…those
chains rattle,
they clangor, a man running into dungeons: those thin escapes, as we must
return, and, notwithstanding, something is impaired: so much in absence,
thrilled to flee, so crowded, and captured by those reflections: carpet
reminders, mirror symposiums, at symphonies for addicts: so somber at times,
leveled at mediocre, where too much excitement becomes nervous exhilaration:
but days are moving, where love is present, while one feels anxious:
I wonder about
normality, if it exists, and what it feels like: if it’s an absence of sadness,
if not, how much—where happiness is a chief principle: internal rides, outward
behaviors, plus, sheer joy: while most are indifferent, an offshoot of
melancholy, where most are pessimistic….
I
fiddle a memoir, I
reread passages, I ponder and reappear: I look at dressers, I wander gaps, at
some type of emotion: I perk up in public, but not of my doing, for something
operates a bit at stealth: I re-dress a feeling, I think far too much, while an
old friend said it’s impossible: but life has goodness, through this yearly
maze, where past behavior becomes internal vehicles: this chase for perfection,
while one is watching, and accustomed to repeating, I know of you: so much this passage, and too far that passage,
while one strengthens resilience: looking at persons, stalking my sensations,
or alone a living room speaking internally: so many choices, so much left
unshared, while we need interesting souls.
…we
chastise inhibition,
while becoming useable, where good times appear mechanic: we flee through
boredom, occupied by fancies, or close to one’s soul: we do this or that; we
resume our states, while something permanent seems to linger: this internal
apex, this conscious seriousness, where we build habits to occupy presence: a
good book, an imaginative journey, while stitching something that appears
changeable: our years at life, our months in college, at certain familiarities:
those trips to museums, those dining nights, or this wrestle with gaining
weight: so much in souls, so dearly complex, while disappointed that such and
such didn’t figure us out….
We’re
clean cut, at
least in this instance, avoiding certain habits: those islands we travel, this
wild behavior, where we return to this first space: while age is creeping,
aches are near, our memberships are up for renewal: those cosmetic surgeries,
this forced insistence, while strangers are ignored but we need their
admiration: our meals with juice, our minds with music, or this thin layer
which generates lusts: this human sodium, those human gravies, at thoughts generating
actions: to cross paths, to laugh and giggle, to sing silently: at thrust’d
hearts, at a need for longevity, so close, so fashioned, so again!
…some
souls stitch magic,
they feel balanced, while presence pushes its agenda: they sing opera, they
purchase art, they support charities: they buy vegetables, they raise kids,
they work a good job: so endearing at times, so deep in thought, where trumpets
are shared: they dine in dialogue, they further education, they laugh and take
courage and tackle disapproved behaviors: they make love, they become risqué,
indeed, they function at high capacity: just a piece for me, just a dance for
me, while Love is quite receptive: this line in men, this reversed feeling,
this slogan, this song, this salvation: so revved to feel, attempting through
artificial channels, while such have lost excitement: this thing in normality,
while ever a giant, where certain behaviors become censored….
I’ve
said little, while
touching something pivotal, in essence, this wrestling presence: this seated index,
this casual filmmaker, those internal movies: to need completion, while
overriding insecurities, where a mere glance doesn’t churn our intestines: our
desire for music, our needs for magic, while we require internal intimacy: our
journalist’s eyes, our compassion for children, our requirements for newness: in
such a distant world, this intimate world, while wrestling particular
receptors: as masculine/feminine plants, requiring fertilization, plus, those
few dispositions needing water: our affectionate selves, our working selves,
plus, our relaxers.
