By The Son of Man

 

 

Some traumas make it easy to surrender. Some grayness is harder to ignore. (Do we speak of love with honor?) I deviated, whereby, it seems all related. 

In knowing you evolved, surpassed me, led to intimidation. 

To feel a caveat; to sprinkle treacheries; to imagine love, nonetheless. 

I was with a lady’s book. I kept flipping pages, reading lines. She exhibits genius—to speak of something unrelated, waxing with intensity, tucked brilliantly away in insanity.

One must be, as they say, off.

 

Such crisp sentences. She exhibits what most chase after. 

Exospheric lineage. Celestial idyllic. 

Wildflowers. 

So studious. We say, holdable. 

Both snails in jumpsuits; absent of some thoughts,

framed in our existential. 

By an impulse, so receptive to the Ransom—each grain is sky fiber. 

We impugn each other, motives, acting against liberty—geometric photography, esoteric silhouettes—to have met a voiceprint. 

So great in stock … to know he wept.

Such a remarkable cup, so tender a thought—sifting through crops, wrestling under soil, transgression made acutely. 

 

Religion. To engulf senses. To lean into it. Unanimous affliction. Empowering Ascension. 

Sudden joy is recognition of joy’s absence. 

Pooling prayers. Amassing debt. 

Affixed at a Golden Gate.   

Cabernet Sauvignon

 

Softer waves. Resplendent fires. Sensing more than actuality. So battled inside, made curious, listening to sound bites. To gather intentions, needing sweat, so sad, sure lonely, to find solace in ecliptic arms. Lost it all on one wish, makes for jaded skies, bleeding what we invested in; trying harder, right there, to collapse into an outburst. Tentacles tugging, terrors most treacherous, triangles and tales. To begin thinking, to advertise insanity, a man was screaming concerning interior ants. And you’ll watch as you damn well please. Period. Nothing romantic to it. It comes in droves, flitters and frames, ghosts and panic, to feel it in scores. To need something astute, while something acute blocks the possibility of passions—this, indeed, is poetry. To live it as it churns, to beg it to listen, with nothing in garments to cover the pain. In watching miseries, thrown into rockets, soaring like sorrows are artistic, to have deaths, to lay in bed, to hear snoring, to look over at a clock, to imagine—this is it. Bull crap. Each person is living three lives. This is the design. We wrangle over sins, transgressions, music, soothsaying and seeking bliss. To become averse to her, to sense something treacherous, to imagine putting too much into imagination. Signs and symbols. So much has transpired, people miss the nuance bilking(s). What if … some dangerous pain … to decipher in one instance, bled of rationality, hoping upon a faithful union. Some folks stick … they ignore each other, for they need each other. Upon an album, blaring the blues, a softer knocking, an intimate understanding, bodies falling into submission. To look a soul in the eyes, pouring out sanity, determined to be right.    

Something In The Sails

 

 

Such debris when smoke settles. Boldened and crazed eyes. Tears beneath flesh. So cold out there. So warm in imagination. A pack in five hours; complete unsteadiness. To feel watched, consciousness going through hell, it’s only righteous, he did wrong. Life is over. No other concentration. Those blackened orisons, to covet what hates itself, to vanish, to return, totally devastated. Bronzed rails, colossal trains, falling into disgust. It was so ugly—it became beautiful. Some olden curse, into crevices and blues. Unto plangent seas, phrenic intolerance, the hope is it kills us. The degree is resurrection, fraught by forgetfulness, to seize what gives existence. 

And it becomes difficult, lungs filled with blackdamp, inhaling one last cigar. The voice as it cello’d, the guitar as it ran, the piano as it melted. So fickle we were; so thrown to consumption; such kindred spirits.

Such abstruse density. So brilliant, so obtuse. Cleaving to some type of Neptune, talking a bunch of misconception, proud to have been foolish. It’s sheer amazement. To be justified. To believe nothing otherwise. And damn to hell those that disagree.  

Wrested Unrest

 

 

Given to one reason, global intoxication.  Soldiers of love. Warriors of the forgotten.

Pulling knives out, furious & outspoken. One final prayer; one trillion lies.  Such irregular webbing.  To have adored legacy, a diary of beginnings, it never ends well. 

