, agonizing in pleasures, to realize happiness comes to disappoint: methodologies, epistemology, knowing means I know nothing—the frame one gives, binoculars, sedition, frowns, such ecstatic passion: a fool for roses.     

Looking At You Hurts

 

A man will fantasize/ looking into what isn’t possessed/ desiring aesthetic/ picturing womb, welt, and wreckage/

I can’t fall excitedly/ more courage to possess her/ floating as souls crumble/

So remarkable to have passion/ love controlling the helm/ fretting innocence/

Escalating intensity/ hearts chasing rum/ mercy is the curse/ if tapping its dance/ thumping its drums/ face to skies/ pain to arc/

I can’t fall excitedly/ not anymore/ so many roadblocks/ too much to run from/

I must fall enlove/ I must feel innocence/ with souls culminating for control/

Interior rivers/ bowels of diamonds/ never asked to have feelings/ never felt where it loses its gates/ fire in heavens, celestial appetites/ looking at you hurts/

The Desert

 

Loving us is privilege also difficult the way we praise surprises. I was a ghost those years, never appearing, in plain sight, invisible again the pain it hurts sensories. I see body—ass, hips, torso, breasts, hair, cages aching, toes painted in acrylics. I remember a soul in us, trust fund passion, alchemy and blood—to drip from intensity, a man wishes to destroy compassion, a long walk, delivered to reality. Maybe we die together. Maybe we love like phantoms. Just maybe we make it work. Thinking over yonder, trying to hold court, Love is nude, screaming, the scene is cynic. Needing belief. Asking for patience. A man will adore in midst of losing. Loving us has been glorious, waving in seas, looking and touching and begging for mercy—so desperately ignored. Sober thoughts. Wilder flowers. The desert was beautiful.   

Sugar With Salt

 

Known in detail, saving culture, ruined

for future wives—accustomed to trauma.

I’d greet in essence, perfected in

dysfunction, known to speak peace and

humility, known to slip away from

graces—asking about rules, living

apostleship, leaning into science—

those unexamined rites, the saga,

anxious in a scar, hearing, Namaste,

spoken underground—flying as we dine,

glued to speech, some excellent

erudition. Been lost for a time—

located at gates, listening to

Wisdom, her woes, her angst, her triumph.

I’d walk if the mountain held

differences, if promised a notion

bigger, better, more joyous than

loyalty; farm animals, toads and frogs,

one soft kiss, to amass into a

legend.

And exquisiteness requires death, the living termination, if to make wings and dice like pearl unforgiveness. One last understanding—one decent eternal—the first page has mother’s signature.   

Human Phantom

 

The god in me greets the god in you.

Undercurrent gloss

Fever to push Invisibility

Bearing witness to what can’t be explained.

By thin barriers

Cultic identity

Graves are upchucking ghosts.

Banshee rivers.

Ghoulish fire.

Loving existence hast been difficult pleasures.

Much is said about freedom—

To live, burden free, trying to feel an inner

Phone.

The god in me greets the god in you.

To measure each dilemma, to dialogue with

Apparitions,

Oh Sullen Phantom.  

Reckless

 

Never understood the hate the love the

bankrupt feeling. Plucking clovers, eating dirt, asked to remain humble. Momma was a locomotive. Father was a diamond. Granny knew bullshit. I did graffiti. I ate shrimps. I removed an ingredient. I fell enlove. Page four, a four-page letter, an appetite for feelings, a measure in emotion. I can’t for giving. I sin in transgression. I knew momma had a halo. Years passed. Deaths are inevitable. Angels become demons. Some figured God out—started selling her notions, baffled, gutted, pleading—it can’t be excellence—the fire, God, the pain, Lucifer, the light as pure symbolic. The last page, Genius! The first rites, Glory! Too young to know for destination. It seems so simple. It became science. What in earth the spell! Just investigating. Just altering the gift. Just angry! I was in tales. I was given a tittle. I was said unverifiable. So much validated—prophetic arguments, scholastic tides—the ocean is leaking literature. A lasting giggle, a bent brain, so much cloth on the violin.

Open a Soul’s Book

 

Upon snow-fire, drained in spirit,

tired of flame, tired of art, asking

God pertinent questions—the hair in those

scriptures, Ezekiel in pain, the walls

painted with sin; Jeremiah

 

lamenting, the great meanings, lording

over an imagination. Flesh

churning, writhing in panic, debating

mirrors, hearing nothing, sensing

 

eternity—getting loose, the

majestic caves, a tale told in tears.

Rereading chapter 1, intuition

is its alpha, mystic rites, sage burning,

a candle and a number; sullen

 

gorging, tacos for breakfast, good pain for

lunch, cooking dinner fresh from work; many

rumors, some would stick, abased inside those

days of old. The hallway jamb—aged in

whispers, the elephant just

 

graduated—tier 12, the hells, those eyes

trying desperately—if to sense a

human. Made it easy. Made it straight.

