The city is shut, sparing its prey until tomorrow. Night rules, dreams creep down the street, eyes dead
Her poised being is the center of universe, that girl
She is loath to beg yet for the twenty fourth time of the night she sings out, God?
It’s two in the morning and they are sitting at the balcony, God and her, both holding a cigarette
Mother and father are in screaming colors but she is, only, the darkest blue
Two of them are contradiction, a vexing rendezvous but they yearn for each other so once in a while they talk

People talk
A boy across the house is found dead
Parents roaring, raging, crashing the ground, he’s wearing a pair of new basketball shoes. Blue.
He is one of million, a delicate kind, very comely, a subtle presence. Neighbors murmur maybe God
fell in love, maybe God enraptured by the boy. But God is peeking behind the closed door with the girl
Between their fingers still a burning cigarette

Maybe it’s the taste of Marlboro Red, the girl
wishing an epiphany, a revelation, for its been too long, the girl and God
writing each other’s eulogy. The girl has been dead for God and God has been dead
for the girl, ruptured for a very long time, there’s no way back. No long talk
can fix the burn of cigarette,
the eternal crippling affliction taped up in every cavity inside the holy temple of their body

A lady in the house with doors and windows painted blue
is murdered. She was having a dalliance and neighbors talk
behind their open bible. God cringes, God recoils, her god is a beige-tied, cigarette
scented with hair slicked back. She was in his thrall, calls her name in a mesmerizingly fetching way making her girl
again, an ingénue with a pair of chatoyant eyes. Bodies clashing, her muse, they fuse, he choose to ruse, dead,
God is amused, time is lapsed, but perhaps she was not divine. A lady in someone’s car trunk, murdered, dear God!

Inhaling. Conflating. Cigarette
smoke all over the veins. A bright blue
car parked across the street. A week since the boy died. A week since the lady went missing. People talk
about somewhere this week another dead
body is going to be found. Maybe in the park under the slide or on a high school bleacher, like the girl found God
under her bed. The first encounter of God and the girl.

God
and the girl run out of cigarette
counting the days God and the girl
Next time won’t be cigarette and balcony. God and the girl next time at a bar with blue
sign where sinners and saints sipping absinthe because God won’t talk
to anyone but the girl. God and the girl sipping absinthe because the city is shut. Eyes dead.

Orange Loom you leave again,
conflating royal blue and red,
calm and warm like an old friend,
but you were grey once.
Your yellow lilt is surely just a show;
an ephemeral, vestigial truth.

Is that you, brooding on the horizon,
pausing for your latest audience?
Your powerful symphony flirts
with your stagnant players;
a panoply of mountains
-expounding their own soliloquies-
and trees as straw-roofed bungalows.
The ocean floods your eloquence,
like an impending harbinger speech.

Your tame light evokes an urge,
something Great, magnificent and pure,
but you will return in time again.
Some will wait but all will learn;
your author's notes, or are they burned?

Listlessly
Hope?
Hairy
A hippopotamus slain
Leeward shores
Drifting days
A cup that can't be raised

Hours and hours of counting your flowers
Etch
And pray for pain
Toga way
A he I say
And swirl down the drain

Memories-emotions
Nothing never gone
Conflating with hating
Regurgitating
Til all of it is gone

I am a wanderluster. My cells are incapable of remaining intact. Every single atom in me is constantly roaming the uni-verse and conflating with all its beauty, constantly becoming it, and constantly providing it with the chance to become through myself.

I am not carefree. I am not balanced. I feel intensely, and I like it.
I am. And my beingness is a gravitational field, pulling the everythingness of everything into me.

Two thoughts come to mind this morning. The deficiencies in
      our systems of governance -
local, global -
and the first two pages of The End of Faith in which he
      mistakes political (acts of war) for
religious acts,
but recognizes understanding the workings of the world is not
      the same as knowing
the unknowable.

Every new twinge provokes fear but what is there to fear?
      That one won't
live forever?
The year of a man is the day of an inchworm and 267 years
      on a reverse-
rotating Venus.
A billion of anything is a lot unless it's the distance one must
      traverse to look
at God.

How much silence, or tinnitus, can you handle? A chipmunk
      cannot for long
stand still.
Once the twinge passes I'm off to the next task: building a
      constituency for this compassion,
that solution.
The dialogue starts with a question. To know the question is
      almost certainly to find
an answer.

Conflating questions is the commonest of logic errors. No
      negotiation unless the
violence ends.
Why not talk while we fight? We can always ****, torture or
      assassinate
between conversations.
Justice, or retribution if you want, can remain on the table
      even after we
achieve understanding.

Nature is my religion, I know no other, and community is my
      church.
The sacrament
is policy debate. I attend church everyday. Our jobs are
      hymns (the classifieds
a hymnal)
and payment for services rendered is sung praise and
      gratitude. Walking and talking
is prayer.

Strategies to limit or subvert discussion are the only evil.
      Violence
is one
but not by far the only one. What's the hurry to build a
      highway or free
a people?
The secret of life is enjoying the passage of time and time is
      the mercy
of eternity.

