Touching Pieces

 

I don’t feel like self, some new creature, atmosphere observing me. I don’t see people like seeing souls, I see existential silence. I wonder about life, flat feelings, internal violins. Days on sameness, simultaneous spirituals, drums tiptoeing across waves. Seeing images, fretting reality, asking self if essence is immortal. (To become as one candle, in a given second, minds at frequencies—to have loved unbeknownst to self, never explained, it hast to feel unusual.) It doesn’t feel as explained, those rumors are exaggerated, it’s a presence, a portrait, froth and foaming, neither, just filled with thought-debris. Identity is tied into it—birth seems incomplete—longing doesn’t explain it … overwhelmingness is another exaggeration … it sleeps inside, it wafts in a sudden moment, it might linger …. Certain causality—certain casualness—just pinching, pricking, itching … never begging itself … not enough to risk embarrassment …. One is inside, living a lifeline, a ghost, tongues exploding. A haunting, a banshee, to feel like a stranger to self. It seems different, it isn’t just love, it baffles, and I walk away.  

Love

 

Never understood it, croaking to make rightness, it requires participants: counseling, therapy, raw, frantic truths.

By reviews to soar, grandpa wisdom, grandmother’s grace—godfather-clocks; serenading ghosts, stuck in a trance, electric, like an air-phantom.

Upon impact, hungry for the message, Love was more than time realized; proffering a notion, plucking gallicas, racing to slowdown.

You might see it. You might be it.

Back to souls, fleeing my mirror, brave enough to pardon the act; meant it for a purpose, meant it for goodness, lowly, framed in emotion, aching and laughing like Spirit moved.

To wander at moments, holy animals, a deeper secret to it—getting it to a level, trying to become a replica, if but to study steepness.

It seems specious, to utter it so swiftly, a dear note about love; upon a taboo topic, anguished behind it, to keep a missive at heart.

To ponder upon a portrait, pictorial pains, so picturesque; by raw essence, by dangerous drums, with memories crisscrossing.

By Meditation: To Nurture

 

With light effusion, fused into souls, granted entrance. A neat excellence. Most shall see it, in a mirror, buffing, and re-buffing to see it again.

We come across legacies, portraits, esoteric cloth; in steepness, climbing cold mountains, asking for keys, cameras forbidden, plain light, suffused by darkness.

To have noticed You, selected by choice, so young, flipping through pages, landing on messages, realized in an instance.

Most humbled at first … some know You … we go astray, asked to return, told You’ll return to the returner.

She adored You. Was lost in You. Made waves over You. In memory of You.

With notions in orison, with arts in energy, with something behind it.

No wild assertions. Only repeating what has been said. With a slant towards You. In celebration of saints, in Awe-worship of Spirit, in seeing something unique in humans.

We keep it silent—how else are we to meet You? You came to commune. You surrendered anger, furious violence, to nurture wayward souls.  

Last Notebook

 

To have a dream—to have vision, to live an epistemic life; at her epitome, swimming through emotion, neurons causing motion. It isn’t enough! So early in summer—threshed by reality, fretting art, listening to ballads.

So bewitching—a soul sits on pash—losing it to gain it, Life’s Cycle.

Catching an outline, purchasing chalk, ecstatic and fearing to adore you.

A lacewing is on high; mind alliance; unborn fiction.     How to have touched rain? So much to have lived—prime addiction.

Through marsh and waterweeds; through dying to live, and living to evaporate—deterioration, parts dissipating, old age chasing.

See-through like skies, too far to see, becoming glass upon a snowstorm.     I miss silent debates, innuendo arguments, at a table disputing lies, and no one discerned.

A bag of oranges, a neat conversation, Love as koan. To know life—to ignore understanding, to sugar wires.  

Memory Hearts

 

With agitation soaring, with uneasiness in ribs, with heaving—puffing passion; like a drum inside, figuring it gets that way, filled by a futuristic hope. Upon a kanjira, aside a bassoon, yelling over a tuba—life failings. Born again. Pulled in deeper. And there you were, a mystic, a gift from havens, a piece of a problem. I would observe. I’d smile. I never laughed. It seemed inauthentic. It amazes how difficult we are; moreover, it amazes how righteous we are. Like meraki, too many words, like excellence, like jewels, like memories soothing the rain; to imbue you with characteristics, to presume it must be that way, to need something I created. [Yugen.] another word. Just beauty beyond kalon, beyond scope, something unreasonable, mental, surmised in a laboratory. Made into a creature, remaining with calmness, so placid, Love watching, as in Above Watching. You were religious and anti-religious. Your life was set: each piece put in place. I was antiquated, old-fashion, some atypical apostate, an apostle, sameness of souls, if one reads it closely: a mystic.