Many jackets, one soul, so connected

we intuit discomfort … many

 

salutes, family embarrassed, black sheep

water, bubonic plague art, rats in

sewers. To know is to feel ashamed. To

love is to know rain. And to seek

is necessary to find such.  

  

The Brink Is a Seesaw

 

Asunder—torn apart, a snake in its

cave; heated temperature, longer

weather, frost bitten warmth. Faculties bled

of living, remorse like a hound, an

epiphany, a dream to have adored

invisibility. Saltwater

gators, arising in screams, bathed and

battling mud; slanted in appeal,

undercurrent in angelica, made

into mystic fury. Fruitage awareness,

discernment for Ignatius, the darkness

of Saint Paul. Asked to exist, better to

live, sullen excitement, aching art for

her mercy—those small hallways, walls speaking

gibberish, ceilings dripping honey … if

and only if.     A festoon covered in dust

and dirt—my inheritance; those cult eyes,

holding locks, pads, and distance. To outsoar

me, a riot inside, the trumpet shall

blast asunder. A soul will flit, a soul

will smelt its body, with dolor a

trophy for poets. The dusky

crucible—gloss and paint, dialogue

and linchpins, what therapists see!     

Emotion Becomes Logic

 

It couldn’t be simple—those California cries, the rain dropping, the tilled soil; and adoring you is mythical, the blood shed the arts blazing the memories. Missing links. Rightness and wrongness—debates are running fires. To need you is a far cry. To want is near home. To live without you seems probable. Until time ends, something repeats a name, each day like a carnal connection; more anxiety, sitting in a park, asking what comes before collapse? It never quits, the mind is a clock, deplorable at moments, reproachable at seconds—the smile of its grave, as it ends, a cycle continuing into evolution. We’ve seen legends. We have excursions. With days eclipsed by faith arts. If to come to you, to deliver my soul, walking away hurt more than lusting for diamonds. And Love was noticed, by measure the caliber, disgraced, fever bent, life becomes logic.      

Impossible Lies

 

I never reference too much pash. Alas, it aggravates, like a sickle to a root—sweet, soft soil. Made rare to adore, certain types a glance—too much love talk.

I remember a blank gaze, superconsciousness, self-observed, begging for essence, romantic wires, if to become secure; the last page was the first, blasted off of something, laughing at arrogance—so cocky, such wailing, wondering if love prevails.

A thimble to its heart. Knitting ego silence. At humility—sexual enthrallment.

I saw butterflies, painted in violets, magentas, bold iridescent brilliance—I saw eyes!

So much for pash—that thief of souls, to have one with us, suffocating logic, desiring to let go—an ironic understanding. The book was opened.

I drift into seas, sitting in stillness, along the mind-shore; there to stand, in bikini, sandals and sunblock … curves, quintessence, smirking, giggling, talking smack—motion, waves, anxieties … most are performing, as souls have forced it.

Could I Still Smile?

 

The flame is the fire. Surly. It still stands. Death in a glass. Resurrection in hope. Sugar was tasty. A magnificent gem. More to doing right. To be fierce. To sense a Ghost. If living would grant perfection. The life of the soul—the gift of Spirit, to love like tomorrow wasn’t coming. So innocent! Such absent pain. To grow into a thinking vessel. Teardrops. Coldness. Such warmth for a person. Such inoperable evidence. Showing by presence. Noted in self. The legacy of the marrow.     Blame is now irrelevant. Days become mundane. Asking seems an imposition. It hast to change. It hast to be on par. It hast to release itself. Those dark and dreary realities. Those beautiful seconds, despite the dear beasts. I was young on a cross. I was belittled in a dream. Many deride and chide if to scream. I laugh at times. Others look. They wonder what seems so funny. They look into themselves. No harm meant. Just asking if it hurts. Could I still smile?

It Will Never Win a Prize

 

It means so much, only when hushed, pushing through indifference. A man sees differently, somewhat exiled from self, to agree with something reprehensible. On another note, looking for freedom, aggravated over essence, remembering she looked so innocent. Upon a wing, if not a prayer, to desire something humans can’t give. A blatant element in pain—looking as she walks by, thrown into my existential. Minor setbacks, seething inside, still composed—of weather and earth, a curse to drink, a problem to remain forever sober. Everything is now on record, any jot, any note, any sentence. If entertained, reduced to a carnival, of course, it remains justified, simply put, “Because I wanted to.” I reminisce on a spell, a fair person, a dream I saw, a dream I remembered—with science seeming impeccable. On another note, Love is sexy, Love is smart, some have had her heart; this ain’t living. Fluttering. Gold bracelets. A symbol upon flesh. Many are so cursed, so smart, to have lied into a lie holding weather. I flee the Ghosts—I irk the beginning—I know I must die. On to the metaphysical: so ontological, a big ass word, concerned with existence, the measure of my life! There remains nonsense.     I wore a wig. I feigned a smile. I was dirt in her honor. And she allowed it.     Siren beautiful snakes; if to adore a person, as to give a person life, does it fortify integrity? On another note; I sense ignorance, I die to become, emotion is acrobatic—like thieves in essence. I can’t escape it: some are ethical, living a strict code, dying at every entrance; some straddle the fence, either this or that, but never too holy; others are sick, needing help, to speak in presence, is to hear something too raw to digest. This means nothing. It will never win a prize. Nevertheless, it’s interesting.

