I
get alone those signs. I ink a feeling. I abort something dramatic. / Elbows to
tables. A toe tapping gently. At an intimate screen. / This familiar cousin.
This internal ligament. This loud, intrusive gardener. / Our spouses vigil. But
nary a sound. While works become resonant. / Silent captives. So little to find
us. But never quite searching. / Our baggage longing. Our smiles reluctant.
While needing this memoir. / As driven machines. As steel flowers. Our bronzed
pencils. / Aching in senses. Giggling while watchful. Abandoned to illness. /
Those literate emotions. Those illiterate feelings. Accustom to rereading
alone. / Thinking deeper. Desiring a mentor. Some outstanding luxury. / Our
manuscripts. Our laughter. Our dishonesties. / Roaming doorposts. Unnailing our
pride. Refilmed and tired. / Such concentration. Pushing our pencil. While
feeling quirky. / Those intimate galleries. Those arrays bleeding. Our
demanding ink-wiles. / Floating inwardly. Wondering about our audience. And
needing felt redemption.
Unexcepted
in you. Unfelt in others. But I esteem you. / Such mailed motion. Such mystic
postmarks. Our grassy language. / Pulled by day-fire. Leaning into realism. But
anchored to abstracts. / Such reeling skies. Such innate voltage. If but this
element. / As re-magnetized. By unwritten laws. To need unforgiving oceans. /
Our nights snoring. Our nearest dream. Sudden into that land. / Those capsized
aches. This otherworld murmur. Our brushing song. / Painting abrasively.
Needing wilderness. And chased by waterheads.
I
get alone those signs. I imagine you. As if celebration means joy.
So
ambushed. Designing clouds. Looking for sky-hands. / Our forks reneging. Our
souls reneging. Our minds taking lead. / A bit distressed. Raking leaves.
Shoveling potholes. / A frequent thought. Seeming but fantasy. While
distinctive to muse. / Too analytical. Too into lights. Where most just need
laughter. / Somewhere a lost space. Somewhere tugged admittedly. While dying
our signposts. / Our decorative minds. Those elitists feelings. Where no one
measures. / Too long chancing. A few scars chasing. Our defenses knitting ethos.
I
felt it compelling. To amend truth; for deeply distraught. / This language we
use. Our dismissive ways. While we repeat deaths. / Our reasons for mischief.
Our days at Legos. Where signatures are erased. / As never a thought. Just
searching forests. Sweeping a faceless land.
I
felt it demanding. This crush on mind-caves. But reality was raw. / Our alert
moments. Needing total abandon. But reluctant to fly. / Others as lost. But our
coherent love. While giving our analytic passion. / Not a problem! Not an
issue! But expect replies to feelings.
I
get alone those signs. Looking at something blatant. Surprised it means so
little. / Reliving anxieties. Locating different realities. While dealing in
identical behaviors. / Searching for pride. Inching into disgusts. While keying
into indifference. / This life constructing us. Our apathetic angers. While
unusual appears normal. / Evidently so! Losing parts. While a person distorts
our expectations. / As not for deepness—but clarity—We own the pain they give.
Nevertheless,
such cadence. Leaping into our privacies. Felt by our invisibilities. / Giving
our luxuries. If but one diary. If but one existence!