Trying to inhale, if but to exhale.  So much wind, a space in hearts, voltage shot into orbits.  So bellicose at points. To remain precious. More than once could imagine.  Totally flat perspectives, made animation, framed by contradiction.  To have loved a mistake, to have promised luxury, so uncured, so affected, the future is wrapped in wires.  A soul knuckled down, wrote his composure left, thrown into a fury. 

Bless us, Father, through the blasphemy, tucked into angelic fiber.  The last understanding, it seemed so clear, this is doubt. Made tired. Life as paradox. If to become an outcast, an iconoclast, totally untrained at points. If to believe in existence, upon an existential, so fierce, so nervous, battling for due rites.  

Until Exhaustion, Until Death

 

 

I no longer love as I did. I no longer live as it was. Life is filled with interruption. (Many see us. They can’t tolerate what they see.) & Love seemed perfect, such younger eyes. Phantoms & phantasmagorias. Dice upon a lucky eleven. To share it is vulnerability. To keep it bottled into pressures; those curious eyes, watching a video, & no one is aware. A perfect image. As it must be. & Love was excellence, where life was galaxies. Such mis-conclusions, forgone-conclusions, as mixed with disruption. Such is life, to find one purpose. Such as it remains, such as it dies, a picture as a memory. So many years. We dare not speak obvious skies. Tragic encounters, refusing to switch computers, & everyone is filled with bliss. Nay. It’s not there, it’s not here, the script keeps elusive. Slow rotting. Slow agonizing. A smidgen here, a smidgen there. Each believing something is incredible. Both loathing each other. Such beauty deserves to become immortal.  

Grappling with The Webbing

 

I get lost in the rain. The point of it all. To look over at a friend, to hide so much, to reveal so little. The Ghost at it. The Spirit moving. A little somber, a little uncomfortable. Something is with me, maybe an ancestor, maybe Father. It becomes a feeling, a chill, a presence. We discount it, but souls are right here. In truth, it gets crowded, while it gets lonely. Something is watching, some angelic force, some demonic resistance. The hand that composes! I get tired in the storm. At best, we call it uncanny; at the other end, we call it a message. Ancestors entered and paved a way. Looking at links, seeing a chain, touched by something majestic. Let the heart be witness. Let it speak to its spirit, its soul. Too many flaws. Too great the excellence. In finding meaning, we make elastic the facts. I can get lost in the sorrows. I forget about the goodness. It’s taken its affect. In therapy they ask a simple question: “Are you able to enjoy things?” I leave that to the nature of the soul. Value is appointed; it varies from person to person. I felt a strain in the composition. Some decimation has taken place; history is riddled with confusion. The line is like vapor. Some souls are in need of truths. In finding information, life can get heavy. In trying to let go, it just grips the observer. With trying to get back to innocence, it’s impossible. 

You Made It Look Easy

 

You Made It Look Easy

 

You made it look easy, though it was killing you. In discovering perfection. In becoming a conduit. To live a favorite lie. So made of ingredients. Those cryptic moments, to sense incredible tension, with rain falling, with cadence awry. What makes us human, can make us inhuman. I was with admiration, to no fault of yours, you happened to dance that way. One too many observations, upon a thread, to imagine what you deserve. I would insist upon a fancy, to ponder pure ecstasy, with life unmeasured, with days alone, so close, so neat, so abandoned. Something to being human, something dissatisfied, uncanny, as it sets against itself. Such reaching. Such rebuilding. So many furtive yearnings. So many secret wars—with others, more with self. To have passed by, looking like magic, so clean in a given second. Too wise. Filled with somber airs. If this feeling were uncapturable—I’d be in another space. I never would want distraction, if to appreciate manuscripts, if to have loved by miseries—a feeling in pains, a heightened elevation, torn low, rising high, rolling around clocks. You made it look easy, though it was killing you. I uncovered a fact for some, chasing excellence is eternal. They never stop. Life is there, but it doesn’t disrupt an endless pursuit to conquer imperfection. 

