Mountain Moss

 Often, a man is silent. He understands intimately, but words fail to reach.  It’s an uphill trek, a sideways slithering, a need to excavate the voice. No one desires him to win. They do impossible deeds—hoping for darkness. They love the Almighty.  Nevertheless, it’s been crocodiles in these regions, falsified impressions, lurking shadows, a dear catastrophe.  I’ve come to find—some love is wrong.  The more I look, the further I see, with tremendous doubt in the observer. (Loving the art of those skies, offering what life is, under essence, basic grief.) Like every day; and it’s me. This is what we’re going with.  To earth with it.  Over yonder the lights are dim, by whim and life, wandering further than one can walk. Often, more than most, a man has to understand, has to do musical math.  It’s amazing what we don’t suggest—with the carcass becoming fetid.  At moments a woman will believe another soul, at other points she will speak to a spade.  If it were easy—everyone would be happy.  I never believed in it. So, it doesn’t hurt that it's absent.  And I have always lived with it, so it’s hard to take precedence.  (You need someone underdeveloped, as opposed to one eye-to-eye.)  The discontentment. The sheer befuddlement. In loving most need a slave. They have no place for mutual understanding.    

Unto a Last Breath

 

I needn’t explain resonance. So uncaged, so restricted, so caged. Life requires patience. And adoring is by challenge. Whatsoever it becomes, pluvial downfalls, moving nonetheless. With gems, rhinestones and diamonds—to arise in your favor, to accredit those heights, assumed with peace, so much taken for granted. By a lasting celebration, such vacancy, to have died with grace, to have loved in pain. 

I believe in miracles. I understand harder waves. Flames made madness. 

Love is a promise. There must be a way. I approach life this way. In strength to realize a weakness. In reality to sense unreality. 

She’s strong. Something probes me. To instruct for a long battle.

Or a curse, damnation of soul, generational travesties. 

Inner prophecy, let it remain untrue.

Tranquil feelings, cosmic affectation, so great the hand feeding me; I’m in, ten toes grieving.  

Totally Impossible

 

The freedom of those eyes. Such majestic sylvans. I was thinking. I know I’m a dreamer. Such compelling wilderness. Such innocent guilt. The other times, those antique scars, the memory I would have. So much warmth as it flies, as it hits a heart, such rapture. I’ve met you, some dance, unable to depict emotion, to reach feelings, to giggle while it churns. I portrait a new settee, so inclined to seek Elizabeth, asking more for complete novellas, so untrue, those wild thorns, to have adored as in passing. So affected by what we call love, wrestling with that, compelled as others, such belief in freedom. False closure, lying to self, feeling excited in the lie. To have watched as another writhed; like drinking kerosene, like eating ash, hoping Love is with solace. Boxed priorities, life on a back burner, so much invested in the legacy. So many facial snippets, affected and laughing, to feel goodness, to realize—it would never exhaust the odds. To imagine the one at aches, at heart, to have been when the world was oblivious. But it’s realness, it cuts bone, if honest—life might outwit resurrection. Vienna poetry, Creole cooking, if to die with us, if to have that one lie, to pass with a smile. I was thinking forever, she was thinking eternity, we were sick with illusions.   

Origin Impulse

 

Humans seek the keeper. If by depth of Light.

Such becomes an anxious river.

Wronged for wildfire—most intimate of creeks.

Enveloped by memories, sketches, etched into frequencies.

Certain dear discernment, wondering by patterns, spiritual spigots. 

Whomsoever.

Affected by absence; influenced by presence: this isn’t a secret. 

In looking at pieces, in wrestling roses, we dissemble parts. 

Like wafting scents, to have come they may, such somber ethos, sure radiant logos, pathos was indicted. 

To see for a journey, to alter sequences, quivers and arrows.

Softer reasons.

Fragrance born determinates.

Passionate indifference.

If only perfections!

Cosmic maestros; echoes. By doleful joys—knowing masquerade, science of

weeping waves.

Muse

 

 

I try to unveil you. I feel damaged. By arts by grace. Inmost flickering. An unlit match. So confused about it. To see it has grit, 

 

history, a fevered future. Such a yoke. So great those woes. So significant to souls. A mirrored response. A need to slow pace. 

