Pains Are Aging

 

 

You need a scent, a beehive, a hornet empire.

Life trains us; Love seems cold.

Executive suits, piercing boots, Love is living.

Love is creative, a great passion, fueled by banter, jesting when it hurts. 

A dear need, behind curtains, hurting in defenses—so 

Electric—to keep it hidden.

Knowing psyches, entering by stealth.

10 toes into it. Five senses dedicated to it. Wounded.

It means nothing. Lost on a motive. 

To cater to him; looking at him: he never had understanding. 

With prose making miseries, with time in fantasies, with power at waist level. 

To imagine if one was gentle, if one tried harder, we all need this.

Back to anxieties: both parties; with age making pains sophisticated. 

 

Psyche Print

 

 

The sight was with reason. The anguish was in beauty. The curse was in pains. Tired as it evolved. Knowing what life isn’t. The compass as built, the danger in perception, the bane of disappointment.  We were searching belief; wanted to feel surprised.

Such tyranny inside, a soul hard on itself.

Sheer intolerance, secerning by default, 

shocked.

Not a minute on self-care;

not a second on clarity. 

With souls swearing attention, memorization.

Wild astrology, closer deception, knowing as entered. 

Underestimated. Desperate fringes. One leap. In spite of perception. Wanting to seize future. Heavy on a throttle. 

To know by perfect tears, imperfect excellence. 

Pianist paradise, softer beliefs.

On Completion

 

One must break through reality in order to cross over into metaphysic reality. In surmising all night, I fathom something harsh, I haven’t a clue to it all. It’s neither awake nor resting, it’s limbo. The ache has nothing to do with love, it has motivation, but it lacks in love. The sun stands between us; the moon just watches in awe. Something strumming our guitars, an invisible hand, with many sensing, life is there. I’ve a time with getting flustered, befuddled by a world inside of a galaxy, a soft repeat of insistence, to ignore common reality. Someone says: “That’s love.” I defy him to undergo desiring what has slipped into atmosphere, as engulfed by disappearance. Nevertheless, I should, or never should I, as to drift into spaces, more to mourn an uncanny science, something tilling me with a rake. I don’t see it like it sees itself. To fathom duties, work, art, home and politics; pray wilderness to be gentle, pray life to extend a favor. Maybe in bringing life its rhythm, life is rejected, misunderstood.  I fret depending upon a wish. I fret the responsibility of remaining excellent. I fret the sunrise missing me.  (In not loving the conundrum, in resisting the chasm, internality has intensified. Energy gnaws, gnashes inner teeth, some snare befuddles me.)  I was never complete, as to fantasize about wholeness, as it relates to inner peace; the darkness of illumination, benighted as we dance, captured by will power, bereft of completion.          

Accordion Mindset

 

If one repeats your name, or feel you when he awakens, or ponders your nature and drops a tear, Is this love?

I beg to differ. 

The pain is the roses. Art is magnificent sorrow. 

I can’t change what has occurred. I can shift perception. 

Upon secernment, differentiating between reigns, knowing to some degree. 

Holding it in, wondering about warmth, coddling with sins. 

You have a skillset.

Another has pain. 

Another has all the above.

I was looking at a furnace, feeling a kiln, adrift a planet; and Love would appear, and you would watch, something accordion in angst.

I tried to ignore myself. I’ve come to dislike what took place. Nevertheless, to maintain sanity, I must shift perception. 

Another has the gift, tiptoeing my psyche.  

Thieves Entered The Temple

 

 

If I gave sanity equality, paved by an unstable nature, would Love participate? 

 

We seem with joy, right? Nay, we seem with miseries, a crush on sorrows; those waves into battles, clutching insanity.

 

I rushed to end it. I paused to save it. 

If a close friend, scrutiny & diamonds. 

 

It never mattered. It meant so little. Souls walking longer roads.

I have loved the art of insanity. I was on a gray ship. 

 

The flow was interrupted. Just because it could be. 

Some stranger deciding my life. 

It seems natural. 

 

I tire of consciousness. I tire of the Great Chasm. 

I tire of just about all things.

 

It seems messed up. A man worships with fervor. Same man grows in stature. To realize, he will never be close enough. 

 

The chase is eternal. The arts are immortal. To die thrice in one heartbeat. 

 

I suppose it’s rewarding, and I suppose it would have been, in essence, what it is, and I suppose it’s immortal, the rest of a lifespan. 

Automatic as Structured

 

A soul wanders until it reaches itself. Redundance is warfare. 

Oh’ Tolerant Faith—to see what one cannot see; fabulous, foreign dreams, lavish calligraphy, ink & missive. 

