In Exchange for Enlightenment

 

We need extraordinary verses. 

Trying to keep up with it. Gelid miles, 

cogent walls. A fever at times, said 

distant at moments. So much to humans, 

trying at humanity. Dry deserts. 

Cactus stress. It was nice to feel parts, so 

infatuated with it. A life after 

itself. Like hearts can’t hide. A soul is a tornado cast to seas looking for closure. It was hard to love. Time kept running. I see parts of it, demanding its legacy—birth of skies, or empty space. Each soul is immortal. It’s difficult to think otherwise: that deeper self. I wander down thoughts, wondering about more, presuming, as a necessity, more is inevitable. Some are pleased for a time, once made familiar, some things grow dull. I don’t imagine finding the more I seek. It might not exist. Others might fall into it, assuming a position, a little touch of heaven. (The mind mocks itself.) 

No need in speculation. Most anything 

was first a conception. I envy souls 

that’ve figured life out. Makes one wonder. 

It’s critical indifference. It seems definite. I gather feelings, see science, a few are gorgeous. To need to embark on a journey; to need a certain combination. I envy those madly on heaven’s grove. To pass through, as passing by, relegated to memories. Mislead. It must be celestial, insanity, to cherish beyond understanding, to adore surpass all wisdom.  

In Retrospection

 

Tunic toxic. I imagine carrying blurs & phantoms. There’re parallels, but the mind is reaching further back. Magenta eyes—sunshine tears. Like a stampede when it struck. I venture it’s a steep & gloomy secret, a furtive land. It became toils, travail of labor, even a contradiction. I never caught up: I’m still wanting. The gut tells a saga, it may be false, damn sure incomplete. To appear, to side with principles, to lay claim to thoughts, like weeping willows. Over sullen fajitas, palming graces, realizing life has been stolen, life has been given—such blues, jazzy estrangements, over mango margaritas. Desiring closure was a ruse. We’ll exist for pleasures, trying to fight the great cloud, measured by inactivity, refusing to unlatch the prowess. Most noble acts, so sardonic, seduced by otherworldliness. By a fount, breathing-in possibility, conforming to improbability. Years at forests; mind jungles; much clearer. It seems a woman in pain will develop energies—over yonder, a hummingbird is zipping & zagging. Igniting jasmine, or burning a candle, those years ago—set for passions, part unzipped, if to send a feeling—so many at it, it’s unreal. Such picturesque seconds, mesmerizing phantasmagorias, keeping sensualness to realms—logicality over pathos, credibility over flights: it does me no justice.   

To Love a Lie

 

 

Nothing expresses rain; thus, it’s never satisfied; thus, noose music, affectionate ghosts, one ego chime. To imagine feelings, so obscure, buckets of tears, to water gardens, wilder appetites. Something drives beyond capacity. Something remains disappointed. It seems unfair. The way we try harder. Or just carried from scene to voyage. In feeling full, to emotional loneness, asking for closeness, desiring distance. Such a radiant contradiction: ever pleading, never ready … filthy coldness. Estranged from the motion of hands. Anything lately is called love. Wondering if intestines match ideals. Some parts truly ache in distrust. With Love appearing, wintry fall, cadence and hertz. The lies I feed fantasy. Aware, therefore, low; captured by ambition. We might seclude in silence, knowing another’s pain, still with our course: what type of persons are we? I have a serious problem: I can’t accept a definition for love. “You’ll know it.”

I imagine true love is excruciating, abandoned to vulnerability, if unthought, it isn’t favored as love. If full of comforts, never analyzed, what are we calling it? 

We deviated. Nothing is good enough. Nothing exhausts the urge. Such need; looking at one, to imagine equality, sameness of displeasure, radicalized sensation, unbearable draperies.   