The Sun may see first, but he cannot prevent
the future—only peer into its effects
before the rest.
                           Delphi first knows the future,
but has no agency to affect events
yet to ensue—only dictate before
who inquire, and carry will or power
to be agents.
                       The Sea acts ahead, without
discretion—lusting after greatness, conflating
greatness and adoration with infamy.

In dreams, I’m where the music plays.
I’m listening to the laughter, like it’s in another room.
My drink is dark, bitter and oaky tasting
and the peanuts taste like soap.
There aren’t any napkins.
Others are lines of light and shadow.
I feel an anxiety that I gnaw on,
like a dog works a bone.
My dream’s conflating memories.
Suddenly Lisa’s there,
she comes up from behind,
“Aww, your tag is sticking out,” she says
but before she can fix it,
I hear tower bells ringing.
It’s my alarm.

Beauty hides from itself
seeking shelter from the doubts
even as the world attests
splendor stated in the flesh
goddess walking in plain sight
this glory is granted to the few
is bequeathed without regard
to acknowledgment repaid in turn

a waking dream of loveliness
enough to launch a thousand ships
disregarded by the one
directing fantasies of the heart
sham daydreams evoked by curves
lines conflating with desires
suppleness leads the urge
to recognize comeliness

ruby lips deny the claim
to the body that puts to shame
the vast majority of their kind
only fair in contrast
this belle exclaimed by the crowd
I’ll lend my voice to the cry
the reluctant may forget
perhaps they’ll recall through this poem.

© 2018. Sean Green. All Rights Reserved. 20180916.

the setting sun gilds wave-crests on the Bay
a regal foot-path into the far West
a fleeting vision at the close of day
of Phaeton putting his horse-team to rest
imagination treads where feet can't go
in liminal states verging on our dreams
conflating what's above with life below
what's tangible with what--at most--just seems
before us, in its glory sprawls the night
ere rosy-fingered Dawn lights up the East
where touch and sound must take the place of sight
until two backs conjoin to form one beast
each moment, possibilities abound
if we'd but lift our eyes above the ground

a capped lens' burst mode--in

Parisian catacombs.

Beksinski's monolithic chiseling

with the feather of Maat.

airbrushed putrefaction, whose

spray recondenses fog--to harden the

elevation of stripped faces.

medieval hillsides of conflating greenery,

cryptified human stage work to avoid being

burned at the stake.

the rattle tattle of bones banging away on a

silent bell.

ensuring the lip of its upside down cup can recoat

further wanderings--or leave be.

At the collision of day and night,
When twilight torches the sleepy sky,
Dying sunlight reclines over the horizon,
And demure darkness
Daintily descends,
She waits.

During evenings like these,
She journeys to the beach
And surveys the sea,
Eloping with the elements,
Exposing her skin and soul
To wandering winds.

As she stands there,
Vulnerable and pristine,
The tide tickles her toes
And she giggles at the call of
Whispering waves.
The fading sunlight flickers goodnight,
Dancing on the sea surface.
And then she remembers.

She is living for a memory;
Dying to fulfill a dream.

At night’s true nativity,
A latent force harvests
Emotions from within.
She extends her arms and
Alacrity overtakes her
In the form of a smile.
A tempest rushes through her,
Pitching her very being from within,
And conflating her spirit with the sea.
Together with the endearing waters,
She is complete;
She is free.

For those who chose to throw out reason
here in this most bazaar of times and season
who now fear glancing into the rear view mirror
let me just say "YES" if you wonder its getting nearer

Funny is it not how blind we can be to what lay ahead
that can and often will fill our dream with that dread
that may cause a momentary sense of discomfort
upon wakening and fading before we get a chance to sort

What was or wasn't that little shake of head we make
to allow a reset from that data moving quick to opaque
even though moving on puts reality into front and center
that data was downloaded waiting for when you hit enter

Seldom if ever will it endeavor to open as a full screen view
awaiting a chance for conflating as - THE SPY WITH A CLUE
slipping in now and then to drop off another subliminal hint
as to if and why ,where or when we allowed a place we went

That was just a tangent a separate thought of a pervious  mind
a footpath off the path we blazed an adventure for what we find
that will sometimes have a cost ...the toll for getting lost ...is fear
so when we start again often so impervious to what may appear

no longer who it was that blazed a new path into the unknown
consciously unconscious to tangent paths staying where shown
Content? to follow a map someone drew that is way ahead of you
are you so frightened that unenlightened means ignoring the view

That then becomes the difference between living life that's defined
and freedom that is achieved on a roadtrip.. through an open mind
because life is a journey and no map can ever really be your guide
unless you end when and where that map maker did... No I decide

and if you still fear to glance in that mirror and see its gaining on you
that fuse lit the day your'e born won't gain an inch by anything you do
so defined destination headlong rush or meandering along your way
there is no cost to getting lost ..no toll to pay it's a roadtrip dude .....until your dying day

so why not sit back and enjoy the ride ? YOUR'E NOT DRIVING !

The clock ticks slower
than the thousand waves crushing
your shadow, lilting your echo.
And i slumber alive inside the grave
you built, beneath my beautiful.

