Families that became less complete,
traverse through labyrinths of concrete.
little introspection for this flesh anomaly in practice.
In the brightest of sunshining,
a bard imbibing the deep roast of brew with honey,
We are all or none and hypocrites:
We can be ignorant or nonplussed at the bad fortress about us;
picking our teeth and staring blankly-
I do appreciate the glory of living,
no matter the dearth or excess of resources in any field.
Prepositions and food.
The spellcastor is a mark and a marksman;
to and from the dreary silo of inertness and introversion.
Nausea as well, dismiss that too.
Relegate the awful to inanimate carriers of cosmic matter.
everyone is kissing to prove no points.
and neither do my words prove points;
but this is how some may communicate
with lovers, haters, stormsearchers, and the dead.
-From the gore of ancestors,
The least favorable instincts
Collude in a common stream
-Passing through arteries
And the stellar roundabouts
Of all generations until the present
Beginning as salt & going lukewarm
Bodies are culminating in the potash;
Fate is synonymous with reincarnation
To death, the white light of pervasion.
-These personas that are everyone,
Rife with work, aspiration, and turmoil
Cannot be their optimal versions
If the body won’t allow it.
Sometimes it is degraded to chaff
-Never perfect and never faultless
Without blessing hysterical godsends,
Without transcending grass and ore:
A simple euphony of natural paradise.
Let everything else be denied-
some of us,
crowded placid granite,
even by my own,
in a time that speaks for its highest heat
given the many materials that exist,
which we manipulate to pass the time and keep others from success,
there must be a solution that rings like the dawning of fowl.
seats of grass.
dirt should stay under your fingernails,
and the same should be the cushion of your skeleton in all the fragmented places that you venture
to keep alive that boiling desire,
that human coil of sentience
and the trouble that is our ambition.
draw to the days,
near to the soul,
but far from the world.
the perfect mixture that brought us into being cannot be told,
but it can be felt quite cold.
leave on the lights of the sky and the night,
and turn down the voluminous ache of disturbances.
the person who is called I,
who is the lot and total of sightseers and submarines,
beached and breathtaking even when it’s black,
dreaming of island planets,
where even still the disconnect is discordant.
our blood is always like oil and vinegar
“we thought we’d see the other side!”
quotas and quotients, an overpopulation, and that is where I want to live.
Abundance made explicitly.
take it all away,
my draping psychology is exempt.
These are times to rejoice and contemplate
These are times to create and despond
I have given everything and more to an idea
Healing over time is almost as painful as the original injury.
The moment moves without your control
Feeling weightless is a gift only given internally
How will you live, defining wealth, and how will you pass?
Why do we invent answers seeking for placation?
I want to qualify in the eyes of nature;
winning freedom on earth and escaping from prisoner’s delight.
Souls stand up against the torrent of existence,
while they fend off their automatic decay.
Are we not so human to ignore the kind of life we had
before this era of constant transgressions?
Are we human enough to catch the ending fever?
Oxygen has been replaced by exhaust.
We are forcing all life and matter to cope with our rampant needs.
Far off kilter the oversoul has gone.
Raw materials for building and torching,
a plethora of virgin dirt,
and all the pellucid waves that move from the surface to the sky.
Each of us can take,
if we do so happily
and give purity a chance.
Yes I am free
Burning, not burning, and learning of eclipses.
.may have you not going there I too that wasn’t love eating flat and forsaken.
we speak of todays and yesterdays
like items in our basket case
& cannot we conclude the future;
night isn’t more than the absence of sunlight,
not the trudging calendar squares-
Let us not forget our smallness here and begin to relish the simplicity.
We are now an unrealized mathematical equation.
We will always be sarcastically poetic.
Written on papyrus,
Soaked in perspiration.
Even if we are damned,
we will learn eventually.
Even if it is far too late for us,
the future will have us as a history.
What I suffer from,
you may as well,
in a way that is your own.
When I think of living too deeply,
I become concerned and perplexed and distraught by the possibilities.
I commiserate with the homeless, and with bards that are dead.
Anyone who speaks or spoke at fathoms beyond our normal reach.
I’m not a great or exemplary person, but I am human all the same.
Every one of us wishes to be something special.
We are not individual, but a piece of a montage.
Mirrors are the cause for our worrisome days,
and other kinds of glass are the cause for dreadful nights,
but in both do we learn.
We will go on learning.
It will be long after we have bitten the dust,
that all the ghosts of this lonely globe
will learn to live as they must.
entrancing, it is
there above the jagged brachial design
up above, in green and brown
the needles and scars of real passion
against clouds of peach, that fade into white
against a canvas of cerulean
and yes, it is almost dusk
in the northern hemisphere
satisfied, vernal behavior
mostly sturdy and wan
I have given myself over
to bathing in sunlight
and juxtaposition of climax
sensing the meridian
as I would sense an earthquake
far from me, as is the war of mankind