Head Lamps

 

 

The wiles of Love, the prowess, another addiction: solid gold. Athirst for heaven. Peeling back the mind cage. Love is fierce. We wonder after the facts; eye-to-eye, toe-to-toe, filmed on the inside. I can’t help but reminisce—craving for those first six sentences. (It really means a lot, in meaning so little; it becomes expression, once ostracized. We say, “I’m doing it.” (We’re adjusting at best.) I never complain, it seems unimportant, plus, it frets the brains. I knew Love had it. She wouldn’t claim it. Love is ecstasy. The issue is this, in requiring much, it takes much for what one requires. A simple expression: imagine loving where you see nothing else but the beloved. I’d save us the rain. In seeing Love, in determining her depth, knowing what she gives, one is alike to God, in one force, jealous for her love. (They wonder why some are pure rawness, constantly going for it; they wonder why some live life; they don’t care about losing, it’s part of the show.) In adoring by one sight, says something about the capacity to love; indeed, it speaks to illusion: such rabid arts have sprung to life, such creative dalliance—to drip honey, to grip iron, lost, if located in her smile. The fire of those chambers: coals and dice, dreams aside visions, in love with a face. It runs deeper. To adore a face. To see divinity. To feel cadence. To know for some lying to self. If to rejoice; if to seize existence; loving someone opens infinity.    

Matrix Chi

 

 

When a room is empty … when darkness comes … and one visits …. I was filled with arcane ink. I was a child. The sting was there … it felt stolen. I would watch ceilings, perfected in desire, trying not to think that way. Much was sacrificed. Life was given to receive life. Such a notion. Such a culture. Many parallels. To find life suffers itself. To find breath contradicts its reach. As it comes it may pass away. As it lives it may relegate to memory. I realize a mind will hold to what it pleases, despite, circumstances. It just has proclivities. I was in by intuition, never a clearer second, to have seen an image; it stood still, a shocked expression, maintaining by an allusion; those piercing glances, those bold shifts, to have died in one’s ways. Stomachs tremble; a countenance emboldens, and doves run wilder. When a room is empty … when darkness looms … and one disappears …. I was fraught by undercurrents—trailing underbrush—heaving underground; in loving its ideal, in shivering pure thought, to look and need by genetic instinct. Ambrosia for many. Vinegar for some. Such presence, essence of ambivalence. To be at mystery, ever foggy, to picture life is with us … indeed, never to fathom otherwise … I’ll not strum a violin, as it erupts, to know—it seems paradoxical. 

Instant Attraction

 

 

Not enough was said, despite, the tome. Cathedral cries. Truths seem harder to uncover. And the roads are longer. I located artifacts. I measured seeing with something hermetic. I was unaware another was privy, restructuring an edifice, rebuilding a galaxy. I speculate in silence. To argue for you: crowns of royalty. Feelings become relics. Idolatry prevents functionality. I imagine a brazen wit, a compromised sanity: not much to assert otherwise. Maybe strong sexuality. Maybe a hint of profanity. Even a degree of depression. Ever we fix what’s broken! Such faith, despite, catastrophe. Tropes at times. Roses in dens. A neat summary page; a lavish tale. Sky bells and dreams, often unvetted. I remember a sarcophagus. I would peek out. She urged me to flit, to fly. Such philosophic color. A lasting testimony. Symbolic thorns. If to assert love, Love would laugh. Nevertheless, upon a glance, a soul lost sanity, scribbling a tome on Love. Such primal passions. A soul keeps reigns. If ever by a graveyard, an inevitable boneyard, to prophesy to those bones, such radical virtue, such extravagant faith. I imbued Love with majesty; based in my needs. I never loved Love. I never knew Love. So often first glances. A sickness in souls; a blessing in arts. To become with fervor those screams.    

Walls

 

 

 

The many walls, the odors; a fret to hear it, a tear to muddy faces. Emotions hold us captive—too emphatic, too villainous. 

I was thorough I thought. People watch your walls. I imagine the many games, jargon gone astray, our best minds unsettled. And

I imagine creativity has limits—before eyebrows raise. 

Spinning tragedy—so tragic, the obvious curse, and religious color: so cultural: the inner tyrant. 

One cosmic grievance: the purpose of breath. 

Imperfect excellence. Given suffering. 

