Her Name is Sadness

 

Like a faint breeze, upon a sunlit whisper, she appears;

depth the deaths, deaf to removal, wine, sadness, and presence.

No quite destination, quiet persistence, enchanted miseries, one expects Father to chance. 

Upon an axiom, listening to air, flame of the immortal, agony of the invisible; and I read Glück, sheer mesmerism, passion, veiled sorrows, knowingness of audience.

To desire skies, skiing in vain, so great a course in acceptance.

With seeing schism, evolved in silence, sweet nectar, sour candy, at aches to ignore rumblings. 

Ink and dangers. Proud for no exchange. To have loved in tortures, to have given all, 

wandering memory lane, afraid one might feel too much. (Many seem content: indecent simplicities).

Lights made sensual; to appear. She hovers. Such sickening redemption.

A pariah to some; a legend come death; deeper meaning is found in sexual contact: it trumps decency.

And art lingers, excitingly banal, desperately trite—breakage of casualties.

While thinking about you, in beauty and brains, to see your life, 

such poison, with souls following, just in sights, so great a sullen laughter. 

And she appears: namely Sadness; 

her cadence is sweet; her anxiety is 

meditative; such segue to 

depression—to get into marrow, 

to agitate bone, deep dark details.

Awakened Portrait

 

Bled of solace, perfected in blood. Never knew was life; never fathomed God’s violin. So near to the grave. I was born to give up the ghost.

I adored a child, to praise an adult. 

Composed of visions, sold to repentance, captured by pure resistance. 

Erratic soul pressure, capricious pianos.

In needing you—I love you; in depth of gems, singing as it aches, to hurt in a precious moment. 

I’ve a weary outlook; I fathom all are dying, and trying so hard. 

I tear up to speak of you: your days are locks, requiring keys. 

Such an inner castle, so many mansions, to have won before birth: sunshine arts, spectacle shards, blatant indecision. 

The highway is lonely, clouds are darkened—to fever in a moment, to lose so much. 

Loving you is easy; healing you is by fate; to sing silence. 

Mink Science

 

I’ve said too much. I sense it hurts: being holy is critical.

By marooned instincts—to shadow a beginning. 

I imagine it’s beautiful: I beg a vision. 

Wanted to be a friend: the benefit of anxieties. 

To dream and feel horrible; to love and feel unrequited. 

If an energy approaches, and it is not reproached, let it be gentle.

Many desire desire, repudiate lust, if to remain holy, if to live by fusion. 

Life is intricate: she speaks forbidden languages, she pushes souls; if sanctified, if holy, upon a cross, to have adored in dying, the love we so departed. 

Certain sweetness; deeper resonance; altruistic denial.

I come to say a little, behaving as instructed, every increment is neat, even cute. 

If two come into eternity, to know every increment of life, indeed, they grow into humans. 

I have averted loving, in exchange for seeing, what good is it to love one we cannot see (in totality)? 

Sweet Purple Rain     if to sense glory, if to touch sewage; smells and odors, life and deaths, autumn and spring. Never another in communion, if a fiat exclaimed—with living breathing into a curse; too wild to make sense, angst and desert, around sequences and denying life. 

David Took Refuge

 

At critical points, his soul was held in derision.

He kept his case with God; man will massacre you.

In death, I hope to cherish those scars, to live while dying, to adore while running.

It should be easy, shouldn’t it: life under rulership, thoughts laid out, obedience made mandatory.

Peace to granny, to have lived broken, to make alive pain as an art.

Painting as we do. Strife in David. Mastery in Elijah. Ownership in Elisha. 

Take me home: “Be careful of the language.” 

Pavement tenets, softer adjustments, the Church shall survive. 

So slanted, arise as a thought, we celebrate the first martyr. 

In speaking to one side, we subtly alienate the other. I wonder what apostles did; indeed, a hint of sarcasm, to include bark and branches; an intricate dialogue with the readers. 

Time to live. Time to explore. We reexamine the roots. 

I was a child and I’d listened. 

I feel one, an acute spirit, a flippant tongue. 

Only one life, we presume. 

Fragments in awareness, split asunder, yanked into focus. 

It will be read.  

Satori

 

I have a saga in history. I have a soul soaring into destiny.

If I said, I see into a space where all is abysmal, one would tell me to stop looking there.

A missive was written during times of turmoil; it became immortal.

