bittersweet is the sun on burning leaves
and what's real is the intensity of a paradox's flavor
lavish in its confusion galore
perhaps women will come to love a villainous hero
yet mediocrity seems always to prevail
some things are beautiful sometimes
the cores of syrupy peaches and milk of cacti
shrill screams of a clustered street and wet earth
smoke eyes and drunk hued lights
and sometimes i find fondness for these eyes
those that burn harsh under soft gazes
and the bags of my eyes are heavier with sweet hurt
i indulge on occasion
it's beautiful, the solace of one's own follies
these blind eyes, they fool me
when whites are too bright for the vision of falling colors
and when the spectrum is tilted toward the depraved
herbal destinies — xxxvi
YOU ARE READING
These Fruits of Boyhood
PoetryA man's fight with the gods always ends in bloodshed. Thus a man's fight with himself always ends in despair. something of a contemplation poetry, perhaps *unedited