Sundown blues, mental jackets; neat walls, protected walls, skyrocketing woes. The mirror speaks about love, the channel adores anxiety: 

I reminisce upon a lilting voice, filled with joys, to brighten rooms, to give happiness; aesthetic insanity, unbelievable patience. And something was hissing; surrounded by tarantulas.  

It was first a person. It became emotionality. It grew into walls.

I can’t impassion it enough.

The texture of invisibility—those understanding trauma’s pictures. Not knowing, most see the glory, and having issues with that. 

I might adore you, never to imagine your battle, pulled in and sacrificed. Certain miles, creative axioms, the favor we ignore. 

There’s an invisible brush painting my walls. I feel distrusting. I sense an end game: how do I thwart the walls?

What have kids experienced? They say, what about the art? To suggest, it would never travel so deeply if unafflicted. 

Hollow walls. Crossed thoughts. 

Acidic spirits; fueled to this degree, if to fathom pure discontent. 

I think about you. I would never entice you. You seem to be healing. Such relational angst; roots grieving, celebrating beauty, reanalyzing hurt. 

I see a golden goose, a silent egg, to crack into violent walls. To picture satire; such satyr souls; asking, nay, pleading for the uncomplicated—as befuddled souls. 

Iconic walls. Mind meadows. Looking at it, left disgusted. To force one to live that out. 

To seal one as unable to adore. 

More Than a Dreamer

 

Faraway gusts; impetuosity. A lasting rot. A steep incline—an unending mountain. To have claimed love, it should be analyzed. One with fancy. Another with penalty. Smothered graces; fevered battles. Someone hast to believe essence. It couldn’t be what means so much; it mustn’t be what tends to frighten. To analyze love in different estates: the wildness two would share. So accustomed to nuances, distressing self into beliefs, to have gone so deep, such raw normality. Life is more than skepticism, not nearly deontological, somewhere between Confucius and Sun Tzu … one will be mother, another will be father. A soul will feel pushed—from alpha to omega—it might let up … two truly inclined, more than—in between times. We remember Thich Nhat Hanh. Love is a system made of parts, two walk together, side by side, tackling each principle. It amazes what two may share—those secure points, ever challenged … those insecurities—ever nurtured. Maybe esoteric at first. Systematic during disputes. Sexual and scientific. Religious humanism. Bossy. Demanding. Reciprocative. The challenge of it all. Electrified. Volts, asphalt, ever looming in some direction. Far too nuclear to exhaust. Just touching, then listening, on a topic, that is. While it makes impression, souls look at each other and smile. Fierceness. Receiving and manipulating through what was given. No one imagined … folks often say. Closer captions. Bolder knowingness. A glance. Even odors and humanness.         

Wrested At Times

 

 

It’s not much to say. The lawn in heaven, those starlings overhead. At some point—one is filled with images. Something titillating, unspeakable infatuations. I don’t broach the topic anymore; it makes us uneasy: love seems contagious. We put life into it. Some possess an indolence at tiers. I never caught your name. Dug out of clay … whet for romance, eager for silence, talking inside—loudness of thunder, rain of clouds, chuckling at old ignorance. To find life; we see heaven’s language; it sounds idyllic, something to reach for: it’s not much to say. Fields filled with cotton. A ninety-year-old African reminisces on ancestors—close to retiring, he fought the good fight … death is a mystery. I wrestle with it. She aches the sweetness of miseries. It never remains as it should. Too much analyzing. Too much sewing. The sky is a comforter. Dwelling in caves—reading apocalypse, disputing the ways of Daniel. It seems hectic those rays. David is beloved. I won’t broach that topic. New heirlooms; new sinews; such is sprinkled with old wine. Old polished walls, buffed ceilings, plush gardens. A bit thirsty as I age; a bit hungry for truths. So many moths, those cedar chest garbs. Old wool. Gut magnets. Bled in spirit, fed a rose. It’s not much to say. Just interested in a table, a tribunal, always needing retribution.        

Let It Be!