I stopped lusting for you. I tried to see you in reality. I found we have something in common. I now understand something, life is difficult in return for thoughts. If I think it, I might be able to attain it. This is cool upon a thought; some persons are unreachable. 

Essence kills softly.     I try to ignore undulations, even undercurrents, like passing underbrush; to no avail; souls speak spirits.

I hope it reaches, as it presumes, eyes into a river, upon a koan. 

It was easy to see it aches; it was hard to seduce a solution; most desolate cities, interior islands, to feel content upon an emotion, rare, but true. 

Indeed, to have said so little—in saying too much, such writhing innocence, inverted realities, susurrous undertones, ingratiating realms of deaths. 

It will live on as a study, if to prophesy.

Falling Rain

 

You are change—unending motion, to fret the Great Darkness;

you give Light, illuminous and wild—so tamed, so veiled.

I approach a curtain, feel the pleats, they look Venetian: stars abandoned, or located, jars half full, or empty—belonging to perception, hovering in deaths, kef over arts. 

How does one say it without yielding? Desert song. 

To imagine traipsing, dust flailing ankles, faith made in essence, genetic beliefs. 

To sudden upon a city, to seize it. We never say — “It was wild.”

I was an adult, reexamining. 

Some mysteries are for God only: we peer and gander, fumbling at a zipper—to unleash anxiety. 

Souls are tenacious; we unwrapped skies, we decoded behavior; such un-neat exaggeration, such accuracy, such accomplishment; indeed, the Great Failing, to have outwitted Elohim. 

I heard about Love; built for aristocracy, knitting iron, ferric pains—those daylight eyes, those sunbeam passions, fused together, gravitating towards deaths. 

To look at aesthetics, so shallow our souls, to desire on merit alone; 

years walking into wilderness—upon a coppice, palming a venomous spider. 

If I Were a Friend II

 

Is it true, is it false: a picturesque image upon a star?

Friends die in each other, loving thoughts—angered over possibility.

I was fishing inside; it must be awareness:

sudden into an uplift.

The oceans seem to waft to shore;

seagulls witness passion, 

something immortal is knitted,

souls feel immature again. 

I try to drag it out of blueness;

I tug at it from turquoise glimpses;

you keep with ignoring us.

Such contradiction in a glance.

Maybe I see hopes, dreams, at life too long.

Seafaring wishes, girded by soothsaying;

so exposed, in a lonely crowd, such a dying trope. 

We have a time trying—in speaking, we tread carefully. 

I sense physics; I hear meta.

Phrenic music: needing the needs of needing. 

So futuristic in thoughts, such dear exploration, if to long for us with desperation: to gather pieces, to unknot fragments, to swear upon a paradox.

I garner upon cosmos—to assert knowingness, to imagine love;

as a dear liar: to need it with restrictions, to proffer an idea, to believe in us an ideal; as if … tsunami passion … baptism tears … furious, unyielding redemption ….   

Pausing

 

I read a scripture. Romans, Chapter 7. I was floored. 

With the body it will serve sin. With the mind it will serve God.

Theology has to wrestle with that.

One of those paradoxes. 

I have one better: How is a sinner holy? 

With one its perfection of behavior.

With another its weakness needing purging. 

Both sanctified, bled out, blood behind ears, upon a big toe. 

What are we? 

One can snatch a name from a Bible:

Who are we? 

Plato would fathom the question. 

I have ancestors from all regions. 

Granny used to say, “God, please!”

I loved Elijah; a still, even smaller voice.

Not the noise! 

Souls are crumbling, all things will pass, sold to carnality, begging spirituality, feeling something is deaf:

What is this absence?

 

Signature Symbolism

 

Spirits those scars. Dreams those wins.

Giving flame for water; giving existence to love again. 

If we owe life, why have we reneged?

I don’t mean to love you—where you seeped in; lately I’ve noticed, we feel each other, indeed, no bigger idea, else, we feel awareness, to wonder if—a person is watching, it’s consciousness.

To blend in, heightened allergies, gothic arts, wilderness deserts. In a tarot deck, to shun—I believe, making history of our futures. 

I don’t mean to ponder you;

I don’t like everything in you;

something mystic shines.

Water cascades, tropes, I’d suppose; ontic ears, delving deeper, needing something I’ve imagined; 

indeed, phrenic appetites, mental blues, sending a vision, asking for a soul. 

