Here I sit unbroken-hearted:
I tried to ****, and did, and farted.
Here I sit by fate or chance:
For *******, sitting's the proper stance.

How is yet, our soul purpose?
Aged reciprocation, a queue of wrath
Since apt, is a war with no host...
Places of passion, set to a music to never add

Odd, the taste
Of vehemence's flower
Set to sweeter haste
Implied ordeals have a certain power...

Mercy, no more...
A mirror of lewd fantasy
Seeing me step forward
Has harbored, my indignity...

Salt, I know you
Quiet, when fingers of the sun
Arrange the day, for a wind to blow
An image saving not, from a seldom, so cunning...

Professed voices
With a moment, to look and see...
A curse so sweet, presence of a choice
That has a hand, for each blindness we be...

The statues destroyed,

temples without a roof, gods --


that are still alive.

See the irony, the taste in the bible
Sweet to homage, an honor of sight seen
And believed to be, a necessary disciple
With the common root to a living whim...

Honor the dead, with the universes smile...
Saved from presences of might, that calmly collected
A hosts sedition, the showing taste of life, all the while
Has a benign portion to its find, a host is its own reflected

Spare, me the details of its decision, mutuality is a lot
Candor was for king and queen before country, which amuses children
Did is the only way to achieve a soul, as if love is an age not
Begun with solaces interest, are we a finished thought to lend?

Traitorousness aside
The voice of freedom, to collect one more kindness
If a realer simplicity is to be, the account of the times
Where has a liberty been ever so much more than a calling, to this...

Waiting for sunshine to prove?
The stoic answer to all of a day, made for sincerity
Was a willing hour, the voice we came to love?
Regaled by a sorry eye one night, that life may know a reasons charity...

~
She is not our shrine,
she prays differently
with eyes wide open,
fingers on votive offerings,
preferring her solitude
in the Tea Garden, drinking light

Tomorrow on the tarmac
one flowered suitcase,
stamped for the city of neon people,
will travel to her song,
the pilgrimage of anemic lovers

Her hoisting from water,
(ampullae in hand),
and the unique boutique
growing out of
an alabaster chamber
bring monks out of hiding

The center line of her,
where the flower blooms forth
and learns by observation,
is still an unvisited temple

Until in season of calligraphy,
when she releases the Kogai
from her hair and sits with friendly toes
outstretched in the warm intimacy of
shared water
~

every time
i speak my own
name i taste
the blood of
my mother's bit
lip (&) held tongue-- a self shed
to take rein

o' my father's flatiron
sur/name:
the blood, reigned (&)
i remain—
sanguine & ruddy
after all
(these broods).

i am not
my mother’s daughter

she is horselike
she is free
she is constant and steady
she is strong

i am
          a rabbit
     i am

          scattered
     imprisoned

               trapped

          i freed myself
     i’ll never look back again

Powers of side-ways laughs...
Kick of light into a searched for kiss
Make and meant, are we a hopeful hath?
Sure, the toil of adding ourselves, to a heart to miss?

Suddenness
And the game of can't and won't
Wished for a friend in hollow limelight, a ridiculing guest?
The taken hiss, for a wishful smile; arduous but don't...

How, or wisdom?
Or, the tale of significance
With a moment to share even kind, to these we dumb?
But a shadow of history is a muse to the light, we sense...

Any and all, to a thing of since, we are to be...
In the hands of deference, where one more step is a being
Hour, to which selfish is a range of voice, in all anarchy
We save a friends time with sour regrets, in the name of simply seeing

Martyrs of deliberate quote and silence from a boat...
Together they make a notion, to tell the truth...
West with a capable soul, the tale has become a superior love...
Argued by you and me, see the head for simplicity, that is youth...

I snuck into the party with an ID I hastily made
and stumbled, out of step, into the poetry parade.

In this beautiful country club, I'm surrounded by my betters.
I wave my kindergarten rhymes to show the men of letters.

In the echo of the learned men who came this way before me
I hear the patterned minuets, that if followed, lead to glory.

I chafe in those traveled ruts and I long for something varied
and I hope to spark a unique verse, between school and the cemetery.

Everything changes,

people often slow it down --


with their traditions.