The sun has been glistening, flowers speaking Spanish, the hearts filled with somber holiness. It seems familiar, similar spirits, slaving to feel correct—begging the question, right?   

Nonetheless, out of bad stock, a wild steed, darkness, dungeons, an interior funeral. If honesty counts, it amazes how we need to aid what’s seen as broken.

 

Written in logic, felt in spirit, souls running a rapid race. All for fortitude, all the more for rectitude, not addicted to an outcome, wrestling with perception, debating a drink, not chuckling at all.

I remember you. You seem similar to the rest of us: beauty raging to break free, words jumbled up, petals crying, lions and lioness roaring in a desert—to conquer self is to conquer worlds, to learn to love, to learn whom to love, to carry self with honor, to pride intelligence with pride, to create prose, to battle poetry, to know differences. So indifferent, so much sameness, facing immortality.             

Binoculars

 

He never knew wrongness, mainly survival, mother screaming at him. He’d hit traffic floating, gazing at turquoise skies, puffing a cigarette. Life was changing, souls were called, the Ghost was powerful. An inner séance, a mental renaissance, a cage he carried. A neat love, a failed encounter, a bubbling storm. It looks better this way, wrestling with sobriety, partial to redemption. To feel good inside, to feel relaxed, a little anxious at times. Loved her, asked her, she was adamant. Life moves in circles. It comes to meet itself. No amount of running, the mirror’s the same, something inside is watching.

 

He sung choir. He was baptized. He knew the congregation. Turning left, angry as boxers, tapping into lights. He couldn’t tell it—those he could see—a few intimate secrets—a cautious design. He knew visions, seeing foreign faces, writing it down for evaluation—until …

Knowing What We Fathom

 

I understand with rain impending. To give a soul rope. So naïve, so restricted, blaming choices. If it occurs, if the sun glistens, shining my way, it will come by debris. Situations are epoch, the best folding through it all. The torch flaming, filthy at dungeons, to look deeply. Much bile, ocean frequency, otic embrace; to hope for closure, to feign terrific, to know hands are writing one’s future. If to look closely, a person is not affected, the edifice is built, and they stand upon it. We feel redemption, if only to imagine, nothing seems sacred—an intimate relationship, courting Spirit, a soul after her heart. Jackknife fire, flights of ecstasy, to realize something too daunting. It’s a different topaz, a gem in seas, so green and innocent; like a dream, to unpack intentions, to enter with all to give; a silent mistake, with Love doing her excellence, trying to believe, felt inside of roses—we’d weep if and only if; we’d laugh if and only if; triangles, more into reality, to feel anger, to fret nothing, to hope all are made wonderful—knowing what we fathom. I made decisions, they belong to me, I ride the atmosphere, I inhale my damages. I’d hope in sameness, when perfected shows admiration, when ghosts take form.

Speculation

 

You might resist an appearance inside those flames furious as screams leak into intuition.

You might ask for clarity upon a second before a life decision is made towards existence.

You might stir crazy—pondering skies—to have essence wafting over decades.

You might have excellence—some unphysical dimension, at seconds, sadness—to arise, dust off feelings, become sheer theology, soaring through galaxies, upon a memory, fretting insistence.

You’ve entered those regions, resisted as it grows, stronger as it hurts; never a day in solace, ever a palace to run from, compelled as we might trespass.

You might understand a weakness, crave resilience, beg for planets to align; to grow into invisibility, pinpricks, exaggeration—as it flourishes, shouting in silence, raving madness, something—we never sense.

You might never upon an actuality—only by ink, as far as souls gather. Tone, surrender, to float inside, detached from body, exiled for the mismatch.          