A signature means so much!

Mother of Prophecy

 

Prophecy presses against the surface; 

those dramatic eyes, traumatic excellence, 

deliberate surfing.

By error to win, some version of tales, silent wailing,

to conjure up images, to draw emotion, 

to read an angered sketching; violent colors, rage subdued, 

wrath seeping out—never to assert it, where we see it, alike in tenderness.

To hurt in motion, to smile with caution, to become for a few, every opalescent sound.

In having scales, in knowing comforts,

silence is easy to discern. 

Much is taken for weakness, strength of a locomotive—

upon investigation, to have a 

gift, to 

assist, such penchants, deeper 

pertinence, Mother of prophecy.

Uncaptured Morning Mist

 

Color has soul, a lot of dying, so connected by heritage.

A city of hearts, hauling residues, trying to embrace history.

It was lonely—in finding self, to realize: I’m part sad. 

Ain’t no love—we assert, there must be love.

Blues and big buildings, souls stranded, some forgotten, looking at large eyes; knowing another understood, readily: on borrowed time—rays, kilometers, such a foolish man, rarely seizing where I haven’t sewn—harvest jazz, inner city rhythms, casual greetings. 

I was told something: “Cry it out.” 

The lonely ones—misunderstood, sailing concrete battles; roses and petals, to have seduced, realizing life in subtleties, a gentle nudge, tomorrow hurts.

The first giggle, the last language:

heart ears, spirit eyes, morning is filled with you: silence speaks. 

Hours to ontology; waiting becomes appeased; tossing through awakenings; pondering duty.

So darkened, can’t follow through, something is tugging, deep in brains, preventing action. 

And

Love knows nothing, a sudden gaze, a moment, in absence to see charms.

Nobody fooling the Light;

No one revamping attraction.

Souls palming oil, trying to grip it tightly. Life becomes seduction.  

Happy Thanksgiving

 

Tomorrow is sunshine, today is winter.

Beauty is Morning Star, with much to deal with.

Sweet celebration. Neat waves, supposing excellence, backs displaying mirrors, and we fathom a chasm; 

to remember it, to examine it, to realize—it was desperation. I would lie, if to suggest—it could’ve been another, taking from self, laughing over embarrassment, but—it’s not true.

We paint pictures, palatial exaggeration, paper thin commitments; else a genius, upon viola at three, identified by an instrument. 

Or a Catholic seed, knuckles popped, to become stern. 

With life advertised; with love magnified; a man eventually interviews himself. 

Losing to win; winning to lose; a cycle for souls, inexplicable. 

Inexorable cosmos; blatant obedience. 

One is first untamed, such dangerous freedom. 

Must be without—to appreciate being with—taut, I know; must be with integrity, 

in giving to grace, it will die, it will live, it might return to itself: 

I envy that; to return to self … absent of violins, encouraged by moons, frequent at an inner mirror.

Spazzing

 

To exhaust a feeling, wondering, would it be golden? 

Moet and apricots, giggling like life is funny. 

Wandering ghosts, old feelings, memorized, it gets intricate. 

Tired of shedding tears, known to stand solid, while dying, nonetheless. 

Where it matters, more data, labelled swiftly, we need closer investigation.

To imagine being careful, to imagine lasting arts, listening to voltage, wondering what the attraction is—mentally lazy, should’ve known—never a silver platter without adulterous silverware.

We, as future leaders, know when something has life; a curse upon the phantom, phantasmagoria, blessed to have life; to share it, at deeper seconds, a thought comes to mind, like amazed to have existence; indeed, blame the juice, living in sin, made holy, everlasting in depth science—the fire for yogis, anxiety for unknowingness, terror for mystics and excellence. Was it different? Watching a dead man; some type of connection—to an inner-outer realm; so slow to love me, so quick to slave me, thirsting like a maniac.  

Aphotic lights, photic darkness, to blend realities so close to feeling ostracized. 

To see you in there, pissed off in there, damn saying nice things. 

Rather tell it, rather one knows it: damn right it has an effect; loving passion, give a care, it’s not my business.   

Life Was Quit

 

Deteriorating. 

Running and tired.

If life understood its jewelry. 

I keep laughing, even when it hurts.

A bomb ass spirit, can’t find joy, what has God done? 