 

 

Inking Muse

 

In whispering a name, treading darkened clouds, we see spirits. Such nebulous remains, a graveyard of bones, memories, agitation. We lock wits, in locking eyes, knitting illusion, having seen some secret person. If days revealed her, if she found comforts, in becoming true essence. Such a dangerous beauty, overwhelming beauty, so disbelieved beauty. There’s something to it, something cadent, universal, cosmic worrying. Pure opalescence, irrigating fog, tenebrous origins. By orison; a dear type of intensity, a dearer type of behavior. (It’s been some time.) In musing upon features, characteristics, those oceans rage, those skies billow, over a deeper deluding. Needing some vision, far more appealing in its chase, far more captivating. When life is there, to have gazed into winds, to have palmed earth, imagining you’d know what to say, what to do. Back to erasing feelings, hampering fancy, disputing facts, separating realities. Today will mingle in another world, passing a poem, knotted, drained, some sort of excellence. And Love is multivalent, moving through insistence, prepared to enter cadence, overwhelming hertz, struck in one sense, disenchanted in another. So many hills. Such calming incense. A picnic assortment. A necessitating blanket. In memory, some fantasy, to have passed away. 

 

Fossils 

 

What is that feeling, as it dissipates into realities? Listening to an under breath, sore into excellence, sharing those better waves. In what can’t be, souls discover what could be. Perfect boundaries. Imperfect hurting. Looking to cleanse. Life is more mental than tangible. That feeling must be excruciatingly vulnerable. Humans pause that way. In the memory we sew joy. I can’t understand the celloist; I can’t fathom the affliction. And hand to heart, chi suffused, some type of healing. Arms reach into cedar-chests, phantoms awaken, soaring through cosmos, such a spirit whisk. To have adored a mirage, figments of inner dimensions, displeased with actuality, framed in one hope. Thinking to self, no greater reality, seized by survival, wishing upon silence—moving by motion, sullen into coffee, nibbling a muffin, noticing life moving. So much watching. It passes by. In my tenacity, with all I can muster, I knit a quilt, I crochet a blanket. When senses wither, and all that is left is intuition, will it suffice? To arrive at unconditional, to have a space inside, what is that feeling? Such six-sense teleology, filled by purpose, such meteorite heart thumps. When two become one—where nothing separates reality. In its experience, to have known in passing, each thundering heartbeat.      

Left With Wonder

 

 

Aside a sycamore—down the road, amazed by rationality. Life keeps motion. Hearts keep wraiths, banshees, a feeling, it might ache. Love spoke about hibiscus; pain speaks of Virginia. I was excited, motivated, happenstance would become redundant. And Love seemed electric, fuel and fire, love, passion and hurting. If one knew the unspoken, one might go mad. Irish flowers, European syntax, hieroglyphic letters. If to say anything, if it would reach, noticing life is equally intense. It’s already tomorrow, those sharks are early, they’ve a sentiment against evenness. Years keep chasing. Living is made possible. And admiring you has been a debate. The reasons aren’t fixable. Some things matter, others don’t. It must be cultural. Such colorful absence, to adore in opposition, to have what’s loathed fall in love. I imagine it’s easy, taken for granted, presumed in all souls. A soul is listening. She has ears. She has eyes. If life isn’t part consumption, life becomes interior absence. It’s not a chase. It’s typical atmosphere. Why rush! Such a keepsake. So angered. To have become a shadow. Such image friction. Those maps to islands, certain disputation. Some type of touch. Some type of smile. Eyes holding dusk. Smoldering skies. Desert born promises. If I’d lie, if to keep agonies, one tender outburst. 

 

Catch a Vibe

 

 

The war is a mirror. My worse sunrise. So fruitless, so fruitful. And listening shows most are filled by ambition. I would jump on the 405N and just make motion. It’s a miracle, it’s an intrusion, it’s education—so silent, such scrabble, needing more than a soul could give. I was heavy on cigarettes. I was unstable, stressed out, most didn’t see it. I imagine another, wrestling crocodiles, eating a gator; dripping hormones, sweating vodka, salty to a maladaptive extent. Love was something, so grand, wondering why the appeal to something insignificant. So mean! Would do 100 mph swerving into the 110S. Would rescue an ideal, losing memory, taste testing wines. Would idealize a creature, specialized at miseries, giving all to perfect one day. I now look back, begging myself to shut up. I wonder how in hell we love each other. So familiar with the skies, turquoise pieces, marooned islands. I could never! Back to the 10W, making science, everything begins to seem wrong. What would Love do? What is her wish? The purpose must stand solitary. No one cares about what we invest life into. Personality is leaking, pash is warn out, passions seem to wane. If but one day—perfected in essence. One day for twelve. Rather lean into it. Rather trinity excellence. Rather yoga gems. Rather a mystic intensity.  