 

The tick-tock to it; garbs on gates: dear Father, bless the tunics! We chewed sunlight. We begged Jesus. We ate poverty. I loved as best as felt. The orangeness of interior. Wrapped in seaweeds, aching marshweed, we seem to live for something static. I was listening to an anthem, swayed in my mind, wondering those tasteless and mawkish screams. Like being dehaired, stuffed by life, sawed asunder—the pain ain’t much, the losses are intense, rather skip it, rather exist it, rather … too much of that! I was reading an anonymous prose. It turned into corners, bent souls, elaborated on ambiguity. And the author wanted nothing. Maybe this is much to receive. I hear sunshine moaning. I realize we push hard against imperfection, life is dying, it’s a rule to existence. The demon eyed spirits; approaching at daybreak, wondering about our beliefs. There must be a theology of ambiguity—vagueness seems indicative of harrowing breaths … the gut wheezing, most are disconnected from their struggle, estranged, like a fleeting ass dream. The soul was examined, everyone was aghast, trying to make meaning of this … we search for the organic, as it flows, taunted at times, threshed at each step. To sit language down, to ask its expression, to adore a one-to-one correlation.        

The Irony of What Pain Entails

 

 

No one but one knows you. So vague. Facing a fugue; enduring an effusion. I would learn to love parts, affected by wholeness, such grayish matter. The fool has spoken. To sail seven seas, nameless as a soul, back to basics to fall forever. The blood we bleed; the tortures we endure; the

 

overwhelming infusions—if to pronounce a wound. To love it as it dies, to seduce it as it breathes. Many memories blur. A thin, addictive line—to stumble into meaning, aside its indifference. (It amazes what souls find amusing, showing too much too quickly: “Let them 

 

laugh.” She was included, though absent, never aware aside for a thumping gait. To walk interior. A little bit of each other. To give so much just because. Part boredom; Part fancy; imparting to offset a particular concern. (A woman is a gem, often desecrated, we fail to fathom the many 

 

fractions. I never understood. I never will. To love, to adore, never aware of going to sleep.) The panic of occasion, to sing softly, a stronger woman would conceal essence and perish gently. A stronger woman would seal the great chasm and kill inherence. One asks if a stronger woman 

 

would desist on love and forfeit existence. Too much to seal the hole, too much to live exhaustion. Too much to un-sing the rivers, those whale gems. And a stronger man would never die, never fully persist. Too offensive. Too indicting. The love is what life could exist.            

Windy Leaves

 

 

Gazing at images. Dingoes in the deep desert. Soul-hounds. Just built that way. When it is, flowers feel intimate. Made to feel emotional—one to move spirits. Is it the 710s? The 405n? I was off the 10w. To sit in de ja vu. To marvel at the Spanish culture. Such make beauty. They groom poets. Not much a difference to say, poetess. Falling into oceans. Paying penance, on verge to trespass—dear darkness, where do you arise? Valued holiness; to deny it, to love its contagion. Religiosity was commandeered. Humanists soared. To touch that way. Life is tactile. The abstract is metaphysical. It comes a time—to chill out, to relax with closeness, to chance weather, to sip teas. A time to unwind, to breathe in, to breathe out. Over a remix, or revising one chapter, if to set affairs in motion—off the 110s, moving with feelers, wondering why life maroons at moments. Prone to savannahs; metaphoric isolation. When it’s said for done, when one peruses the tome, culling certain thoughts, know it was wabi-sabi. A search left part complete; know I never could fathom it, its source, never could settle upon presumption, wrestled with probability. Another road, a shorter highway, a narrow path—lots of moving and pausing; one passage, making moments, cherishing the organic—must try at all times, never another sizzle, miracle minded, realizing—it was never so serious.    

