I
take to needing one and needing soul and cornered by antipathy and silence. This
wealth in those screams those eyes wailing this world so distinctly
indifferent; our edited homes our edited lives and so edited we lose ourselves;
as feeling creatures living our amnesia or needing our anesthetic in a space
that ignores time. I take to needing you this beauty but reality while we say it
so often. Our battle cries our deep wells where so much bubbles up suddenly. I live
by resistance a man entering his valley to find an ocean amid our deserts;
these finches giggling this tiger listening our souls sniffing and laughing. I don’t
find complaints often but time is traveling and she has interrogated the author’s
soul. This thing I shall omit this island I shall leave or this voyage those
new eyes; as tragic excuses claim tragic lives this picture fades into memory;
our chaff skies our feathered exospheres or our tentative stars; to die in
instances needing something desired where existence needs its comforts; this
development over decades this truth in souls where reproduction means commitment:
Look
at how I perform for you
Look
at how you perform for me
An
eye for an eye
is
how you and I
take
on forms in the mind (Eye Level p. 49)
We
feral wilderness and we grow wildly where even wildness is weary.
But
days are this void and this space and this editing; to retype our inheritance or
to untype our angers while some things remain unsaid: our exponential lies or
our deeper secrets while sharing has become quite natural; where winds are gurgling
and nights escape us while wells need excavation—those outstanding vignettes or
so perfect every page this river so precious.
I
thought about passion and I chuckled a bit insomuch as we never understand what
intrigues us. Some would argue, for they know with deliberateness, and it is
this same attraction at every step. But days are berries and Love is
delightful, insofar as others have something they die for.
I
am everything we dislike and I am nothing we dislike and later today our minds go
blank. I am both highness and this lowness, this wet and dry seaweed, or this unmiserable
pained soul.
In
order to stop resisting, I must not attempt to stop resisting (p. 66).
If
I am to stop believing in everything, I will soon go mad for existence is innate
belief. A bit influenced a bit uncultivated a bit needing something too
sophisticated for our taste. Those ways that intoxicate where a man only
desires more of you and so crazed those seconds room to room. You have become
open space and you have become something closed off: I will never kiss those
eyes and I will never laugh over your navel and I will die needing what I have
never heard.