In coming to Temple, in watering spirit, strewing angst, if to arrive 

at synagogue: tunics dripping existence, bodies slain, hearts rend asunder, fraught with healing, purified, inverted, facing mirrors. To travel over yonder, satori rites, enlightening moon—favored upon a curse, slaughtered first life, crucified third existence, massacred upon 50-years. No sense to it, no rhythm, no rhyme; into cadence, automatic insistence, craving an ancient chi. 

 

Souls Don’t Fathom Self

 

It appears in rain, earthquakes, a sea-forest, those deep scars, such flowers in bloom.

In loving I was confused. I never fathomed love—not as it hurts to feel good. 

And one reads, and one stands still, and another casts a dream.

To knead an emotion, to need a feeling, so spatial, so befuddled. 

I was in admiration, looking at aesthetics, analyzing a curse. If to seize a second, 

listening to insignia, bled of decency, running into orbit. 

I was excited to have her. I was such an innocent soul. 

We made excellence. We viewed deaths.

I was left sea-gone; I soared with her.

We’ve become every type of forgiveness.    

Aside Raspberries

 

We will go to a place, sleet and fire, purgatory and perdition. 

It was wonderful before it was horrible. And we minced hopes, diced dislikes, debated hibiscus.

Over lemons, lording over anthills, a child cursed the skies. 

Many ideals to families.

Each person is incomplete in a sense, to veil it, this is by nature—to redeem it, this is incredible. 

It wasn’t us to make it happen. Beyond physics, near uncertainty, concretized by feelings. 

When days are incessant, we pick what we sanctify.

This moment is now a memory. 

Celebrating Bill Withers: “Lean on Me”

 

Upon holiday skates—listening as we do—asking more questions. 

The wreckage has passed, or is it immortal?

I would eat history, similar to sea grass, trekking and trailing marsh-grounds, 

I needed to Lean In, to Hold Tightly, to share the Weight. 

The debt of it is the friendship. 

At a shoreline, ebbing and flowing, watching as we do. 

Those that lived, their beauty, the way we’d Lean In; 

Such naturality. Such precious memories. To unzip a diary and see a face.

Ocean Salt

 

The mantis life; the life of Quixote; the life of Malcolm.

Tiger pupils, God’s Liver, a demon’s hostility—

aside a cactus, the major controversy behind water. 

Lemur eyes, movie magic, a panda’s heart. 

            I must be careful, in the admiration comes affection, in the affection comes love, in love the mind is ruptured.

            Noetic Tibet, tribal Africa, traveling empire to empire, alerting deaths. 

            Tailored prayers, secret meanings, accustomed to being an underdog. 

The mantis suffers, Quixote was damaged, Malcolm was a Symbol formed by existence. 

We never say it: we’re faced by cirrhosis. 

            Many dancing. The body struggling. It keeps taking hits. 

            The mind raging, wishing to break free, the thinking has become a hassle. 

Wool flannels. Chafe flesh. Clumsy at points. 

Rushing too fast. 

Nostalgic. Taking courage to move forward. 

The Great Whisper

 

I didn’t say it, longing to share it, desperate to expose life; mindset problems, Christmas Eve solutions, the rain was beautiful; never too far, never so close, pure terrific darkness. Nothing more precious, nothing so devastating, ever thrown into winter. Such bliss the resurrection, a little restless, pacing in circles. The spirit is a desert, a full city, a faraway town, so neat, so irritated, yearning—as was surmised; wide open, tiptoeing brows, falling the endless sphere: surly sunrise, moonlit, feeling untethered. What is girth? Calling. Drums busted. Skies trembling. The last to adore it.

 

I was smitten with it, capricious for it, sudden to unlatch. Such a miracle when present, so lost when chasing, it’s better to know humanness. A little concentration, a super-house, storage inside—

Mindset problems, indebted to the Great Whisper, such a minute to see it.  

How It Feels to be Human

 

According to science, life has an explanation, more human, communion community. To enter winds, to flit upon a breeze, to swoosh through him. Amazed by brains, a mixture with hearts, walking through esoteria. I fathom—as it stands, copulation will never occur—so, fire upon a butterfly, gates screaming, feathers wafting, to know interior vetting. It took years; and it transferred, translucent rain, opulent math, so, mythic, mystic, a great deal of training, even Zen. I tranced out. I returned. Days whet with trying to decode a human, the most complex edifice in life. I believe in existential torpor; I suggest to self, something is writhing inside. A long time fretting those dice, mincing onions, shedding anxieties, to suddenly feel overhauled. I imagine there’s a few, such flashers, trekking through caves with a torch. I was clouded. I took to a vest in thoughts. I’m quite serious about it. As it stands, in finding one’s nucleus, one’s foci churns, everything must fly—first to lose, travesty—sliding through memories, to see a face, to hear a pang, growth through bone, marrow inside, asking for one turn to sing. Left Taoist. Debating inside. And it seems, we’ve entered into transcendence. 