The Church Is Internal

 

 

I knew as a passing gaze, those Portugal leaves. To imagine while it aches, it must be beautiful. 

On a borrowed legacy, rendering life incompletely.

Seeking what avails, destitute of completion—memories leaning into dusk, and dusty oceans. I was once seven, imperfect, dreaming as minutes were excruciating. A soft chase after hope.

All this time with lying, acting, if to sing silence, such imbalanced comforts. 

To speak about freefalling, disputing liberty, sullen completion, melancholic sweetness—in having a vision, sewn to destiny, with fate running. 

            This must be a confession. Each line roaring in caves. 

            Watching as one writhes. Trying to play make-believe. To imagine arms reaching.

And over yonder, a universe, cursed to have been blessed.

            Asking to go home. Wondering how we lost existence. Those spaces we’ve never encountered, so afar, waiting to meet each other. 

            It was nice meeting you. It was sudden hell. The years have prevented life.  

Outside The Church Is Like Church

 

I try to outwit fate, to outdance destiny.

I try to find skies in seas across from earths. 

With each breath, a silent rapture, curious those dreams are unfounded. 

One would know church secrets, a spiritual maverick—

Many measures, many more struggles. 

To have shook hands, a short gaze, absorbing energy, lying it off, listening to humanity. 

Life unsung, made incredible: her song is in her rays. 

A faraway language, assiduous orison, looking back at it.

To have won one, to have lost another, with hope beaming, with arts screaming. 

I try to outwit fate, to outdance destiny. 

With brains at crucibles—with passion cringing, if one essence, if three mistakes. 

I can feel a lyric—moving through motion, made mental. 

Such absorption, rising sunshine.

By a lasting invisibility. 

Rebirth, Reincarnation

 

By sight, by courage; to seize feelings, so great its ray, so tender its betrayal. To have loved rites, by mirror, attics filled with spiders; a soul of inking collar, a chaser of screams, unlike a genius, thus, unvetted madness. To have stumbled upon church, silent loudness, abbots, nunneries, priests, bishops, a dungeon filled with trials, if by welkin pangs. Not meant, it cannot sing; allergic to what it loves; priding inside, humbled, aloof to itself.

 

Oh’ for a holy creature—those cryptic gazes; a man is made by silence.

In dying he might live. Such sweet cadence. 

So inevitable those skies. Made naturally. To have always been; to have mastered breath.

Loving isn’t as one presumes. Many nuances. Several novelties. 

Life is tantamount to invisibility, as in unseen, where it means eternity.

A soul has chased ink, vanished into spirit, softer sullenness, harsher winds, to see as it morphs, to assist in designation. 

 

Such irony attached to it; so many opposite presumptions. A soul is pure, purged, at risk for perdition; into a mansard, listening to holiness, made concerned, destined for a kneel. 

 

Such has been in linage, by what it means, to have become with great effort, a creature carrying terrible symbols. In communion to enforce a message, might be in straights, dire at points.

 

Soul-felt Complex

 

 

I fret the soul must undergo its frustration. A soft tapping. A piano’s somberness. A faint understanding. Walking by instrumental—caged in essence—feuding with an invisible island. To notice fairness dies, rapture consumes, to pride self on a muteness to it all. Deepness of soul, like a heart-phantom, some level of interaction ever unmeasured. A soul watches its carcass. It sees it dying. (With an audience experiencing another’s soul.) Some matter of gray ocean, skies filled with permanence, earth seeming to pass away. I fret the soul must undergo its frustration. A soft rapping. A banshee in chains. A monstrous sensitivity. In making life an art, to regain some control, wrestling with obstinate weather. By an insistent agony, aesthetic in its charms, to have adored in some vision, as never to have lived. And I was once a lad, gazing at gallicas, unfettered in imagination, longing for beauty—as determined by innocence: Love would say my name, so young we were, it felt alluring, captivating, to have thoughts made of pearls, to have feelings made of diamonds, to insist upon the notion of love. I’m frantic into a future colored by suspicion. I missed out on petals, trains, wasting time, if to seize by rites—those with casual reaching, never quite fulfill lights, and I fret the soul must undergo its frustration. 