Red juice, eating life, sipping in a dungeon.

I was sick on love, nobody gave a missive, lurking at the apple tree. 

Having fun, like a drugged-out soul, it was never normality. 

Trying to cleanse it, its depth, pure profundity.

It helps to cure a soul, for life is shitty, with music making it better. 

Can I share something: I lie to myself: I keep saying, It’s alright. 

We know it’s Fucked up: we laugh 

self-consciously: to score again, blinking 

into a dimension, mellow with Flame.

Inexplicable Desire

 

Life has meaning, upon a positive quest—depth of anxiety, existential chaos, Love made royal, garments churning purple. 

To have adored an eagle, to have become a sparrow, too long in wilderness—one final chapter. 

Whispers in shadows. Anxiety in woes. The best parts were suffering alienation; the best charts caught reflection in eyes, eureka—those arts, sullen charms, surrendering to debate. 

So much disgust became sweet syrup; so much passion began to hurt; in needing, it was evocative—the fire we slain in becoming martyrs. 

Where did we travel?

Most likely to vet something invisible. 

Custody of aches, flame of dungeons, sorrows of the greater skies.

Never meant it that way.

Never knew me. 

Never to exclaim possession. 

Neat ambivalence. Acquired sensation. 

To grow so quickly. To share with a stranger those woes. 

To have a gift. To see it in others. To know for a few spirits. 

A life as it churns, a danger if untamed. 

We won so much, to have lost a fancy. 

Needing indivisibility, a tangible heart, as beating back and forth, while on trial for humanity. 

Flame Flickers

 

It amazes. We crossed paths, like birds, unseen, forgotten, holding to an image. 

We never met. 

Like passing through ghosts, banshee chains, bled marrow, 

so intricate, brain soil, to imagine something so crafted, only

feelings, emotions, logic angry as hell, calm spirit, looking at literature, knowing something foul took place, knowing my part, just because I thought it, never is it over, to the damn grave!

Tinted glass, sealed fates, with not much to see. 

I glamourize us, such fair/unfair creatures, a giggle in a shower, a smell inside, an outer odor to it, always something, damn it, slam a shot, laugh at myself, wish to Father, kneel in humility, so many elements to a man. 

The insides tremble. The fire is coming. The flame flickers. 

Science Faith

 

The humor you flamed. Another seldom a smile. 

Alone with us, wondering how it feels to be smart; a room claiming what you possess. 

Some art is irreverent. I believe this isn’t your intention;

maybe too indifferent, until inverted. Maybe another is bent on jealousies, of course, we’ll never celebrate words, we’ll never grog-out. 

I heard silence. I try not to wander in there, there’s rain to it.

In need of an armoire; lacing shoes, grooming beards, needed each week, life is on repeat.

I can’t exclaim love; I can say—not clear on powers, some sciences remain religious. 

I was a neat kid. I wasn’t erudite. I was hungry for survival. 

This is irrelevant.

You will see your desire; you will renege; you will change the future. 

I will now trespass a little: you were fed too much too quickly. Like a philosopher trying to ingest Greece. 

A dear swift death, trying at humanity, they’ve motives; still, filled with hope, gentle, wise, pulling back, advancing, a little here, an increment there. Sourness. Replaced by wisdom. Strong, but affected.

Take us to church, amp up the choir, teach sound, teach her ritual. 

A child saw an angel. The closet was filled by phantoms.

He told his friends. They wanted to see this closet.

Each surmised. Each believed. This is faith.   

Cultures Religion

 

Much torque, turned left, wheezing rightly;

allergic

and sinning, holy damages, reaching for relics,

free the skies.     Language isn’t rosy, upon an anxious rose,

blues

jazz, like deeper church, spinning off realities, couldn’t believe what they thought.

Often, musicians speak about “running,” angst to breathe, viral now a days, certain spaces.

How elastic is spirit? What a soul is exposed to—deeper wrath, a whole life healing: a culprit passes away, a survivor still doing therapy. 

A soul losing at the moment, winning at the moment, something taking place, raw visions. 

Mainly experiential: great velocity—energies across a room, eye contact: some fret it, its contagious, like dying to live. 

They call us intolerable. We give life. 

Turned-out protégées, turned-out mentors, and turned-out warriors; 

California remains differentials:

to see it becoming law,

to hear it in passing, 

quick to ignore it, all cultures using the “N” word, as endearment.     