 

Stoic glory. It was by a whisk. Life had a present. To persevere. So tribal. So attuned. Realizing. & pursuing imbalance. What a 

 

woman adores is misunderstood. A soul & flyleaf. Ink & memories. To have something askew, as it seems, such an inrush of 

 

complexities. To shimmer. To sprinkle glitter. Such meaning at it. So great the falling into it. So destroyed by what sits in 

 

one’s bosom. Brooding over diamonds. Long to lose diamonds. So preferred—not for essence, something provided. Too grand 

 

an aberration; so abstruse; to wonder what normal looks like. Parts seem blighted. The garden seems under siege. The agony is real. 

 

The mountain has shifted. Maye to edit a theory, as time shall tell, it seems unsteady. One has invested heart-earth to prove a 

 

point; one has shed personhood to signify excellence. We ask – We don’t ask. Either/

or is by grace of person. But the muse isn’t 

 

the person. The muse is the craft. They blur into each other. To know by finesse; to sing a song; to sense too much; to wonder about 

 

the horizon. In a furious fever, to refuse remedy, or some turn of events, so cultural, to sense a mixture of hierarchy; so alchemic 

at times, pulling tears, tugging feelings: Why should fate deign to us? To manage the madness, to unlock ink markings, so thrown, 

 

so cursed, so blessed in between – one says, it's all partial, part way, with ulterior motives. Writing becomes it own demons. 

 

Such as prescience is required. Those seconds in between space & time; those dear realities. Such casual surprise, such a 

 

skillset—as making it by waves, to feel both attached & detached—in part to take something, in part to impart something—a 

 

slight concern, with a need to redeem an emotion. The question is: Can we handle the cruelty of fate. In opening to pieces & 

 

fragments, in soothing a great ache, without attachment, we prove robotic creatures—albeit, fraught by a warming kiln.  The muse 

 

has yielded. The rot of the beauty—the beauty of the rot. The tiles as witness, the waves as an audience, those pains as 

 

glorious redemption. To feel rinsed. To love in accordance. To have a particular ideal. To meet unsaid ideal. To meet eye-to-eye, to 

 

feel face-to-face—better, to capture heart-to-soul. So confused by it. Reading parts of Numbers—skipping into lights, the muse watching.   

 

Golden Leaf

 

 

While clocks depict motion the tides touch

Cadence.

Being in company the ache of its reality

The value of its resonance

Such as souls couldn’t unlock, nor surmise

With presence posing as temple key.

Neither understands. 

One might know fathoms, assess skies, 

And scribble affectations: so many colors,

So many prisms, sol the depths. 

So great an upsurge, to witness transition, 

Patterns, spirit-mnemonics.

It will shift. It will dance. It has a purpose.

Certain piety of humans to the matter;

Grayness of certainty, excellence of the Hermetic—training and absorption. 

The mind is like a collar, when made holy;

Tethered to ideals—

Evermore at seeking—

To know many were lethal, such radiant 

Sunshine, to wonder about those stories—to Ponder in absence, hearts as one, to have 

Sailed such spheres. 

And to sense some measure, some design—

To have appointed by blues. 

So much life in one crucible.

Most are with sound reality, to have known 

Certain measure, to have become Church &

Bell. 

Some séances one goes to freely. Others come to us.

Richness of interior, confused as it waltzes—

With arts facing walls, sheer passion—as it 

Grapples with itself. 

To become energy. To become wings. 

    

Stronger Winds

 

 

The myth becomes a legend, and no one desires the mirror. Many are crocheting with yarn, listening to chirpings. They have dreams. They have wit. 

 

Such mature rain. So many treading a pattern, an undiscovered one. I feel that way. So cordial about it, so confused by it. 

 

Neat, cozy confusion.     Silent, mysterious mirrors.

 

With opera in theatre. With mind wilderness, if a second at breathing. And what to say when one confides in us. 

 

Some parts are hidden from us—out of protecting us, and deep embarrassment. Those parts are clamoring, jingling, churning ghosts.

 

Lizards brave the deserts. Humans’ brave existence. If a wand was all life requires.

 

Argent steaks in skies; arcane beliefs; folktales, lure, if to sustain concentration. Claret roses, russet petals, if to adore through eternity.

 

Those with definition—to have soared through life, if half empty, someone is half full. Moon lightning souls. Moil and pain, aligned with joy and happiness souls.

It’s First Religious: Wings

 

 

We idolize immortality. We loathe the dying.

So much justification, drenched in irony. 

Either ashes or the casket. 

I notice it leans that way; no true understanding of why.

And Love feels you; and I feel you: What becomes its purpose? 