Olden Souls

 

The cliché is—it gets easier; indeed, it travels deeper. And loving is a reason to breathe, if two carry each other, if it becomes intimate. I can sense one in passing, having trespassed, life becomes a longer venture. A lady shared a part of her struggle. It was frightening. Another keeps it tacit, such pandemonium, a titillating sensation. A woman was experiencing life. A soul was at her innocence. She desired to keep him appeased. Upon a glimpse, I saw what others ignore. One would call me nosy. I’d agree. 

Such as life is pathologies; we forget the struggle is universal. By condition, by existence. 

I forget others are able to speak. I forget hearing is ubiquitous. I exaggerate most are running. 

Surreality of dreams. Sacredity of symbols. Close enough to feel uncertain. 

Spatial with rules. Lavish upon a scar. Pushing and molding clay. 

Certain pottery. Devastating wishes. Upon an image one illusion too afar. 

To have needed what one could give; adjudged as unruly. With so much of life seeming gray. 

I feel the snowbird, so gelid, in fact, too cold to reach. 

When I knew I’d love, I was intense and shallow. 

First Breath

 

 

I’d sense a seed the being of self, holding on by a sky-rail, longing for what he can’t pinpoint, aching nonetheless. They say the seed desires to get back home, to a fair garden, within a soul, into holy soil. The self would feel detached, thus separated, estranged from itself, its community, its future. If nothing exists beyond human constructs, why is there a hole, a sense of incompletion? “That’s for religious souls.” Is religiosity a choice—despite overtness verses human activity? I’d sense essence yearning, with reality wild-like, a part of the seed seeking a universal: flesh, bone, spirit. The incorporeal probes human modalities, pushing and tugging, with a sense of aching, disenchantment, part darkness, unaware of how to render closure. Each piece of self remains without solace. In harnessing a glimpse, one is said to experience ecstasy. (What becomes at once important is—these experiences can be replicated—in part, this is the addiction of the matter. We desire union, oneness, devoid of division.) I’d sense a seed the being of self, gripping ideals until they wear down. (In all the getting, and I vacillate at times, I do apologize, but something permits all things, there’s an impetus, in sensing this reality, one falls into freefalling.) Moses performed before magicians. They, too, put on performances. The winning is not the point. The fact of the matter is this: what belongs to God could be mimicked. This opens a storehouse of literature. We will concentrate of losing ground, or warring addiction, where what we assert belongs to God, is therein mimicked. One might go a different direction, torn asunder, into high hills, chasing what seems performative, by far with unease, trying to get back to the first breath. (The self is not promoting tenacity; plus, we’re speaking of things beyond pure physics … we’ve no business here, with all the right to be here ….) I was a seed before I was a seed. I came from some space. I’m a spirit. I will return to some place. One says: “It’s all humanism, we just can’t accept that.” This is a powerful suggestion. To which I say: “Where two or more are gathered in my name, I am present.” It circles back to an impetus, a guiding principle, a parenthetical contingency.     

Boats & Ores

Whatever I knew of majesty, dynamics. 

Breathing like phantoms.

Whatever I thought about love. 

The fields are filled with crops, 

Remnant pains—crazed sickles.

I was cognizant of inactivity, as it morphed

Into jasmine zinnias.

The distance between arts & ideals, by 

Turquoise clouds, fallen grays, 

Present absence. 

Upon a fringe, grappling with physics,

Sensing ‘transmitters.

(A batch of ingredients.)

Such enthusiasm, a record on repeat, Receding zeal, sullen weather,

An appetite for insistence. 

To notice eyelids.

To hear facial expressions.

It measures against backdrops, backboards.

Whatever I knew about soulmates.

Life is so much wrought by creators. 

Museum minded. 

To fritter away, or become the arrow. 

Whatever I used to attest to. 

Torrent waves.

Magnetic gates.

Grave signals.   

Something on The Soul

 

Often, a soul pontificates, it speculates. It articulates itself. It tries to hear and feel itself. The soul thinks about big ticket items: the meaning of life, its essence, faith, love, understanding, God and more. The soul needs to know itself. In gaining knowledge of itself, as we have read, it gains knowledge of what we understand as being God. The soul needs meaning. The absence of meaning is painful. The soul is indivisible. It is like motion. The soul is bound up with the heart. It is also a conglomerate of all that is made human. The soul is fluid, the moods are rooted in the soul. The soul is mellow at points, responsive at other junctures. The soul needs to feel loved—whatever the writer and others have designated as love. Faith is integral in this picture, required to believe in others. The soul is set for a long battle, for the soul deals in unreality. So, in chasing what humans call factual, the soul must distinguish between actuality and inauthenticity. The writer says motion is peaceful, whereas, the soul is turbulent, chaotic, filled with pains, emotions and beauty. The assertion is the soul does not rest, and it is not sleep deprived. It may be a hunch, but the soul is carrying too much. So, as experiencing all in which existence might contain, the soul is forging its reality, one it cannot depend upon. 