One Needs To Inhale Scripture

 

The prose on audio, anxious at her, laughing, plucking petals—the pain was a book. If knowing me, after a few weeks, let death conquer the illusion. Never simplistic, eyes to turquoise measures, a soul dragging knuckles, bleeding mud, sized and delivered. Many undertaking science, claiming indemnity, lost at the tracks; hostile to life, soul to soul, a tear might drop; anti-emotion, claiming intellect, acting as if anger is strength; so prehistoric, roots at the gates, Cush a planet in orbits. Jasmine scented. Angelica in styles.

I come humbly, eating humility, lied to and bold faces. An art to smile, a gift to feel a heart, knowing, even Satan enters the Church; neuro toxicity, evilness disguised as altruism, new terrain! Fresh and salty waters. A recent baptism. Symbols so intimate with energies. To feel embarrassed, to endure the waves, asking for snares and deliverance.  

Human Apex

 

frustration. many never heard it. his eyes, his smirk, many never understood it. some dream inside. with fluster brewing. tales told to children. from soul to gut, from arc to spirit, framed with passion. i would disappear, standing closely, to achieve indifference. likeness of passivity. daring the great star. if celebrated, what aches ribs, with kidneys barking—flame of intensity, feelings anchored, the greatest thieves? i imagine a soul, wanting reality, skilled at frustration. battle of sharks, whale-elephants, a soul will carry infinity. most demonized, most celebrated, despite trying not to, humans will feel each ripple. flight of the pinguins, bells and scars, anything to appease the great monster. lilies and pearls, darts and insistence, needing something simple from strangers. each memory inching forward, each thought reknitted, each moment a potential agony.

Energies Made Irritants

 

A soul will see self clearly with petals dripping tears. I’ve hidden better parts, indicative responses, tile and gurus, art and literature. The desert sprouts a rose, cacti becomes sweet, most kindred spirits fathom the lakes; bent a certain way, whistling to winds, whispering to etymology—not much room for contempt. A grand influx, tables heavy, art condemned, nephews following prints. History has exiled intelligence. Most bewildered souls, of like mindedness, we pray at a pantheon. Grieving an operose—gargles watching, most will if they were provided—those waving curses, majestic efforts, trying to remain parts of self. Most primal instincts, (it’s sameness, it never changes nothing, a similar response), others to skies, climbing clouds, participating in the great debate. In truth, both out of margins, both recentered, both to destroy each other.    

The Final Candle

 

I try to ignore overtness a dream-harbinger sure hunger for peace and diamonds with birds chirping in wilderness. At high voltage most stronger with tales sullen into an aesthetic the art of its mountain those words they can’t mean much! A markswoman a season turning into chalice and chastity or sin so savory. I personalize at moments, reading a neat book, as one to have never seen himself. Those eyes condemn me, never walked my linage, never crept across darkness, never saw my ghosts—so, Why should it hurt, Why should it count, where it aches in Christ? I was last in line. I sat at the back. I picked cotton, fingers raw, tears dripping, Jesus sweating blood! Damn it! The book is open, gliding midwave, assuaged at the gates, listening to Lazarus. Never knew for ashes, rolling tobacco, sipping grayness—matter of its guise, measure of its song, purposed to live, exist, and die. (“Let it go!”) Adrift in essence looking like a miracle made humbler than time the ghosts lingering the flame purged as reignited the sale of a soul dropping into Limbo asked to surrender the gift. Prayers for God. Prayers for self. Prayers for show. At identity. At market. At everything a soul would die for; at his bones, eating his marrow, bleeding his name. If time could permit the final candle!