Sad Pash

 

Couldn’t sustain it, surrounded by doubts, chuckling at inconsistencies. To give with passion, each allegation is a defacto, with one lying on God. I was with hunches, made evidence, swerving late nights. Love was delightful, asking questions, I never mentioned those aesthetic hairs on her arms. Business made sour, hours sweating, trying to laugh about kef(s). To see rage, as it affects us, weening off of fear, a soul becomes a gorilla. I was sick those times, knowing it meant so little, I hope everything is perfect. Out the mud—as we say, luxury was a gift, cleansing shrimps, boiling rice. It was unfair, a true essence, a truer friend, on a fluke, in a dingy room, we only paint the science; moving quicker, sitting still, with hell in his veins; chests churning, catching lights, becoming candles, undressing a koan. It was never intended, I lost senses, it seems evident—the wrinkled skies. Intuition says family was wrong. Reality says family didn’t know better. Therapy says forgiveness is next to godliness. And tension is building, cargo unloaded, senses bleeding—sweat dripping, shirts soaked. Like beasts with predictions, like arms with speed, like feet floating over fences. I keep coming to it, as something predicated, each memory a premise for addiction. It loses its funny bone, it becomes an intrusion, then, in all honesty, one is sustained by mystery—with the uncanny so clear and unshown. Either love or deaths, friend or foe, many trick wires, tamper with clouds, open seas, the breaths in us. Unraveled at points, solidified in dreams, aching to confront it. Closing existence, to flip into seclusion, with nothing remaining undocumented.        

Touched & Bathed

 

Through thorns to have smiled. Through briers to know deserts. Made into light, plaguing by calling holy, ruby-green hummingbirds. Years, it shall become, tiles changing coloration, skies deigning, sullen upon a wish. I need to be honest: upon a whisper those days—upon a chanced reality. Born to kneel; it affects each of us. If only by mythology, as opposed to religiosity, wondering if we make excellence—to worship, as in parts of our mirrors, delicate advice. It doesn’t matter as much, it circulates inside, to hear meditation, to flame a miracle, so detached from inner seas. To sense a giant, kept in disguise, I walk, nay, run, hurting self. It was easier those waves, to become naïve, to feel innocence; upon a wise owl, perfected in hindsight, never aside for swoosh into a breeze. I’d give it back, if and only if, upon a promise, upon joys. Last of a dream, to manage debris, wrangling with intangibility. It compels itself; it feeds itself; without permission. To fret attachment, something inside, as foreign from a craving appetite; sheer contradiction, paradox or oxymoronic essence; to be close enough to resist—or better, to adore internally, and not desire externally.       

Thought Thirst

 

Filled with lust, born lascivious, tamed, religion in his eyes. It’s ever with sewers, most unlocked, linchpin broken, we adore higher morals—or a deeper lie. Trying for riches, listening to philosophies, theology in droves, skies bleeding, the moon filled with blood. Touching science, absorbing sunlight, rolling a pair of dice; doing all to stand, having done all to fall, such a contradiction—growth of the lions, catnip of the snakes, fraught by nightingales; each image in a dungeon, pains to believe, traffic would pause for her. Enough with bass, facing rivers, dipped, bathed, a light upon life. Open seas, clouds dancing, it’s different with Love. Most sprinkle herbs, more mantic, a spell upon an unsuspecting soul—thawed out, should have remained icy, more shall fall in passion. By lizard instincts, the desert as centerpiece, rising in cogitation.   

Wafting Science

 

Woven into wildrose, electric in a séance, a delicate appetite; more to Love, aching walls, Portugal eyes.

A palate for passion, precious wings, melodious smiles.

A pet tarsier, a debt to science, laughing in fantasies. Sprouting taller, a masked madness, a mansion inside.

Insoluble existence, begging until sweat blossoms, questioning what we call sexy.

Did we hammy Love, golden flesh, feral behavior, clinging to skies?

Podium life, congregate pains, instantly baptized—

collecting data, spent for answers, acting out—deliberate with difficulty.

Love made wilderness, plagued unto depression, impossible to forget.  