Merry Go Round

 

Dead bones, God’s sinews, a level of blues. 

Seeing life has animosity, seeing it never changes, a sickness to appease it. 

A prayer at it, early morning meals, fasting for a week. 

And trying to be real, to tell how it happens, much has become ironic. 

Used to adore it, guarded by ideals, everything wobbles. 

Loving sensation, reminiscing upon those years, trying to get beyond silence. 

We get to screaming, damned for existence, framed in fusions. 

Something regular seems offensive, appealing to higher waves, where most are participating. 

A ditch of bones, a sky filled by regrets, at memories, trying to excuse betrayal. 

Nobody calculates it, to adore like pure innocence, to find life in grays. 

Talking in private, articulating thoughts, asking for something unreachable. 

It never happens, a slave at it, like warring self. 

But thoughts are sunrise, raw forgiveness, such a moment in midst of hells. 

Feeling rejuvenated, ironing infractions, bled of Faith—adoring Faith. 

Petty arts, heavily armored, still vulnerable. 

Many belts, across globes, speaking Jesus, most treacherous. 

I'll leave it there

In The Absence of It

 

 

Nothing is totality; feeling utter grayness; it’s not her.

Listening to Irene, save for inner thoughts; aching an ultimate island, sensing a third dimension. 

And color keeps morphing, such surreal dynasties, in spite of intestinal thoughts. 

Upheaval climbing; deeper beliefs. 

It’s hard when easy, difficult peaks. 

Seized by naivety. Searching for completion. Damned by estrangement. 

What I love will flee away. What I desire isn’t human. 

In being human, the desire is beyond our capacity.

And all are concerned with freedom—its magnitude, breadth, width, its uneasiness, its un-reaching promise. 

Depriving its arts, filled with fury, disputed as heresy.

I’ve a figment of images, watching an unspoken science, feeling tension as it rises.

No one said I’ve completion, fueled by ideals. 

No one said it wasn’t debatable. 

I never said these things. 

Threshing Ambition

 

I tried to write about her. I did the task no justice. I failed to talk about the person. How to write without attributes, to unveil something rare, as never spoken, as irreplaceable? Most are looking to feel unique, special in a centralized way (bullshit is see through). I would like to say something extraordinary, to reach something never said before: beyond memory, projection, even celebration. I don’t desire to say, I love you. I need to remember nuance, voice, and intonation. (In knowing you—it has been the gravest and most joyous pains). That misses the mark. Many would say, “You’re thinking too much.” This is the issue. Love has become passé. A few know Love’s name. A few are satiated by thoughts of her name. Cirrus ambition. Ethereal heart rain. To need something invisible, the quality of souls. I tried to write about it. I failed traumatically. Northern eyes. All fabrications aside. To have needs captured by grandness. It becomes newness to garner newness. Many die inside, looking to rescue self. I long for it, to explain it. Captured by roots, most terrifying satisfaction. A lasting letter. A furious kiss. Most exotic of passions. To try without attributes—like living without oxygen. Framed by a glance. Awakened by a heartbeat. Threshed and released to the world.       

Automatic Writing

 

 

To have thought in soul an ache in departure; to have wavered by doubt a hand towards slavery; such rhythm by its curse while we wonder of what can’t be explained. Certain blasphemy. A man held captive, tethered to his heartbeat. By lotus flower, marigold skies, to have loved once by its creation. In adoring marrow the bone of enticement, with addiction to a human flame; captured by memories, plain illusion, repenting those hours of Illuminati. Such a catapult. Such creative opalescence. In needing you, I lost you. A mind in its terrors. A black magic woman. To wonder in spirits those lakes as above, to chisel walls in a petroglyph, hands to shadows. In dire need of you, in treasures to have sin, alone inside, a fountain of ambitions. I was aiming for eternity, longing for infinity, shunned for non-composure, thwarted at the fence. Surrounded by doubts, moving through legends, so abrupt it would seem, those aforesaid tyrannies. So much stock in a passing gesture, it shows a man is un-attentive; in desiring you, in wanting to collage with you, in memories of close to an edge for you, I’d come to realize—days are forged in pain. Water plummets the seas, ships are tossed to and fro, dying seems imminent; and a spark, as called love, so much in dynasty, accursed and proud to have lived.    