Dolphins Midair

 

Sorry it doesn’t pacify. Sorry it intensifies hurting. Sorry with education a soul is still shallow. Every bone every muscle with time aesthetic pain. In an instance one could never do wrongness; in a second a soul vows to adore forever; romantic rebels or intense deaths if to love as an abstract answer. An ultimate promise to die if it kills those bold sable crowns. Minds steadfast as longing for infinity and nothing on earth is private—makes a soul investigate accounts—social media—those sessions—placing a small sticker on the lens. Never to a difference these feelings the ache of the losing—as virgin oils permeate petit quarters forever a sinner; nothing changes—souls become skilled—a few turn leaves like penance and flogging churns flesh. Sorry it will last eternal those asking about insights at a grand piano. And watching is a delight the wilderness making seduction as creatures laughing together—emotion made rabid—bigger blond eyes—by future to elicit a response, to suffer goodness, as needing to feel a perfect petal. If to assuage a curse if to solicit a need if to touch like dying is illegal; cotton candy on a summer day or music filled with jazz to have sincerity in a sudden waterfall.     

 

Children & Decision

 

I needed redemption. I was sickest of all came before this gaze. Drawing breath, accursed, like long dreary rivers. Clean and dismissed. Hushed and speaking loudly. Craved and craving back. Pursued and steady at a throttle. Alleys into valleys. The nightman said he saw her. Like a ghost gritting teethe holding back father’s tears—a mile to redemption, a year in purgatory, one day is a thousand! Pistons and passion. Arts and anxiety. A kindred soul in Hosier. I could never, damn what was said, and damnation my actions—floating into sunset, walking the horizon, it’s just better this way. I would chain-smoke, gazing into reality, never met her, never knew her, a demon begging for crucifixion—if to return, if to be clean, if to know the Lord we serve. A deeper dilemma, pleading innocence, found guilty for another couples’ trespass; a living proposition, a fool for faith, at it like mystics, at deserts in California, roaming the dearest chasm. Getting easier as its harder the math takes precedence; mundanity with a twist, acceptance with a grievance, lungs heathier filled with dust and dirt—cloth torn asunder, rend in pieces, the child died on a cross!

Unstitched Seems

 

Divine bedsheets, polyester pillowcases, old bowls of noodles—a perfect tone, alluring satisfaction, proven vibes, going soul first.

 

Social mind-saws. Murmuring electricity. An element missing, neither emphatic, nor a broken piston, still, feeling pulled back, trying forward drive, if physicality would appease the appetites.

 

I rebuke myself!

 

At an inner stage, art’s striptease, at a banquet eating a petal.

 

            It turns vile, a dear discussion, the pain in its address—fretting morosity, the way I see life, it seems beige; highs for lows, doing it differently, living a maze.

 

            I kneel down along a seashore and cup a patch of seaweed. It’s a long pause, trying in one breath—to feel existence; never knowing arrival, just sentiments, hearing beauty in silence—the art of loving strangers, asking permission—to enter heart and home.

 

Colorful kaleidoscope. Those seconds, those moments, a sound, a voice, keeping it at soul-depth.

           

Deep woods. Deeper feelings. Backdrop emotion. To owe everything, to try in payment, ever short on discussion.

 

Closer than belly cords, separated from self, estranged from an entire life, asking to be fixed (if one would know being fixed)—the love as it breathes, the presumption sung wrongly, if only to depend on the greatest souls—moving slower, negotiating inside, navigating inner motion.

Forbidden Feelings

 

I fate to broach a topic, knowing it

makes us nerves, nevertheless, if it

does exist, and I disbelieve, I don’t

need to miss out on love. Love is lust,

sincerity, pain, celebration,

activity. I drift to music,

sullen and softer pearls, diamonds and rings

in thousand-year-old trees; whatever it

seals, whatever it reveals, eating a

simple meal, asserting the greatest

future—mirrors become dual, minds seem

plural, to think of self, is to think of

others.     By a book to assert an

afflatus, singing from soul, moving

into motion, Love agonizing

over possibility, probable

reality, too young when it begun;

aircraft passion, to make essence, known for

playing tetras … vine of its castle,

Avila mysticism, those palms so

close to piercing me.

To touch a topic, saying enough, with

souls yearning for comfort—a tear by

treasure those waves in reason sweet

unbelief until its evident

—beauty in a decision, to live in

parts, darkness present, light made confusion.

Water Reservoir

 

I would to love like gems in bottles as art flies so indifferently those smiles cut to bone; a grieving soul is likely to appreciate others a miserly soul is likely to strike as out indeed to slice so great a pressure inside; reindeer eyes those in excellence sure bumps and bruises as made deliberately, more for weathers and frustrations so natural it feels cursed; sleet on pavement certain grievance across skies with creeks in season, a platypus in mud, waters as they tread graves so surefire the rain; as an actor in this carnival as a clown in this mistake as a terrible pleasure to bring shame those days in Atlantis those arts in hieroglyphs if to surround those lakes with fire churning a gift to know life means you good; blackberries and sin or blueberries and gin those facing relaxation at banks and rivers the way the Lord was baptized; pumas in season the way we adore cheetahs so fertile the skies as born irregularly as seeking and misunderstanding flesh beauty the sin of its dice at a level too consumed to swim if but a running sentence.