To believe as a study, quite indifferent to it, until a convergence experience, even then, it’s not addressed; and the world heard “Savage.”

Tender Oxygen

 

We laughed together: one sits in silence.

I looked, at pretend, listening to pretensions.

I don’t, like then. 

A person knows memories—hanging on, lost to future worries. 

If one knew Truth, if one only knew!

I still find privacy, seeing pictures, photographs, living my demons. 

What is it?

And you appeared; unamused … moved.

On yacht brains; on cliff gold; falling into bronze missives … I was younger then. 

I hear it … every artist saying it …

Thank God!

Years at pains, high rise ambitions.

If it wasn’t what it is: something would be askew. 

I have a little time … despite years. A modicum of atmosphere. 

I was thinking deeply—as if monitored, upon a volt; such sweet voltage, such forgotten tomorrows, with souls going back; to imagine summer, bright beautiful lights, falling into winter. 

Laughter isn’t sameness. 

Love seems intricate.

Promise makes for disgust. 

Needing a tug, pleading in God, fretting serenity. 

Icy Warmth

 

I need to surrender more. Sadness is a sign. 

It seems to me—life is temperaments. 

Rain pouring inside, on a sunny day, glitter and darkness.

I dropped it off. It keeps chasing.

Most feel we belong somewhere else, unable to point at a destination. 

Everyone is shunning existence, desiring existence, if to suggest—this is life! 

I’d rather fail, miserably in love, than feel miserably unyoked. 

Life is riches, ecstatic passion, wines and moons, gray clouds, formidable faces—

The furthest space, a world cold and warm, taking essence made green; to know one sees, to imagine—it means so little—realizing something essential is being destroyed, as to go on forever; indeed, otherwise, something found is lost, something lost is debased, with family drifting away. 

We take to situation, comfortable it will be sameness, bent on a scar, placating a phantom; the blood is blue, the tendency is aching, a dream upon vengeance. 

No one sees it. It just lives—as a big ass elephant, and God let’s you carry it. 

Sorrow upon a countertop, a quilt made of imaginary reality, someone meaning you the curse, while preaching love, to hate another for consistency; and your eyes have melted deeper ice lands; and your pain has traveled inlet Islands.

Ambivalence

 

They wonder of my culture, the way we act, the mirror we land, so mean.

It’s complex, sex is immortal, racing up mountains.

Genetic poverty!

Made rich on pure talent.

Most desire a turned-out life: to never give a care, to puff, pop pills, to drink, to snort. Never to feel present, on a secret, something scentless.

Most upon features, most medicated. They watch my culture: How many rules on my culture? I adore my culture. 

Something happened to us. 

Make it soul, blues, jazz, ink, literature, rap, more music. 

Something intricate takes place: a soul becomes a spirit, a certain thought to it. 

Indicative gems, swag jewelry, they keep developing younger. 

Savage hearts, never cared, hiding from my gut; needing what can’t exist, at a cave of warriors, we try to adore Love, something desires destruction, drumbeats, tribal, we make new rules, if to exist. 

Untold millions, and we yearn towards deaths. 

All the yenning, all the memories, uncomfortable inside, facing ambivalence.  

In Motion

 

There’s danger in passions.    There’s trouble in dreams.    I sense you keep pain with company—a map of scars, tinted by indestructible. 

To discover Faith. To battle self. 

More suits; more blues; jazz was marvelous. 

And Love was nice, something unexplainable, left wandering through prints.

I sense rappers read scripture. I sense after a while it begins to speak, to hurt, if God was only nice. 

I know: Blasphemy! 

I tire of saying in absence those truths as they dance. 

I was with ambivalence today; looking to an Anchor, enduring Adullam. 

It meant so much—us as kinfolk; willing to believe in it; it was a great let down. 

As adults we feel intensities, part beauty, part rain, part anxiety. To look and smile, knowing uneasiness, I’ve come faced by darkness: I’ve come faced by miserable beauty—as defined as holy, as described by paradox, as left in the secret. 

I notice changings inside. They manifest outwardly. There’s a connection between outer and inner. Jesus demanded the winds to be still. Without thumping too much, there’s a great secret here. 

I know it was as it screams needing something to acknowledge the alienation. 

I grabbed science to clear out delusion. 

The mind was a clinic.