Traits

 

In measurement! 

 

 

Are scales balanced?

 

 

I suspect it matters. In finding self, I find others.

Self-knowledge becomes knowledge of Essence.

 

 

The topic suffers due to interpretation, moonlit skies, blackdamp stars. 

Hours pass with feelings. Actors depict truths: Is something missing? 

 

 

The damage was done. A soul (lives) with that. A soul (mimics) that.

Presidential in his life. Phoenix ambition. 

 

 

It must by perfection, the celloist inside, drums blare—sky dungeons, most folks have a few questions.

Searching. Moving with motive; the day of roses.

 

 

Fluting across seas; anxious to advance. Such a problem in there, calm at times, or facing turbulence. 

I never challenge her: ancient artifacts, baffling bane, creative cadence. 

Those with atmosphere—to hold us in derision, excellence must be perfect at every step: I fail. 

It takes something out of itself, it seems determined, secure, despite reality. 

7:15 AM

 

The soul became a relic—her ambition to see God. How do we define her? The core essence, the meditated self, utter belief, solemn faith. In truth, a breathing sarcophagus, an interim catacomb, full of alleys and reptiles. I was with scripture. I made confidence. It touched repulsion. Brazen audacity; opalescent portraitures. To arise early in waiting; to listen for sky bells; to dig interior searching for artifacts. I was drawn to my own, the sin of my slant, positive the texture of terrors. Self-certified, a bonified apologetic, refusing to discover self. It was hell breaking chords, cathedrals filled with flames, relics in jeopardy. 

 

I have a time with conjuring it up, albeit, with each piano key—it appears. It is like the mind resisting its intention, running with its nature, most frightened of losing itself. 

 

By a thorn we dance; by aches we speak; most ancient arts are iconic—most dreams are unreal, at times, there’s correlation, disputed after the fact. 

 

What I resist, as they say. 

 

I might be able to assert the morning is brighter upon a thought. While one speaks of a liaison, I imagine a smile making harmony, always emphatic and delightful. I know they are fantasies, but at points, they excite, giving a feeling of purpose.   

 

There’s meditative sadness to it; to make home with it; maybe it reflects incipience. To have closeness, to take courage, mentally uncovered, intimate in voice, appearing and retreating. A lighthouse of possibility, a harp upon a cloud. To conjure up pieces of the past, to know poetic madness, after so long, something is missing, and something was gained. We spend forever searching for certitude, analyzing each other, discovering something new; to knead a belief, to need it to stick, when in actuality—she dines elsewhere. I was ever a lad, running faster, longing for the great romance; it was advertised upon walls, it was discussed in school, it seemed to be the purpose of existence. I was never ready. It pushes me back to witness the power of a couple. To truly understand fragility, prowess, destiny and vulnerability. A relic in time, humans as souls, hunting and gathering—as we’ve perfected.

The Orientation

 

Cultural guidance. Cultural practices. Cultural secrets. 

In the decoding, we lose mystery, rather, the mystery becomes human. 

I was a listless, (at points), child. 

To admire what’s not guiding spirit—with spirit fed, unlocked, city deserts.

Trying to paint pneuma, unknowingly. 

Cleansed at seconds, deeper awareness, preparing for the training grounds. 

Something chemic chasing; 

like eons chasing, interior/exterior privacies. 

And to notice something: souls are weary of guidance. 

On a sunless day, wrestling inside, hope becomes amore. 

To fight against inertia: Cultural practices.

Orientated by Scripture: debating covenants—measured by reality, sudden into a greeting. 

It seems heavy: to an increase in knowledge—is an increase in pains. 

Or lit by fervor, bathing in sunshine, a mixture of both. 

(The voyage mentors gave us.) 

From crumbs to half a loaf: to subsist through silence, in living through thoughts.

By an Anchor, inclusive of Laws, unceasing orison.

At edges, cloven in twain, so much to glean, so unsteady a glint of light—

rain pouring in, impoverished they assert, or rich in spirit—

others are sensing humility, as its power,

something is taking place, on a good day.  

We’ve Been with Wonder

 

It was innocent, as supposed, so tired of monotony, losing parts, inclined to see repetition; the life as it sings, the pressure as it seduces a man, a woman, so fed up. Something new. Something interesting. To impose upon wilderness, to rethink monks, to circle through melodies. The cure for the curse; so delicate; do self a huge favor: learn to love. I’d dance with us, a surly capture, a knitted caricature, standing like a pantomime, whistling afar, throwing voice, unthought of, until a second glance. 