I See Trees & Distance

 

 

It would be one preserving innocence, forcing some reality. Indeed, to enjoin hells. Treasures aren’t enough. (I desire a feeling.) If to oblong experience, if to suffuse an empire. Loving is mysterious—mountainous terrain, ravines, ravens, and canyons. Trekking has been excellence, terrors, betrayals. I would exult a pedestal. As if some aren’t human. These were exhilarating days, hampered by darkness, sweet enlightenment. Pure existence; purer resistance; afraid to report reality. A cage for a lover, roaring for a lion, after something as it evaporates—one gripping vapor. Such decent rain. Such indecent apathy. (I would forget about human instincts, infatuated fully—

Phoenix furry.) Liking words. Conversing incognito. I stand in effervescence. I appear to senses. I drift into portals. (Such presence; to fall forward, to look evenly, part imbalanced, asking that it be removed.)

Born with tension, or fretting boredom, or afflicted by aspiration. A soul by swords. A spirit by prayers. So convoluted; Love seems disgruntled; Love seems tugged.    

Love swore by earnest pride. Love gave herself, her soul. To sit in a space. To remeasure a feeling. To pursue silence. 

Such incarnation, as into a life—

Ferric anima.

In giving by accordance to self, difficult pains, sleek whispers. I would to see some charm, reality headed to an ending, skiing emotions, conflicted anxieties. 

Uncanny truths, frantic perception—raspberry skies—if and only if, some crestfallen cadence, an art in bone. 

Such a deficit. To see with accuracy is privileged. With looking at self, we see inconsistencies. I would to have some kinship, a difficult minded arrow; thus, aiming, pensive targets, to forfeit an enterprise.

Cursed as it were. Blessed as it is. Intense religiosity. Rippling!    

Hunches

 

 

I’m curious when I feel it. I’m bland as I reproach it. To have a hunch—an inclination pressing. Intuition comes and it probes daylight. Night is nocturnal; rabid means fever; lows confuse arts. The reigns are upon skies, rain is pouring. I sense her eyes, a unique experience. If we knew perpetual joys, would it drive us mad? Out of suffering, aesthetics was born: I wonder how in depth her esthetics travel. It’s odd the way space closes in and makes a spark. Some part of us desires to be a kid; some part of existence refuses us that pleasure. To feel secure as spirits, instead of fretting the condition of the soul. The hunch has no foundation. It just appears, as does a thought, impressing into brain tissue. I hear its silence. I recall being too low to make the radar. Such radiance in a creature; accustomed to flights, often, regrets are short lived: back to arts, right? Many frown; sweet contradiction—values morph into patience. Plainly put, I go into thoughts, carrying some frequency, reluctant to give in to mere hunches. The battle for brains; by waxing in cautions, in turn, needing to have each hunch. (It amazes me how one can be a smart ass, trying to provoke tension, and find a place in our hearts.) An artist will speak about beauty. Radars stand high. So many have played that violin, gotten close, and vanished. I might need to hear something in particular, at a given moment. Coming to find, it was a fib. The artist is genuine in this sense, it only comes out when provoked. It must move. (I hope the heaviness subsides enough to enjoy a neat creation.) Beauty is in reflection, in a given mirror, in intellect.     

Participants of Breath

 

 

Looking back, it shouldn’t be what it is; to flower aside a xyst. (It comes when times are imperceptible: deadly petals, venomous grass.) It remains a public secret; radicalization; and all things come to perish. With time, we sense vulnerability, we nestle emotionality. In believing in essence, one disputes elements, as casual creatures, at vivid velocity. We employ hertz for many reasons—one will see intentionality. They gave a path, sensational titillations, to plant seeds by a spark. Some agree. Some disagree. This is life. We ask for balance, even acceptance. Somehow, she uprooted cosmic chi. Many are just as powerful. The equation remains inquisitive, we’ve approached feelings with mathematics, garnering a great deal, seeking excellence of humanity: a common ground is imperfection, the drift of emotions. And we ponder at a gift, to partake of sky wealth, at gut phones, pianoing firebirds. On occasion, to get lost, it’s excruciating, so back to math, fiending for earthly fruits. What has it become? Such a trivia question. Moving like centipedes, fretting the serpentine, deep sanguine moments. She was amazed to read it, such a dedicated soul, thwarted by reality, fighting growth, too intense for public artistry. The miracle of a last mile; to see sunlight, to know one fought a decent fight. One kiss, brought eye-to-eye, an ultimate entrance. So many waves, souls knowing life, remaining participants of breath.   