Then your stars start falling,
like sweet tears from the cloud
with winds you whisper,
they smile aloud.
They dream, of your fate,
and my fate, conflating,
creating their own bewildering dawn.
Their own glamour
Their own secret.

Shell-cased in soft power
Arms races
Like Carter
I break it down harder
Than kami wind martyrs
With ardor of green cards
Discarded
In red
Apartheids
On the rise
To Partition again
The expendable lives
Buying lies as they trend
From the ones who pretend
Like they too
Don’t depend
On the never-ending
Yellow journalist’s
Pen
Telling them
It means war’s
‘Round the corner
Drug store
Selling them
Echo chambers
Of peace and secure
Insecurities
Dangers and angers
And more
Of the brink
Of extinction
Addiction
In sync with
The small fortune,
Scorching-earth
Failed-marriage trinket
Don’t blink
Or it’s on
To the next
Recrudescence
Perplexed
By how many world hungers
To solve
Could be left
Since the right
In its free-trading slave
Not-so hidden agenda
Still plots its crop
Stockpile
Encomienda
As super-tiendas
Wal off reservation
With always low prices
Conflating inflation
Displacing the plantation
Haitian
Still shaken
By ground-breaking
New innovation
Starvation
And scarce information
Pertaining
Distorted
Contorted, deformed
Or just goes unreported
For more entertaining
Brain-draining discordant
Conformists in torrents
Stream only the terrorized-truth
Water-boarded
Reform is aborted
The right to choose
Thwarted
The norm is a misleading,
News-feeding
Horde
I abhor
As I’ve poured it out,
Sorted out
This horrid, sordid crowd
Doubting that anything reel
Is revealed
To be real
Or just part of some heartless king’s
Artifice
Art of the Deal

We try to sound
Profound
As we
Expatiate
Not meaning to
Pontificate
Philosophies
We contemplate
More often end up
Platitudes
Convictions we assert
Assured
Of righteousness
And rectitude  
Conflating faith with certitude
In provenances
We conclude
Consensus from the misconceptions
Answers to subsume
The questions
Even if the faintest doubt
Still lingers on each word
Of mouth
And furtively betrays
Ideals
As easily
As Death reveals
Itself to all of those in time
Who claimed in life
Divine design
More absolute than its unmaking
Predicating
Their awaiting
Finitely
To resurrection
On hypotheses
Of heaven
Fallible
Incredible
Intangible
Untenable
But nonetheless
Congenital
Is man in all his arrogance’s
Gods upon a pedestal

Mixing the signals
Conflating attraction
With courtesy’s
Chemical
Overreaction
Unwanted attention,
Unflattering flex,
The presumptuous
Ego-dystonic
Wants ***
Nothing less,
Nothing more
Than to finish before
Recollections
Of dignity
Up off the floor
Or reflections
On mirrors
Preparing to split
Personalities
Rift,
We’re just not
Intuit

There you, go, though. That's elitism. Not everyone has the means to a healthy body. Poverty, illness, heredity -- these all have an affect on someone's access to health.

By saying, I find unhealthy bodies less attractive, I feel like you're doing yourself and your peers a disservice by severely limiting your empathetic capacities.

I'm poor. I'm a patient in the mental health system. And I inherited lupus and heart disease from my grandma's blood. I know there must be other artists out there who come from similar backgrounds.

Unhealthy backgrounds.

I didn't auto generate the right lottery numbers to have been blessed with a healthy body. I can keep myself in any particular shape I choose by dedicating my efforts -- and that's a luxury in itself -- but I'll never have a healthy body.

Now, if you're conflating the word Unhealthy with the word Fat, though, I don't know if I can help. They're two entirely different things. If you mean you don't like fat bodies, then you're free to say, I don't like fat bodies.

Though, if that's the case, that's a lot of materialistic negativity trickling down privilege mountain. A person's wit can make their body attractive. A person's charisma, intelligence, sense of humor, zest for life, confidence, courage, empathy, faith, dedication, loyalty, strength, self love can make their body attractive.

If you think unhealthy people are unattractive, your mind is small, and your heart is drained.

If you think fat people are unattractive, your eyes are cloudy, fogged by social conditioning.

Either way, I feel like your opinions make you an entitled ***. But that's the beauty of the freedom of speech. Maybe you feel the same way about me!

Rivulet
      
       ripples

              mellifluously

       surreptitiously

lilt
            conflating

         into

a
demure
lagoon

Conflating thunderous intentions
Give rise to the lies
A passion play for the undoing
Escapades termerity

Ruined cities
Shuttered windows strike again
Lonely recess
There is time for heroes still

Don't fall for it!
The needy were never abandoned.
Or, "God is good"
Reckless faith got me here
An abomination
Conflating two different realities
Crafting an argument as if they were synonyms and yet,

There is something to that.
Some impossibility, deep down beneath everything
That drives not just Satan but God himself into wrath
And perhaps
Both are capable of both
And mercy says unto herself,
"Oh, get a room!"
And dies, resting on her inverted pedestal,
Blessed be her name.