So fatally in amore: so tragic, headed back to Greece. 

gods became humans; goddesses became immortal.

“You shouldn’t say that.” 

You should be more aware.

Off to islands; religious creatures: it can’t be escaped: join and live; join and die.

It must be!

 

Please don’t anger it. It’s both. 

Rules chanted: rules shattered. Many trying to exist, more trying to live. 

Thrown into it: it was first for depression. It became life. A soul becomes a church: bells ringing, knells laughing, ghosts and demons. It never died out: it became thorough. 

In all of one’s knowing, please know what is being worshipped.

One might ask: “And what are you praising?”

One says, “God.” Another says: “We meet God through each other.” Another is angered by that.

“Why not let go?”

That would destroy the fabric.   

 The world would give up the Ghost. 

Meandering: Mental Meadows

 

By gentility of petals. By promise. Days are with violence. The kingdom suffers. In meandering through briers, I arrived at a shadow: You have died before. Such a dictum; unless for rabid undercurrents, a tamed beast, a subdued wittiness. In putting time to silence, becoming a heartbeat, moving through invisibility. And Father is with wrath, we must attend the unsealing. So much becomes of a voice, an imprint, associated thoughts. I noticed you were with sadness, so beautiful the blooming, treading and circling through shrubberies. He must be resilient. With all one will experience. Having seeds adds another portal. I was agitated with you. You were peeved by my non-behavior. Plus, you carry predispositions from long ago. Notwithstanding, a soul was with violence, watching himself, affected by society’s response. Over those plains, with deeper reality, we carry a strange curse. It becomes an impetus, blotches of imageries, assorted beliefs, even private dispositions. In not seeing a person, we expect the person to vanish from consciousness, not to intensify. And there is nothing present—in the sphere of souls, nights and days, years and months. I knew you would cringe, so I never appeared. I wonder if it is us that scramble, or I with an affliction of comforts. Life as it appears. Tulips as they evaporate. Lies to self, thus society, therefore a dearth of honesty. While I meander, I come to a truth, existence is compiled by desire, and lusts are monitored.

 

II

 

With trying to unthink you, I bumped into consciousness. With him there is closure for you.  I ponder the best of a person’s ambitions, if they see flourishing with company, and lay dormant with solitude? I never heard your voice. You kept that from me. You knew it would become a debate, a dispute. With time, we drift further into an orbit, consciousness nonetheless; so great a firework, so much firebrand, so curious to such aloof connectedness. It must drive a soul; to writhe inside, to write it out at times, to cherish ink. By treasure to have come to awareness, some gift, a blessed curse, a violin on high—sheer infernos. In the meandering I come to feel. In the feeling I capture certain understanding. In the understanding I fathom it is not enough. 

I imagine a strangeness to it all. If to hear your voice, you would explain it. To select a person. To undergo something terrific. Unabashed. Measuring and remeasuring. Unaware it would move to its own cadence. Unaware that it would awaken as an entity—that it would grow wings, that emotion would be the impetus to flights. To look left, to veer to the right; to sit and penetrate Life’s veneer; to become secernment. In all the dying, we study what it feels like to breathe.  It will not go its way. We will live with it. We will keep to a course, never wavering, consumed by spirit, fluting as we compose.    

 

III

 

The days are effusions of interior distractions. Or a sad and meditative dreaminess. I wonder what souls share, as it strikes a wavelength. To sit entirely with some soul in communion, not a world to it. As if world-less. How to measure consciousness, and yet, we see consciousness? In breaking the pairing, we measure the possibility. In leaving it untamed, we fear probability. It becomes of will through time.  You looked human. I must acknowledge such an assertion. It never matters rather it is human beauty, or spirit beauty, or both. I will leave that to husbands to unfold. I was looking for humans, and you appeared. Many were about, but not as human as what I perceived in you. We clashed. I was not fully human. I was looking for human, searching out beauty, and judgmental of the human I saw. I was a fledgling. You wouldn’t pardon that. We clashed, and ignored being human. It generated an energy. In truth, we could do without each other. Something kept thinking, reading, measuring and composing. It seems simple: one writes, puts the pen down, and what has been written goes into a dormant location. Not so! We would never pursue it. It lives in the mind. Nevertheless, it does not turn off as one needs it to. This brings life. A sort of feeling. Somewhere between somber and halfway feeling normal. As something occupies the interior, alongside with other supportive realities. Indeed! Something creeps in. If not this, then why is it that. One has placed self in a situation; of course, it does not belong to our doing, it is the other person. Something seeming innocuous, becomes something feeling simultaneously enlarging, as well as in part, haunting. It might become a force, a part of one’s life, with so much to glean therefrom; while it must be monitored, where days have become weeks, and weeks have become months, and months continue to churn into years.   

