Adam's Garden

indeed we ask ourselves the questions posed in lighter segments, containing air and fruitful endeavors.  i am not the bastion of support nor the enlightened jew that men believe make airs of poets and poets of the rocks that ordain such turf.

i am not the savior nor the whimsical flower petal, always inviting momentary admiration, lifting away too far without touching hands.

here amongst my friends i am kept alive and sane.  the burgeoning freedom of my age being the quiet lightning of my surge towards the surface of myself.

i can indulge the fancies and dapper holograms that surround such parts, but the ties and shoes that ordain the traders of the street are a made from the tender hands and mercies of myself.  i make your shoes and sell the shoestring to you smiling, knowing that i have killed again.

just as i wrote the longer version of myself into the grains that bound our hearts together for those minutes and years, i was endearing to your father and not quite letting go of myself, i could only hope for your tears and the anguish of happening and delight.

i was overwhelmed with the indecision of passion and letting fire flame flame i was given to the moments of tranquility where i was begotten and forgotten by the lesser endeavors i was given to pursue.

Each hour we sit aside the poem leaving us breathing and sipping ourselves, keeping our memories and needs alone and pouting, I am not you anymore I say I am not you

undeterred and left abiding to his own tears, his faces were obscured and shallow, while his own vague entirety was shifting towards a sun he could not see or feel or wait to endure.

he was sitting near the window, waiting, enduring the casualties of his own terror.  a pause and a triumphant calling to the nearsighted words he caroled down the mountain, lifting his spirit higher and higher, winding his face up and spitting anguish to the skies that dismay his armpits.

Made bigger in fear the light man in his ways can only seek himself, killing away sensible love and cowardly greed in the windy mecca of the mass

spitting fire is often the only coherent response to myself.  the caught and measured winds i engage are in fact reminiscent of the bordellos i found so appealing in the later days of my youths.  i could speak frivolously without encounter and with the dead winds i speak the kindest, not quite sure of my own beige antiquity, i could only beg forgiveness and write solemn notes defending my right to exist.

later on that night, i was given a chance not given to most and not quite the same as what i read entirely not too long ago.  i shot the player in the face and ran away giving myself just enough time to leave a paper trail ten miles long.  we all did.

i could only guess as to who or what or when i was needed, but needed i was and i could only figure my own benefits to be necessary and true.  i was light on my feet and scared of the pretense of my own ages.  i could kiss the lightest skins and baked the cured meats, but i was indeed left to my self.  and we spoke often.

often in the roads we travel and the dungeons we hold closely to the faces of our friends and actual victims we chase down roads not lost to the locals, we forget so quietly that we all hate the world and the hatred we have towards the occupational hazards of nostalgia and contempt bake our minds in the warm glow of escapism.  those providing the escape laugh loudly and obscenely, often endearingly, and often under harsh glare of the scrutinizing and yes, hateful, masses.

the kitten bakes goods and we all focus on the objects we found later but could not see clearly.  i spoke too soon and the windows shook breaking the focus of the lens behind my ears.  i cannot bear the thought of such misbegotten fantasy, but alas, discovered and remarked upon beyond doors closed by night, i am only here with gratitude.

here and out there, the liars and banqueting towards me.  their backs are shiny and real, i can sense their dismay at my shoulders.  i am not who they say i am i say.  i say that i am a man and nothing more.  that my world is big like yours and yours is big like mine and that is all.  take your gods and whatevers and shove them up your butt my friend.  do it now.  do it now.

earthed and written about, the liars in their dens are kept watchful in the my eyes.  i cannot speak clearly about my own vanishing lights, just the thoughts and feelings associated with members of my eyes and my lightning can sing the earlier birds.  i am not the one who ran away, nor the liar that killed me insightfully.  i am so inclined out of virtue and not spite, but still enjoying the life that built houses i am known for.