Subliminal Cave

 

Eating dogwood, lying to myself, laughing under sorrows—empty on evil, fire into his soul, phantom paws—intrinsic connectivity. Each impulse spells a dream, mad at language, fully infatuated; stepping left, gripping rightness, fretting whiplash. Love was verified intangibly, a few know by investigation—so primitive, archaic chaos, Love over a dozen centuries. Upon a noble lie, fraught by conflict, too detached to be so emotional. Put it in flesh, flicker upon a star, sickness to the marrow. We tend to hide, like chi-chatter, a cuff to its spirit; bucolic fantasies, roaming skies, floating into invisibility—to die as destined, an absolute promise, sewing rationality. The absurd hero, upon a fable, unto an anti-hero—at an old whisper, visions into planets, thrown into ghosts—took a problem too far, dusky winds, taboo courage. To carry whales—to paint a walkway—to unhook a wraith; juggling identities, like ink to fever, with souls at gaslighting—to imagine the spirit, giggling with cigars, looking, unknown to itself. Over salmonberry—gazing into strangers, making assessments, like a person sort of unlikely—the fierce flame, at a memory, provoked unto release.  

Name The Undulation

 

to worship an unexplained element. to value a phantom. to go by Love, agape, logos, affection. wondering about a desert, humid at nights, humility during days; to have worshiped her, in all of essence, to have shunned her. from country to trees, from fox to wolve, bled dry, begging at points, fraught, filled with pathos; missing an exit, digging soil, feeling like offal—headed there, emotion séance, alike to fragments reborn—elements unsafe. on a Sunday, a surreal vibe, pushing mind-caves, intellect disputing understanding. with needs by catharsis, a moment in chimes, an art made redundant—each element repeated, needing nuance, if it works; aside if humdrum, if banal, looking at people … so worked up, finding her ark, familiar with undulation, recording interior, memories beyond explanation, needing ache to last forever. to worship oxygen, namaste, to give a title, to internalize a kingdom, mesmerized by landscapes. neat or unkempt—to praise Love, mixed by meaning, an inner transmission, gears shifting. deeper by forests, an effusion by coppice, sailing on dry land—making unvetted instincts, reared by intuition, fraught by emotion, as if a pathogen.   

Psychology: Features

 

I only hear my own. I feel restless,

waiting at the gates, like Jesus just woke

up. So visceral, so unpaved, at the

catacombs—not to ask, never to take,

make it natural, given in to

darkness, filled with electricity:

impious at times, I’ll tell a secret,

it’s hell on a holy ride. At humors,

laughing in pain, eyes bubbling up.

Gnawing and gnashing, have they felt

scripture! At the vault-keeper, talking smack,

like Job and made humble. Discern virtue,

making pride music, ready to cross lakes

—walking deserts, this is religion

—feuding with Greece, headed to Egypt

—buried manuscripts. I hear my own. We

feel like strength and pain and alone at it.

I nodded off, a warrior spoke, I

slept at the tracks. Many looking for sex,

we’ve been there, we chase ghosts, omens, spirits

and framed phantoms. I was moving quickly,

didn’t drank it, wasn’t meant to … to

impassion the light, to become a wraith,

I only hear my own. So idyllic,

abiding by pain, at a miracle

in life—over 2-zillion ideals, carved

into his spirit, failing, riding

into darkness. I’ll tell truth, like a

nightmare, wanting to scream out, Fuck it! Feel

it at a séance, collective

effusion, an inrush, to irrigate

trauma. I heard it at the gates. I

vowed to it at the fence. Like fury!    

Man Blessed, Man Ruined

 

By failures to succeed—an ancient reality, eons at science. Love gave wisdom, Adam petered out, God is with placement—a hundred centuries by evolving, a dear hunch, laughing at it, working a pencil. To hear is by rewards, to feel is by brains, to war is by victory and loses. The passivist dies. A warrior buries herself—like many funerals, flags on skies, juice and pills—if living, it becomes an art, a game, just to survive, minds playing tic-tac-toe. Business out there, a problem with existence, humiliated, decoding my nature. Love needed me, but a child, a soul, to encounter absence, regrets, reaching for strangers. An environment prone to violence, never exonerated, life chases, catches up, a field of bones—a body stripped of sinews. Love was codified. Love was perfected. In seeing Love, we saw God. We kept her holy. She showed humanness. We rejected Love. At walls, grappling, at gates, pleading. The unholy wars—fleshed for love, too lascivious to go to heaven: a lie! We proffer a mistake, we color mind-rooms, we move at a high speed. Never at discussion. Never a topic—plaguing memories, giggling at intonation—so emphatic, dying in trenches, came from mud, to taste a little of the good life. Feuding reality—agreeing, as going too far, scores of scales—a serious imbalance.      