Torched Water

 

 

From fiddling a doodad, to palming a fidget, laughing at irony, feeling undreamed, facing maelstrom; to grab a goblet, to remember yesteryears, pure rawness, loses, wilderness. 

 

Days are filled by visions. Clouds are smoky. The skies are like spigots—pouring in awareness, unveiling identity, it feels unbelievable.

 

So concerned recently. Of clear minds, with essence intruding. 

So cosmic, Love’s chaperon; so befuddled, so eternal, life is getting shorter. 

 

To envision clarity; wondering of a curse; while it drives arts.

Those winged ribbons, remaining uncured, feeding self 

 

assurance, becoming parts of absence, fretting emptiness, made sullen and full—those ghosts, Love, those palatial shrines, close to forfeiting a wish. 

 

So much standing in ruins, to have something selfish, can’t be with error, if following the soul; nay, left parched, traveling a dry ocean, talking to wolves. 

   

Presence

 

So great is courage to assert eternity. To have existence in such a vast desert. If adoring is wrong, we have a few moments. More in some way. Strange to our islands. An aching for solace, if to defeat odds, if to make for paragons. Too afar in spirit, too close in soul, warring mental paradox. Where one appears, another will exit, one must have roots, large bark, sturdy branches, healthy leaves.

The garden is for perfection. The soil is for sickles. 

A soul will sit in presence, and presence is absent. This is the alertness of it all, the battle ground.

One will season apology, fretting his earth, falling inside, such a moment with humanity, and it means so little.

In expansion, people are wailing for love. We have an understanding of an ideal, with life weighing in the balance. 

And it becomes serious; and it might spike its tea; and it might be some type of liquid—those skies watching, and it might not believe, with courage to become deity, with pains lurking, as it walks by shadows. 

In watching creatures, in making posits, in peering into opalescent personality, to see innocence, as it looks and smirks, or makes a grimace, or smiles nonchalantly … in capturing itself, by its walkaway—so grand an ocean, so vast those falling clouds, such thunder by grace, to again strike a nerve, in one thrown to lightening. 

To wax in fashion, to miss a piece, to have alarmed a culture, to make nice, with gravity pushing animosity.  

Those weeping benches—to a soul with horizon, iridescent pains, beautiful agonies, in discussing something foreign to innocence, at home with maturity. 

With hearing a voice, slightly participating, seeing it unfold, knowing literature, too many breakable rules.

With courage waning, lethargy creeping, succumbing to complaisance, to gaze over and sense presence, to die in presence, to know life is missing presence.   

Way Too Major

  

To the brains, Love. An angry council. Too much to suppress. Too little to die. How in God the loses?

I never agree with myself. I push pass impetuosity. The rain keeps falling. 

If loving you means I must chew disgrace, then I’ll live crooked, asking for a straight line. 

I envision a tribunal, a gut bleeding, with you sitting at head table.

Dusty tenets; collaborative excitement, to touch in passion a palatial curse. 

It fumbles, Life! nothing to win; losing like normality. 

And Love is dishonest, and it churns when honest, what in life does a man require? 

Such parentheses; such aesthetics; Love is sheer electricity. 

So quiet about it. All eyes watching. A man hopes to sustain a miracle. 

During a discussion, to locate an emerald, afraid it might come back to cut. 

And Love has been in motion, a volt for reason, to imagine one soul might become existence. 

Too much, Love; it feels heinous, Love; to agree and die. 

I never agree with myself. 

I passion into oblivion. 

If to find self, a gut bleeding, falling into a face full of vomit. 

Too much to assert love; too little to say, love; at a creature, a mare, a magician, how in hell to satiate Love? 

With damages, with brains broken, crawling like snails, by six to the grave.  

Cathedral Hall

 

 

By measures, by retrospective, seasons are tired.

We were never what kindles ember; we died in silence.

Adults & pretend.

Such ruthless notes, such private intensions. 

Facing an existential conundrum; favoring unrest. 

To have distressed one unbeknownst to serenity. 

If leaning into a shadow; if serenading a cloud; let stillness speak. 

By terrific measures, if taming the beast, fevered to fix life.