Each In Passing

 

By the virtue of sound: “A son was born.”

Spirit digitization.

Half a century debating blackness.

Can’t say—she ever-changed: I never met her.

Many are warring to feel spotless: maybe then.

The candor of disappointment. 

It was always poetry: it was evermore prose.

Accustomed to this life—it was normalized.

Every texture of chicken. To see a miracle. 

To elicit Belief, nearly empty, filled with something felt holy;

whelmed by understanding; trying to unravel it; it can’t be what we see.

Out of slums, such brilliance, such incredible ambition.

They saw one coming, an invisible man, touched by reality. 

So metaphoric. Such teleology. 

Purpose that one exacts—not as endorsed.

Broken hydrants. Open skies. Precious beliefs.

Learning pride against whelming resistance. 

To feel indebted. Each in passing.

Evident to Skies

 

 

… and it was a sage, an artist, a gift inside, while feeling gift-less.

Such contention, running spigots, dungeon skies.

The sun came out, it remains tenacious, despite what it sees.

I remember a small slingshot, a marble, at play. 

Such an unexamined life, prior to pure condition. To feel disgruntled. To sense contradiction.

We say it’s paradox. 

Ripples in a pond. Gentle geese. A bench. Seed. A sense

of ease: pure illusion. 

In search of static reality, a groping chase. 

To say, the stars belong to us!

Each axiom seems predisposed; each thought is a preposition;

each article was forged in anguish. 

… and it was a sage, an artist, a gift inside, while feeling gift-less. 

     

In The Seams

 

 

It is said—souls are to endure, what color is this? 

They call it longsuffering: culturally, spiritually. 

Some find joy in acceptance, constructed by such premises. 

Made more complicated: souls, spirits.

            Ignoring smoldering hearts.

            Making comfort in caves.

We sense many are unprecedented. Flowers ablaze.

Losing parts of life to find self; by a miracle to sustain it. 

In healing others: who heals us? 

At points, we suppose.

It all seems repetitious, a few nuances, by spirit we believe, by an inner drive, to experience spirit. 

At crossroads, as they say.

Days are filled with memories, fraught by discomforts, a rarity to it all—a decent meal, a glass of tea, particular company. 

Sky gold.

Earth courage. 

Pulled asunder, asked to swim, making it across seas, sharks swarming, life nearly destitute, upon a reaching palm. 

To concentrate on goodness, to avert agonies, at some point to ask: am I with illusion?

So much a need to believe, this is life, with armor fading.

California ambition.

Whirlwinds

 

 

I think to you to find peace. I venture to believe things are ideal.

But using your spirit is wrong.

I will brave the weather. 

At each turn—my entire life—dealing with something: I don’t enjoy self. 

Most loving life, the best of everything. 

Such contortion; such magic.

Love was beautiful. We never know tendencies.

(Just be happy!)

(I’ll be alright.)

And visiting skies, at horizons, at the red light. 

I thought to grab a cigar: to hell with that.

And looking at it, seldom into stars, knowing that too would curdle.

Surefire perdition, not just a situation, from father to father, like a tyrannical curse.

Father was a gift to it. I tread in his footsteps. 

I try to do it better. It doesn’t matter. 

The family dealing with it. They see the secret.

Majesty to the young: so much to deal with, just to exist. 

A few are aware: mystic destiny, aching the walking seas. 

Upside down, summonsing ancestors, chains, miseries, fury, fire, and flame.   

 

Treasure & Curse

 

Rather be disconnected. It starts to ache. So many scythes. An anniversary just passed. Knowing no more until the skies blink; to have séance and courage; to mind-skate, to have pains, to laugh by concerns. In adoring ambition, in speaking wishes, to drift into sunshine. I never felt it like hearing it, a series of soldiers, crazed over existence. It felt good, when one was naïve, before a soul passed into light. Such nuance, such uphill battles, it was life to appear. Now a sentence comes with a tear. Just wondering as we do. It’s amazing how we thought it, to watch it, to wonder of what would manifest. I was sick for one, ravished inside, wondering why life hurts. It was a simple mistake, and it cost existence. Each year in memory. Each eon in blues. To debate if giving existence is cool for a cause. Damn it—existence is located, exhausted, the rest of life is to poetry. (Why should I be otherwise?) I have nothing to go on. I can imagine one in pain, fortified in miseries, on a line, sure to sip a beer. So, awake to it. Many taken pleasure in it. thrown and cursed. To tug at a soul, to give a soul full responsibility. So be it. No wonder a spirit says, It’s idle time. If not me, then someone else. So, it is, ghosts scudding, treasures in isolation.    