Letter by Envelope

 

To adore you, like a tremendous move, so silent, such demure, shy, a magnificent candle. A deadly ritual, so confused, ways it weaves indecency. To watch like lemurs, to riot like apes, so soundless, so loud, contradiction meaning truth. Scholars at it, major disputes, sudden refusals—caves inside, to awaken inside, like a tour of a private mirror. Mystical myths, mansion mystiques, at my interior funeral. To adore you, caught with love diaries, pleading existence—baffled at war, to keep is unlike to seduce, making music in blues. We all wondered, to discover her heart, despite what may feather into wings. Making kingdoms, frowning a little, one decision, a thousand lives; purity of soul, an ugly belief, so wrong to have forsaken possibility. Never to give it back, to take without intermission, grandpa would cringe. At my existence, peering into my future, making an inadequate production. Willing persistence, getting tired, one day up, a few hours later—to treasure elevation, to tolerate de-escalation, palms to face, sweat to palms, with Love the sweetest voice. It doesn’t matter, as it dissipates, it flourishes with a selective few. New ideas.   

at the last Trumpet …

 

The sky fell. Arts were indicted. To put silence to rest. I kept moving swiftly, Love had a number, suffering stomach pains. Threaded in voices, listening to mentors, confused about it. They gave up, dedicated to drugs, lifting a private flag. I kept moving, Love spoke it boldly, it’s a shame how we live. Years would pass, tranquility chastised, just becoming a creature, a snake, another dragon, with Love remembering rain. To hear a song, to erase time, to become a creature: it was war, those years. I relish in one fact: some daggers we live with, regardless, it’s immoveable. Pianos and keys, wondering, wandering landscapes, listening to dead souls. The road has been intricate, incognito pains, dramatic a lot. Freedom born, the greatest nation, washing indiscretions. A small fever, a boxed life, with liberties being trespassed. Its fessed up, it must be mutual, altruism has reciprocity. I kept moving quickly. I unlocked her aura. I asked one question. To have lived in disguise. I knew her worries. I shared her coffee. Like racing a clock, trying at excellence, forbidden by galaxies—as between countries, seated in a city, color coded, loving our neighbors. How have we lied, living hypocrisy, feuding with philosophies; beating drums, returning to Africa, raving over Bethlehem; the pool is stirred, would we dare to become prophets, walls, acrobatics!      

Connectivity & Retrospection

 

I keep it innocent. I fret an assertion. You have wit—mystery. I’m parched for discussion. You exist with schism. You sing silence. I was with truth, a hurting ocean, to keep fact—nothing tangible, weighed on scales, do we possess, maybe some fantastical obsession. I remember a divisive weaving, an insidious nature, claiming, asserting an ethic compass, an upper edifice, with most failing their dreams. I remember a nervous mystic, to presume most are with angst, performing, attitudinal, trusting and pessimistic. I never met you; I saw you; you advertised characteristics, you shared inconsistencies, convictions. If I may—years suffocate ideals, strengthening bonds, maybe something was misidentified. I remember you said a fiat concerning being selfish: to till science, to celebrate one-sidedness. Much calamity upon a manic memory: skinless sculptures. I imagine more, must be missing life, dedicated to contemplative existence, as beauty grows into sophistication. No longer as shy, knowing it’d be explosive, confrontational, major disputes, racial concerns. If I may—to touch imperceptibility, to engulf anesthesia, dealing with a powerhouse. If I may—do you still fly, is art pivotal, are you still cautious? Some become fruitful, daring, needing life, incautious at times, forced to knees, repenting the trauma. You relish in reenacting, majorly mature, familiar with yearning.          