It was neat to perish; it was hellish to resurrect; after many years, those intrusions, to awaken needing something intimate. 

I thought about it, lies inverted, it becomes too realistic, too much of existence, with devastation traipsing the Great Demon. So decent in there; so cursed out here; most see goodness, most pass it over. 

An unspoken man is a dying instrument; while a spoken man is misunderstood. 

We hold to hermetic rites. It was unique when she appeared. 

It was anxiety those months. 

As intended: one will work harder. 

So many selections, to have a choice, so pulled the bleeding ruptures. I never said anything; never spoke the underground activity. 

And Love is fierce, those with atmosphere, women with strength. 

The Poet is Cursed

 

Tugging at intuition, seeing by darts, surrendering to last seas, captured by first glance; to have lost parts, to have won delusion, asking for freedom; so acute, so precise, what is it? We know when freedoms have departed. What curse it must be; what filth I succumb to; life isn’t what one imagines. Deliberate in a long walk, pausing to pet a kitten, looking eye-to-eye with a stranger.

I wonder at times, when I’ve a second to surrender—those prints, facial recognition, such mystery in a smile. 

I was taken by a notion—those tender tomorrows, searching for Love in Paradise, asking Milton a dream, cured I thought in Shakespeare, ruminating over despair in Kierkegaard, so intimate with distaste, so enthralled by hoping whispers, craving as it appears a nonchalant Invisibility. 

I see it there at love’s porch, or maybe a perch, so many single tier songbirds. 

What I disbelieve in, I insist it does exist—it wasn’t in God’s plans for the poet: the poet is cursed.   

Sky Thief

 

 

The soul sounds depressed, rabid anxieties. And adoring has been difficult. And ignoring sub-cosmos has been hellish.

I was never as close as delusion. I was never so far as reality.

 

Rivers & rafts. Oaken scars. Ocean beginnings. 

I was perception; you were art. It seems unimportant. 

Ontic waves; such madness with Love. 

 

Was it not delicate, aesthetic fire, enraged ice?

So much caution; we fortify motion, concerned, constructed by yesteryear.

Life becomes intentional, echoes & 

 

dungeons, polite insignificance. And Love knows naught; and Angst is intelligent.

I was too young to see, too wise to know, and too developed to fawn. 

Such surrendering to devastation. 

Nameless 4 Now

 

Such a dream, certainty of an incantation. Everyday a war. Mingling with sobriety, like a mistress. 

I keep turning on her. 

Back to shapes, colors. 

“Color inside the lines!” 

Back to tic-tac-toe.

I was catching visions, hearing the subconscious, again, and again.

Too much red meat; too much red wine. 

I sat there feeling helium. I decided to go blank. 

I can hear it. 

I can feel it. 

I reminisce on a scripture: “You are what you’re chasing.” 

If I might go metaphysical: Was it all day? 

I came to rethinking: Does sobriety mesh with writing? 

In a dear heartbeat—of matter and soul, 

it isn’t correct.

I must let the sky talk. 

What would it be like—complete animal,

I’d croak?

Cosmic Ripple

 

By gothic winds/strings, lavish upon miracles—

furious penance, in dire need of semblance. An interior box, nascent to life—

furious ascension. 

A letter in driftwood, collectable hopes.

Organic, freefalling orison … 

in saying bread, in mixing juice.

I dare ask for this, but it shall not remain.

A sky filled by mosquitoes; fields fraught by locusts; 

gnawing, kneading life, purely mental, made imaginary.

A park full of mangroves; to move like a turtle; always 

thought it was untrue, unclasped with vigor.

Those might in sun fall; moving towards cedar chests, unveiled, losing motion. 

Such mountainous brushwork, to prefer this.

Somber joys. 

By greater ambition. By sage work. 

Those static wailings, ripples across hemispheres.

Flitting by a dusty trail, galloping, filled with virtue. 

By a spotless evening, to elicit understanding.

Upon truths, maximums, an imperfect axiom.

Certain candor, to disrupt an otherwise

fairytale. 

An aurora, entailing youth, certain perfection.

Upon a problem statement;

encouraged by fey, to fret those codes.  

Nameless Protagonist

 

We would love you, excellence and purging.

Remarkable awareness, we admire you.

Not many heard it: The Polished Scripts.

I never gave up on you. I believe in your legacy.

So unfastened, so extreme. 

Deep in those hills, across from a pond, stands a scarecrow.