Commonsense

 

 

Caught in feelings the dregs an area for pain; Love is for reason the aim is eternity, drowned out, making miracle roses.

I was fantasizing of trenches, dead comrades, a soft palm caressing my ego; everything you are, every meaning, to have died tragically; and sour milk, forced to guzzle, curdled and all.

What was it, Commonsense, to lose arrangement, power, dynasty, and passion.

The drizzling—looking on behavior, afraid some are too brave; affliction like a kiss, something incredible, to enter, treasuring Love more than self; indeed, a shift, to fathom amnesty, so destined, such is Love, and Commonsense remained cushion. 

Sky Stress

 

We don’t speak about love; we speak about life.

We don’t claim immortality; we live as if.

I need to speak about love; I need to adore without reluctance.

Cultural curses; blizzard bolts.

If I could unveil love, so close to it, closer to a collar. 

Desert religiosity, no one but Father. 

Nearing a cave, an echo, a petroglyph—my picture. 

Over seven perfections; over seven reasons; at an inner masquerade … to the grave with life.

Palming sawgrass, eating seas, conversing over a frittata. 

Weaned off love, addicted to love, forced to face the greatest chasm over love. 

Many untoward thoughts; aching 

sandstone eyes.

Skyward melodica—woodwinds—harmonica pains. 

So intense by fatigue, a day to shivering, a night to Aquila. 

So saturnine; a whole heart. A lost dream.  

 

I tried not to speak it, by windy falls; so confused about it, like city moments, cultural deserts. 

A colossal downpouring, a miserable windfall—

to have lived in an instance, steady in chase 

of that feeling.

It sounds like affliction, the tender side of darkness … 

wealth of terrors, dusty ambition, driven by one ghost.

With helium hearts, to have said much, souls beyond facts, unenthused by customs.  

 

In being hurt—misery of anguish may follow; a person becomes part tragic.

 

It’s early in this state. Far too much manipulation. With grievous pain comes anguish. Never rob a man of his misery. Art is a conundrum. Art is human. By government of some craft, to know by consciousness the aches of others, wakeful realities—come from a reservoir, a somberness to it—when laughter has sullenness in its eyes. To push beyond presence, to acquire some skill in the undergoing. It’s been un-relational, distinct, at moments, too clear for comforts.

 

We might explore the exotic, become cursed, to adore misery. We might become synchronized, to die in fury, to remain impatient, unto agony and tears. In the anguish comes a whisper, a sky kiss, so much more to revere cultures. Dancing that way. Eating atmosphere. So uncured. So tragic. Hurt for it makes life. To feel consumed. To wonder what a feeling is. To have those properties. To insist on insistence. Such a strategist! Never as it is; never as it was; to have arts besprinkled from towns to cities—the curse in its blessing, dependent on temperament, she knew not! This is the pain. To need tragedy. To inscribe uneasiness—to hate while we call it love. Such a travesty inside. To know for sickness, and to bypass reality in exchange for vinegar.

 

From the mind, at points, from the gut. To need redemption, as embedded in roots, to worship for cleanness—those precise measures, the dying of palms, pierced in ecstasy—by candle, flaming essence, part alive. No true choice for the poet, the scoundrel. It seems to have a blessing to it. Someone sacrificed for it. Something built a part hedge around it. God seems to favor it. In spite of travesty & tales. 

                                    In deep wonder, such similar countenances, such quickness of thought, to glisten with heaviness chasing—hermetic heartbeats, upon a hearth, such harrowing exhibitions, such moments of consuming passion, to watch each other, never to trust each other, moving forward towards dusky skies. Dust trailing, moving so swiftly—stopping seems impossible, to reck emotion, to shatter feelings—if but to live, to locate an old inclination, faced by wants & desires, everything has become irrational.