Sewing Presence

 

The behavior a soul will ignore—a ritual to breathe—art for paining, therapy for functionality. Trying more to appear to self, or another, caved into infinity. It seems slow paced, upon a volt, wattage, for it aches to feel alone. Days with strangers. Frames with ambition. Touching with logic. The keys are upon tables; dynasty of an altar; horns, symbols, ploughs, and sickles. Into a garden, plush with fruits, greenery in traumas—the years as they retract, love is relaxed, patient, failing its station, forfeiting its ideals. I think about people, walking by, wandering as we do; to decide in an instance, what we’d like to exist for, privileged in a jar, an anticipation, to ask many questions. Maybe a sincere tale, maybe a metaphor, a simile, maybe sirens at seas; maybe love was meant for souls, something exclusive, requiring maturity, whelming passion, to endure centuries into literature. Marching to meddle—should to silence, a mug of madness. Just existence aside its existential, paused for compassions, seized by the greatest souls. Maybe multiplying is happiness, not as we imagine it, nevertheless, fulfillment. The things a soul shall see, at a helm, tugging a wheel, trying to forget some nature in souls. Alas, connected without permission, things will do to sew our presence.    

Until Lights Grow Darkness

 

A chance to waltz, Lord, on a chord in orison, a few too many words. Organic is harder. I met her in a daze, she was bent on ideals, we couldn’t tolerate philosophies. I was drawn to her violin, her mysticism, her art. They call it by a name. I felt like a dirty sweatshirt. She felt like raging anger—so composed, a second in time, everything comes to pass: a lie! She worshipped science, was raised in religiosity, couldn’t shake the Great Anchor. An inner paradox, a schism, trying to piece a puzzle together. I admired her swagger—enjoyed her resistance—hurt to see her twitch. A brilliant mind, a deathzone appetite, an advocate of chaos. I’ll leave that alone, to speak it is to provoke it, and Love strikes into atmosphere: protecting the castle. What if anything—veneer and shadow—to unveil nature? There into it, laughing with music, crying with religion. Tried it. Easing into the violin. At something like a jigsaw; hearing my thoughts, angry with my lineage, can’t put it that way. It might be forever: despair, triumph, same cycles. I don’t speak it. I don’t endorse it. To live it, like an endless touch, like a yogini intrigue. I was inclined to walk away. I was confused about humans. I kept to a dear ideal. I now fathom ethics—the mystery in humans, how it sticks with a select few. And adoring it when it struck, to imagine living, at a point, where it seems heavy.

A Leafy Pond

 

Becoming both beast and saint, featured in

features, soul held back. Made of webs—botched

incipience, atoning, becoming

debris. In asking for a notion, nailed

to a sequoia, shimmering by

suffering beauty; tribal glamour,

unexcused jazz, partial bias,

tendentious reigns. Don’t pay attention, an

existential dilemma, I promise

it hurts; don’t become brave, chasing an

elephant, to slaughter innocence. If

we notice something, we notice souls

speaking boldly, to look at paradox,

contradiction, fiats rarely hold weight.

Becoming both beast and saint, most

dangerous soul, trying to feel beyond

feelings—to touch spirit, wrapped in essence,

framed by anger, escaping through

effusion. An embittered self, warring

itself, lavish upon a wire.

Demystified. Hearing a name. Each day

in winds. Accursed by a mistake. Nothing

like loving. Nothing like surpassing

amore. By a grimace, notwithstanding

its beauty, finesse is mythology.  

Flyleaf

 

Trying an upbeat tempo—sunshine on a bad day—praising to become humble.

Theology upon crucibles, thrust by Christ, pierced in flesh;

become for souls, polish spirit, abandoned to critics, to imagine what a shadow looks like. And Love filled with light, demanding an audience, fretting if unloved;

a numbness to her, fraught by flowers, running against triteness, banality, a certain surge, addicted to excitement

… indeed, it all wears away, try to adore that, with music revving its engine.

By collar comes debt, by knowledge comes responsibility, by sorrow comes depth of character.

Needing you, keeping quiet, moving self into an umbra;

courageous pangs, hydrant eyes, a crush becomes a situation.

Try to realize an inner diary, try to function like humans, deal with reflection;

a flight to hells, a nursery of memories, the crib holds a future.

Posture tells a story, as life speaks its saga, coming to light, adoring light, unknown by you.

A theme these days, can’t announce it these days, most hate to speak it these days;

chasm of arts, bosom of souls, fevered, gallant, in self, deeper than life.

And filled with voice, reciting ghosts upon flyleaf, trying an upbeat tempo.  

In Seeing Another Human

 

The joy is dispersed in fragments.

The heart rejoices … to have noticed

a shy soul. Untold tales, unsaid beliefs,

religiosity is personal.