To attend your existential, to know your condition.

Wasn’t for saviors, most religious, overflowing with beauty.

Such haunting, mind harassment.

I am your audience, rushing to applaud you. 

We compare polemics. We smile, not much laughing. 

We heard the news; we came to support you. 

So knotted, trying harder.

Someone should’ve spoke kindly.

Watching Wisdom

 

The picture is fuzzy; fighting thoughts, a losing war, so, I pause, sweltering, it’s getting easier.

I see a portrait, a lady is somber, newly married, the family adores her. 

Her outfit is neat, businesslike, all beige, even her stockings. 

She looks liquid. If he desires it, she palms winds, struggles against rain, covering 

skies.

Let it be life. 

Too bright. Too smart. Too gifted. 

Up against a problem, a miracle, plain insanity; it gets into flesh, it crawls through veins, it makes a facial appearance. 

I watched. It baffled me. So many beautiful memories, undercurrents grieving, 

no misprints, just wondering. 

So wonderful. Such a big ass smile.

To sense glory. 

Laughter permeating the room. So piercing. 

Lately, I’ve been tugged, seeing a portrait, asking myself questions: most importantly: 

Am I missing something? 

Indeed, life is spiritual, spirit makes riddles.

I can’t war against goads.

I hope at best it’s workable.

Or some parts are adorable. 

I keep seeing it—upon a remote island, remaining tacit, a little too talkative in ink. 

“If it is what we presume: Can it breathe?”

Too much of what uplifts become barriers.

A keen mind fathoms and pities us.

And some creature is anti-morals, living good and unstable.

So balanced means a little lonely. 

One Long Pause

 

I’d put brains on the table, dispute whispers with flatness. 

I wonder how it feels—so filled with human presence.

Does it hurt? Does it leak out? 

I swore I never could: boxed in, thawed out, a melting skeptic. 

Take the lead. Open the conversation.

To read parts of Nietzsche, and never know Nietzsche. 

Inside and feeling, inside with King Jr.

The war is bigger. Pictures remain blurry. 

Could worlds disappear, founded upon chaos?

Such frightening woes, so ensouled. And trying to walk, visions tugging, fearing I would ruin it.

It means so much, especially chasing mental screams, like a manifest dream, like fighting for one’s sanity.

I couldn’t lie—all the mocking, held in derision—makes for brokenness, wires on a viola, a little palmed cello, likely to undress a violin.

I keep saying it inside, no one knows love—an unsteadiness, days blurred, to believe love is action, at points, suffering, sanctified, at moments, inert, if to preserve the legend. 

To summons emotion; 

to sacrifice existence, running through fields, pausing and nibbling wheat—so much invested in a daffodil.

What would it be like—without presence, to desire cosmic freedom, to wonder about freedom? 

My advice: We do nothing.  

Green Vines

 

A bad ass trophy. We keep dying atrophy. I read clarity, a play on verbs.

Love made a path for us, desperate pains, laughing with celebration. 

Spinning corners, popping life, asking for one last meeting. 

So looney, like a cartoon, or a damn caricature. 

Cultures suffer, bent on history, let the acrylic blaze. 

Mail it to her. Tell her it aches. 

No matter how attuned I get, I’ll never fathom the disconnection. 

All these years reading it, absorbing it, so metaphysic, I touched a dream. 

I have noting left. I would I suppose. To imagine a grand loss. 

I heard a ruler, semi-tyranny, last to stand for self. 

I bounced early. I met Coppola. I was part innocent. 

Talking. Reminding to blink. I never asked for others. 

Can we please free freedom? 

If we chanced a miracle, bled of souls, running into deserts, reliving God’s legacy; if it hurts—it might be suffering, such radical silence. 

I was born. I kept listening. Surprised. A life of wisdom, ultimately, it’s death. 

I would lie. But you know when it’s bull crap. 

And truth hurts. 

I no longer crave. I forfeited desire. Gave her back to atrophy. 

God bless the insatiable!

Haywire Key

 

If gods fumble, if souls are demonic, we ask for accountability. 

Never noticed her, tripping out on science, a psyche most delicate, pure sensitivity. 

It was hell. It still is. In realizing—such as nothingness.

such

dire dreams, so deep in there, to come across a name, sweet vinegar. 

What was it? It was life! 

I’ll share a secret: Don’t become focal point of a psyche in pain. 

And I noticed it, existence, right?

Certain hunger. Refused in that moment. 

Decorated in despair. So dismal those eyes. 

So hidden. 

Needing more. Left dissatisfied. Plus, proud of it all.

Shocked. Amazed! Angered.