unknown certainty

it is never
enough
to know
for certain.
unknowing
is a backwards
certainty, though
I’m not sure
I understand.
even still,
what I want
or need meet
in some middle
battleground
of crunching
thoughts and
combative feelings.

this irony of love.
paragon of heartbreak.
opportunities missed,
chances taken.
or not. unspoken
dreams. the tumult
of this timeless
struggle. still
I seek clarity. from
distant eyes, flamed
lips, smiling
mischief, her heat
subdued.

the far away

a wandering, less
in familiar forests, dark
and disparate. some seeking
of information in form
and sensation: a new season.
a different bridge
spans that unknown river.
we navigate. construct.
into frontiers tears precede.

a life as wholly capable as this.
a love unwrit by broken lives.
to carry a dream
unfulfilled unto its own illusion.

we cannot understand, even
with wonder.

eyes closed, leaping into
a crazy abyss.
the way we commune. consume
those flames of unrelent.
some circumspect
emotion trailing off
into wilderness. still
we follow. who
could write such intrigue
without narratives of circumstances
dictated? by some innocence?

love is a transgression.
we crucify ourselves nonetheless,
seeking redemption, some
form of understanding. even
where none is forthcoming.

intelligent negligence

intelligence, telling
in this negligence
of what’s
known: this
is not the time
to dress in petals.
flowered perceptions
perfumed
by lust.
must I really
think
there is some
     --one
     --thing
out
there for
me,
in this
with pretty
please topped
cherries?

merry meet,
merry part.

I have met
that part of me
that hates,
which loves,
who has no
thing to hold on
to, just
smooth-illusioned
mirrors.
fickle
like the sea.

imaginary

imaginary, an
image mirrored
as if
mind
is miraged. mislead.
to think
as truth,
yet
there are
only these
fictious
scenes enacted as
played stages.
playing
the self. the
fool.

a clown’s
act. in jest
of surety. so
sure
this is
real. fucked up.
like
a pile of junk
dreams.
I could’ve lived.

so
I do.

to reconcile, somewhat

to err with air within
un-circulated blood, air
in the veins or
water on the brain.
this emotion. inert
struggle turned innate,
internal churn of barbaric
words. backwoods
forwards towards
times forewarned.

this is as before. now.
before now when it was
as it is. within this.
circulated blood, platelets.
floodgates precipitate
outpouring of thoughts,
feelings. foraging for healing
words, vegetative speech
reaching for restorative fruit.

exposed wounds congeal
clotted blood, a flood
of water falls like
tears for fears
washed away. what
misunderstandings stand under
light of day. lightened compassion
lends tensioned fists un-tightened.

evol love

a simple act.
like opening the eyes,
as subtle as
the north wind, which
ain’t so subtle.
yet we beseech
an open heart
kept, as if
this tenderness
was automatic,
like waking up.

and don’t fuck around
with it. love
is such a selfish
immolation. cute
sideways murder,
so studied, pondered,
pandered to the petty
bourgeois masses.
nobody remembers
anything anymore.

just the last dead lover.
or mind-authority parentage.

ain’t it true?
that love is an evil word?
backwards, in a word,
evol?
love can be inside
out, like
ripping out your guts to see
history’s gas chamber. you
and that self, if only
because you can.

fantasies disturb
deep waters. therein
lies fear, reflective.
evil twin love.
a double-edged sword
seeks blood.
we give willingly.

rote night

it is at night
this is ritual. when we
invent some word
of mixed company. we
find some way past
time. inching closer
to fantasy. to
discover flesh
like the first time.
trying to enter the temple,
we need to talk to god.
this is the way and we
cannot let go.
even with sweat or tears.
and sometimes blood
or other parts
of a protein ocean.
this is the only time we
talk to each other.
to god?
we end in sleep.