We have
chambers, interior offices, and there’s a table. We have chairs, and papers,
and pencils. This chamber of documents, this electrical carpet, and those vigil
computers. We hire aids, to clean our chambers, we talk, answer questions, and
deal with shifts in personality. We mourn ghosts, attentive to moody, even
responding to moods—unaware of whom we have hired. Those watching antennas,
those responsive to anger, while needing hostility. This comfort food, while
plants listen, and art is spying. If but one sentient voice, if but such
drifting kindness, while we favor certain zones. This behavioral knitting, our
hands unaware of textiles, our deduction making excuses for rusty mirrors. Occasioned
to rhythm, dissolved in patterns, something determined for one to relive it. It
may simmer, it may percolate, or it may push firmer. This inner compass, renegotiating
its labyrinth, reminded that this is considered normal. Our underground activities,
our dislodged assessments, where it pays to say something appeasing. But hell
was raw, life was ornaments, and caregivers were something under suspicion. This
room with whistles, this familiar distrust, while one is seated in total anonymity.
Those boxes chatter, chaff is winded, onlookers aren’t considering a sudden
outburst. It’s just uncured. It should never happen. And it’s a sign of
something hostile. But wood was violent, steel was vicious, while humanness
never spoke clearly. This tug can’t speak, but there’s a second response, damn
if it took years to explode. This systematic scratching. This blatant
indifference. Or everything he writes—we must reenact something. This river
smoldering, or this defensive transference, while it was never this wall. Our cords
tangled, those elders preaching, this consumed feeling; as told one person,
this probing truth—You can dictate how we respond to your behavior!
There’s
a room here, an outside bench, plus, an absent clock. There’s emotion in there,
a flaming torch, plus, father’s baton. There’s a grandmother, there’s a sullen
mother, and there’s a son or daughter. The eldest one! Those redeeming characteristics.
Or that deeper silence. While doors open and shut, while ceilings reach
pillars, while we crawl for happiness. It becomes passage, this stencil and
chalk, if but this power over one’s control. This high-rising fire, this in-depth
nonchalance, or this battle to remain unspoken: this interior rain, this thrust
into something endless, where one fights over this or that; indeed, we fight
here, we fight there, and we are always fighting. It never resolves itself,
while one is going through pains, where one opts for silent aggression. This
need for agitation, this aid’s grudge, while protected by upper-echelon.
…or
something quite dangerous, this need for this aid, where one can’t opt out;
this change in colors, this deep suggestion, while angered concerning mutual
analyses; or reliving something, aware of responses, while feeling treated like
childhood myrtle; or needing more, this sore spot, sensing one has so much to
give; this inner office, this fount for water, or those irritating cubicles;
this tug thing, that beneath rug metaphor, or this alarming trickle of
sunlight; asked a question, sensing an answer, where one remains in silence;
those cameras flickering, this pillow tossing, those sudden responses to this
room; at practice for years, wondering about this fight, either tacit or overt—but
the cave must fight….