 

… and Mothers Know

 

 

The reality of violence, the gut made cold, the lows took precedence—bled out, body trembling, one last drink. It had to be God, giving it all, one last calling. Either popping pills, or sipping elixir, likeness to all suffering. It gets realer, no body pleading feelings, rather pass out with Jesus. Too much ice, too cold, to have tears falling at random. What they made her, emotions, too many sold the ribbons. I could have perished, money, power, something we yearn for; never ready for game, game immortal, idolizing a long life at game; to imagine one home, infested by jugglers, still sipping, ruined by absence. Seizing an inner ghost, feeling de ja vu, if to realize I was here and cannot remember it. If all I needed was her, to celebrate this life, never would it be that simple. Late night moving, to spark a cigar, fretting deep radical emotions. To seem alone, another human with sights, to creep into evidential. So many passed out. I never realized what living means to lose. I hear it in his voice, trying hard to be good, fever in the losses. They left us with sports, albums, grams, bags, and desperation. And Love, bad ass, with her own, like lost at the baseborn angels. I keep sipping, trying to understand Christ, to spend existence dying for souls. I fret to an ultimate slip—looking at her—at Love’s mercy, and Love gave up on love.  

Cosmic Familiarity

 

 

Longing is agony unto sad beauty. Trying to discover a home in self. A fortified castle. We meet people. They look like us. We engender ourselves. We say strange things: “I want to know her sadness.” In a life by multiple worlds, to have crossed paths, such in passing. Affectionate seconds. Meshing vibrations. Cosmic undulations. Such impression, so brief an interaction. Some souls linger. Sudden into cadence. In speaking about hertz, one is awakened, one is concerned, and one is confused. Patience in matter, pragmatic spirituals, indifferent attachments. Having taken immortality for granted—looped by cycles—some moments rising, some reality in falling, knowing it gets deeper. Phantom of brains, an interior opera—if understood, we’d conquer further by endeavor. There’s emptiness to fullness, fullness to emptiness, to borrow an eastern thought. Aside for riddle it speaks to sameness: the fullness of sadness, the emptiness of happiness, as they interchange. Slight shifts in perception; slight motion of activity. Knowing shifts are required if one is to survive the soul in its mirror. It becomes artistry. To have met by numen mathematics, to have learned to believe in experience, a casual undercurrent word. In all the giving, in excellent reception, to adore, realizing the cycle. Ears made for listening. Eyes meant for seeing. Grappling with necessities; appealing to sadness on multiple levels.  

Take It Easy

 

I can’t be hopeless. To tingle at a voice. Wondering of love shared. Radicalized. Heaving heavily. Such excruciating joys, daring not to call pain happiness. The author veers off, poking at love’s veneer. Told to behave; sheer letters, alphabetical passions—to follow ordination. Love requires itself, feeding on sky hopes, determined to flights. I enter a zone, climb out of a vortex, tender showers, cursed, swooshing through freedoms. Amazed by emotions, still acting asinine. Too many concerned, let love make its privacy. I fantasize; descending clouds—love withstands itself. Creative rulings; through uncertainty; knowing ideals are part reachable, part a trap—makes for partial allegiance, so wrapped in what we do. Such a paradoxical soul; such uncouth rulings. Trying to steer self; stirred—as it were: knowing behavior, knowing wilder weather, catching vibes. To take to motion, sheer quintessence, arguing back and forth. Those few months—composed of history, containing existence, excitement, deep rooted laughter. When I approach—talking smack, to return banter, catching an attitude. Such devotionals; so lethargic at moments, too vulnerable to leave Rome—reaching, demanding, as if we forgot a lasting ache. To cherish a lucky feeling, so much dying, to get it back is like trekking hells; to touch with meaning, to agonize over something inconsequential, to pull up aside imagination.