Loving was easy by numbness,

wrapped in essence, weened and

set loose. Gazing upon a sage, an

enlightened art, making passion

incomplete. Holding symbols, a

mental chalice, painting

invisibility. Born of spirit,

floating upon rain, standing beneath

intelligence. Mauled by love, as she

resides, with needs for improvements.

Knotted in guts, eating inkprints, to have

discovered romance. Many speak of

an anchor, so sweet in trauma, needing

excellence, a hug with roses. Oh

Nautic Eyes, chemic undercurrents,

reformed pirates; tender amore, to have

entered mind, in adoring it might

ache—needing closeness, bodies

made near, not whelmed

enough. Fervent avalanche—sun-filled

music, proud to have met patience,

perfect errors, a soul flogging

arrogance. Upon a drum—into a

dungeon, with everything to explore:

abject happiness, for it only

rises so high—a shifting keel;

academic wilderness, systematic

doubts, asked to fall in love. Oh

Churchbell, ringing in souls,

pleading a return to a primal source,

with Love naked in art’s domain.

A heaving upsurge, a whirlpool, loving

aesthetics has been delicate.    

Fractional Film Work

 

It means little—depth a scar, midday weariness. I see images, skies – living isn’t easy. I do it with grains, I dream stoic, an epicurean slant. I walked the cemetery—I saw flowers, a mystery must have deigned. I flutter inside, flicker at seams, since I’ve felt us. It means little, called in his screenplay, we die quickly. A rose for an ache, a dream for a soul, to need holiness, also filth, human pangs, dying to meet life. I was at reason, I felt it right, losing to make excellence, it seldom happens. It seldom changes. We play a game with ourselves. It means chess. It goes astray, with us, or without us. It remains dishonest. It

 

doesn’t deviate. It has a problem with ideals. To have lived them, with closets chasing, to stand in alliance. It means little. [But] over yonder, those brown lenses, to have selected another, to have given mind over, to need more to live on time: detached, scientific, that feeling, where we can’t cross out, even if desired. Blockage. Training. With unfamiliar emotions. Years in a box. To become parts of perfect. If one knew what stirs beneath the flame; spirit meaning something, souls fraught with existence, love seeming impossible. It’s mis-defined—it can’t be an ideal, for ideals never measure cries.  

Art 4 Art

 

Adolescent addicts, seasonal sunrises, pictured perfect pains. Fathers afar, a scar on culture, trying to understand, civilized; river talk, rival terrors, rereading thefts. Like double dice, feuding with society, too angry to listen; and dying seemed hard, and living seemed impossible, with a select few cashing in on food stamps. Born to bawl. Southern arts. Each pining over similar sufferings. A soul made simplistic mesmerism. It took hell heaving to rise higher. Needing ritual, neutral rites, into royal nights. Nothing but everything—to change in a whiff, blinking into destination, whisking, weaving. Things we say to ourselves, each space a pleat in existence, far too harsh, needing heaven. Gaming self, insecure, trying at luxury; dressing differently, it seems to mean much, with soul cleaving to a wilder nature. Folks dispute morals, activate ethics, defending contradiction; born at a baseline, fevered frowns, growing grains. To rear ravens, to create crows, with existence withering by seconds.     

Culture Primed

 

Just a pair of knuckles—falling into place—destined before birth; smoky blues, evening cigarettes, trying one’s damndest. “They,” seems like a copout, too close is made vulnerable, up early. Used to! Running like a madman, nearly imbalanced, seeking upper skies. A little to pavement, he’ll never breathe again, over a dozen at his funeral. We live shocked, anger building, suffering from high tension. Trying to adore a riddle, asking pertinent questions, seeming overfamiliar. Turning heads, we know routine, amazed upon a glance. Before sunrise. Days were mastered. Enthused to make it. To see where it doesn’t matter, souls throwing in a towel, prepared to perish. Maybe one loves more, swerving at 2 AM, each block filled with music; bottles spinning, moving into character, too many falling. Damned either way. Skin testifying to freedom. It meant so much!  

