Outdated soul
clinging onto its dissipating fancies.
The act of sounds in its embrace
shriek down-along creaky
passageways of the self.
Sullen, barren, one light
ushering the pilot through
murky alleys he pines to inspect.
The site was mute,
damp concrete elevated every step
****** functions heard,
and thoughts were the last companion,
combating meaning that never arrived.
The sum of a loving soul,
unabashedly forgiving its fancies
for coming up short with impetus,
left the pilot in a state of disarray,
and confusion.
Predictions of panic began to appear,
breathed at speeds that dried up the ground.
Protrusion remains until that embrace is severed.
The fading halo of the pilot
is for him to comprehend
and continuously search for its origin.
Its beginnings were fair and joyful;
honest and of pure intention.

And the good ones

let out a “You know what who said.”
Out comes a remark
so flattering and introspective
an intellectual is born,
and placed into anothers head,
well, I don’t know what anyone said.

The words that you read
were born from a wrist,
and aching thoughts
come out as selfish.

Against a speedy yield,
what notions slip away?
The sting to find appeal
confuses me today.

What is the point
in trying so hard,
and doing the work?
With time comes the art.

How do I fit
if I take more time?
And time has no price—
but I do have mine.

Has my passion gone sour,
or has it been sour?
Either way it’s put,
I remain a doubter.

Weaving a feeling
with letters together
is no longer special—
with plenty pretenders.

What is the point
in saying my piece?
If submitting to schemes
dissolves my beliefs.

How do I fit
in ages of code?
Where all that is honed
is now being cloned.

I dip and sway through pensive rest.
Questions seeking questions.
After, questions come to question,

invoke a sense of quest along
******, fertile valleys.
Eve not tempted, Abel slain not.

A form takes shape—remarks on shorn
paths unmade. Yet, dust feigns,
posing outcomes chained to bloodstains,

and trapped disdain that I am here.
Lown morn can’t be—ferals
tailored ferals future solid,

and ducking had no real weight.
Whether crafted broken,
or molded careless over haven,

persist, endure, we tell ourselves.
From our limits given,
We’ll get nothing truly certain.

Diagonal blinds,
sun aims for the bench,
not me.
Margins offer sight,
dwelling on Bourgainvilleas.
Their periodic nature of willfulness
refuses a clean-up.
I stack my one pass through
against its one of tons—
its lines’ continuum,
grants it surprise to everyone.
I can get jolted
from what’s to come,
and boredom can come,
and fortune can come,
and wisdom can come,
with prisms that numb—
and that’ll be it,
done and done.

Cattle in pasture
show me my end.
Here, a breeze
with natural sounds
of atoms’ creation.
I am them,
and they are me.
Not enough to know
the fee of living.
The day prior, a liar
granted me some knowledge:
“Master deceiver, I am.
My hugs prevail
through your day.
But I can’t say
I feel the same.
I have borne dramas,
eye to eye—innocuous.
I dawdle while thinking;
you can’t see the obvious.”
Cattle in pasture
don’t have an answer.
Loss from a dagger
staggered the matter.

Caution must take precedence
When thine ears of man
Hearken unto pleasantries—
Too scant, or overmuch,
Consuming thyself.