Those days looking, so nonchalantly, treasured by the unsuspecting. 

Has ever a moment seemed serious?

Those mountains. Deep dark disturbance. 

Deeper darker clarity. 

And one would till gardens; and one would fight for sanity; faced by darker anxiety.

Happy Blue Jays

 

Be it with clarity; to water up, to have had a shot too many.

In loving you, alike to a curse, in fusing personalities.

You’ll be freedom in a moment, leaving behind a mountain. 

Pains are feuding, either less or more. 

To become all he wanted, she nearly died, to be told, it isn’t what I wanted. 

Born with less, or born with more, to ask a carcass for blessings. 

With a fool’s vibration, to adore in passing, like life stopped at inception. 

—been on edge, it meant existence, brown, black & buried. 

In managing excitement, in learning acceptance, one came to exhilarate skies. 

Non-this, non-that, at bottom line, souls need affection; by gray moons, by miserable sunshine, it isn’t as they proposed. 

Indeed. 

Some sick ass curse, some erratic consensus, to imagine beneficiaries. 

Stressed out. 

Is God in the stress?

To handle a manuscript, to rehearse daily, to finally ask for closure. 

As long as most are happy. 

Real joy, at the bone & blood of others. 

True happiness.  

 

By Shadow’s Light

 

Years in passing. Anguish, contradiction, frustration.  I couldn’t spend it all to find it: Satiation. 

The battle has been happiness, a fleeting curse, spoiling by absence.

I saw a savior in mechanics, so aloof from it all. 

Sudden attraction. Filled with purpose. Dedicated to a private island. 

To know life is subtraction, in finding perfection, chiseled softly.

Amazed by how it works: better to desire than to have.

To have leads to more desires.

To love & unlove: something intricate in place: beyond physics, trespassing unreality. 

Souls are tired. Souls are trying to slowdown. 

With each ache comes anguish. 

Sheer profanity: superior mundanity.

Running for it, catching it, mourning happiness. 

Those curtains unveiled, to know self, to feel it creeping in, to know what life is:

terrible satisfaction, multiple loses, hurting & returning.

Such is familiarity; such is pain.

Holding Hands

 

It seems life is anxious, ambitious, angry. 

We continue to climb & comb terrains; with gnashing & gnawing.

Such pantomime spirits; surly enchanted. 

A type of discomfort, discomfited, damaged early-on.

Plus, Love has proven value, lines unsteady, we assert something has blurred;

with wrongness, made weary, wrought in raindrops—

those with passion, palatial problems—

thrown & unfolded, a silent glimpse at sunshine.

Burgundy behavior. Too much hurts. 

            To exist. To have Loved. To churn.

            Each soul wrestles a shadow; thrust

            through by habits.

                        Over in bushes sits a flame, to flicker, to speak a language;

                        it means so much, as dancing into history, crocheting our future, with fire falling.

                                    Traffic is unusual. 

                                    Diamonds are unraveled. 

                        Such curious winds.  

Scribing on Leather

 

I can’t find it. I found it. It’s not good enough.

Adoring Love: Why is Love important?

Love is spirit. Love is relaxed. Love achieved too much. 

Word games. Raking gardens. 

Structured buildings. Unsafe pash. 

In falling deeper, in Gregorian Chant, to passion that way. 

To lean into Love, to make Love responsible, to ask Love for deliberation. 

It requires something. It needs something. 

Such addiction. Such a life. Something is incredible. Akin to “Love Jones.”

The soul is its doctrine: be it religious or carnality. 

Golfing at it, a hole in one—trying to laugh, a little self-conscious, to giggle while looking at self. 

And Love is fashionable; and Love is curious; and Love is moods. 

The wrong turn. The longer nights. 

Such fever, so fervent, feeling favored.

Cloud Gusts

 

I reminisce upon a scent. I passed by gently.

I looked into memory.

I saw a face. 

And raspberry wines, medium rare steaks, 

a rose with petals. 

Poetry is deadly: It magnifies elements: beauty, travesty, tragedy and love.

We didn’t say, pains.

I felt a grasping, groping walls, looking at a biblic needle. 

And Love was threshed; and God was with Mercy;

to kneel, refurbish, aware in parts.

What visitation! 

Souls are powerful. How often have we met?

I reminisce upon a gesture. To see it often; to adore it each time. 

And it would be what it’s become; and it wouldn’t be if it meant nothing.

To ponder tomorrow.

To plant an oak tree.

Such wildflowers. Such grace.