Fifth Intuition

 

Was low a day into blues. Was echoing,

nay, whistling, a few moons ago. There’re

things said and things unsaid. Seen many—to

sense a location, wondering if

difference is contagious. Tentative

admiration—stay perfect, don’t act

human! There’s a submarine, it’s benthic,

it plumbs depth and soil, cutting kelp and

seagrass. Love is there. I exaggerate

to make a point. Fire inside. To have

a tell—something cute and precious, to

die in her arms. I know a soul in a

portal, magnetized and polluted; flame

into orbit, to sing silence, so

evolved a soul is crooked—wrestling

darkness, awakened, too afloat to rest,

it’s impossible. With depth

concentration, to enter heart, a bridge

between means so little. I wander

inside. I see an image. I keep my

eyes shut. A face in season, a trench coat,

to glance, to get closer, it all vanishes.    

By Interpretation

 

Last on her list. First excluded. I’m headed to a pantheon.      I took time to tell a story.

     Looking at you in hallucination, bundled in essence, to kneel in exhalation.

            It locates itself. It mourns. It isn’t black & white.

     Art of a falcon. Terror of a lion. Mystic lips.

            Beige skies, colorful existence, sheer absurdity.     To have met you is to have lived.     To carry it with arrogance, to pride self with humility, to become paradox, portrait, patience.

     To muse upon what can never become, to love and torture self. In decorating infatuation, I discovered pieces at seas.

            The tale unsold, unsellable, no one is buying it.     And still, the tale is sung.

            Pure consciousness: to reach her and feel dislodged—from ache, art, the blues.

     Last on her list. First to immortalize her.   

Ruth Grows

 

Most things are unnecessary. To become life. A gem in a jewel, a bag of deceit, made deliberate. A man

 

has a harder road. He must be a man. A woman has a demanding road, she must drive straight. Blaming

 

is outdated. We discuss the inhumane. We see characteristics, some are wonderful. I can’t

 

remember peace until, it became what now haunts the ache, dear souls! I go casual. I lose sleep. I

 

imagine the new life. Years in, one heartbroken, to dedicate it to ensuring it flows with indifference.

 

Hatred shares itself. Love should be selective. In dying jazz, we arise in blues, connected through

 

bulbs and music the art killing the artists. I knew you were opened, cracked at core, and he never

 

imagined it; you held me in contempt of person, knowing I could see, coy, shattered, and made to

 

direct energies; falling of its science, giggles muffled, hating him, disputing who should take his

 

blame. Eucalyptus and candledust. Memories and debate. To have spoken a word, to have come so

 

close, in degrading morals, another is made to smile. I don’t think it exists. I don’t think it matters.

 

Most seem to chase after dystopia—calling it majesty. I give it little thought. By indifference the

 

sun is shining. I control nothing. In desire, I realize, most desire an image, a musical, a culture, better, a

 

status. It has nothing to do with us. Something you should know, and I know not what it is. By chase,

 

by eternity, by more lies. In loving, a soul must become an inner machine, a caveat for self. By

 

weather the pain as weaved to look closely and die of disbelief. To adore so dearly the one so

 

aggravated, desperate to make religion its ideal. In aging, ruth grows.   

Life’s Predicament

 

Feelings aren’t in sequence. Most fret, most aren’t

singing, framed by a mudflap. Keen on

emptiness, a non-language, a

behavior, filmed by nonexistence. To

imagine living, if a psyche dares,

parasailing, paragliding, doing

more to participate in existence;

settled in a den, maybe reading,

listening to leather squeak; filched from self,

deeper in malaise, frowning a little,

to smile for a loved one. By hives, antes,

existence as dilemmas, to wonder

how many she has claimed. Damp swamp

emotion, blackdamp art, facial

expressions made warmth. To understand an

adversary—to reckon with an

inconsiderate Arc, unknown to self

—pleading excellence. Marshweed, muddy thorns,

trekking lower—arms reaching, to grip

suddenly, like life is marvelous. More

waves, gateways, at clues, no true depth, or too

much to share; many called for exclusion,

many more wanted to know, landing on a

name, as identifying it in depth.

A little froward, flavescent at times,

an aqua moon, a noisy sunflower,

with pain seeming extraordinary;

jasper dice, florescent lies, wondering

where Love dwells—a heart-comb, art for

memories, paved by emotion; whet with

passion, to panic on contact, sweating

profusely. Feelings aren’t in sequence—blasé

is in motion, or too low to mingle,

anxious to express, most needing

understanding.