It
lingers in me those occurrences whether or not I approve; those most indelicate
scars those familial raiding(s) or years kicking at something behind me; this
fosse I dug this mud I slide whether or not I approve; it becomes resistance if
but to forego something too crucial to ignite; this wrestling image this aggressive
passiveness or those tags appearing in rearview(s); such youth becoming aged or
tires losing traction while I ponder whether or not this horizon.
I’ve
been honest with me threshed by me and arguably the best of me; this old flagon
those sunlit battles whether or not I approve; those years in this box, this
comfortable immobile box, while sneaking a gander at society; arranged to
persist or arranged to die where others seem quite relaxed.
I
met myself to distrust myself and this is the journey of my days; at
overstimulation, some sort of compensation, wither those blades and clumps of
beige grass; this man with invisibility those wall clocks requiring batteries
where most things are designed for the host; our kilns rusted our rain acidic
while a little ballerina dances with deep anguish; this stage I’ve built or
those I refuse while most have become pictures in heaven; our raging minds our
temperate behaviors whether or not we approve; so graven with seeing so quick
to sense it while still something shutters; at but a glance to decode an agenda
insomuch so close the other becomes disgusted; it becomes this literature pain,
this trenchant contempt, while never, not once, a gander at that reflexive
person; to die in you or to sing through you or one so indebted the bells rage in you; such dusky passion or purgatorial passion so neat so tatted and such an
anomaly; this ambience in pink those fluorescents in ambrosia or something too
appealing to neatly become my bones; such cyclonic lights such color and space
where beauty seems to strike a death wish.
I
never speak to you while needing to rant at you but something in us is quite
sensitive; it is this insistent game as described by Derrida whether or not we
desire to participate; it is frustration and anguish greed and anxiety—into wells
of fury and decades of accumulation plus some primordial ink; a tad bit
disheartened while another is more game where this becomes existence; and so
astonished to meet you this life altered and our rain settling; as a group of
runaways, fleeing into nightfall, unknitted and still fabric whether or not we
participate; to meet those people to find fault with their styles while no one
is cognizant of this big ass stumbling block.
It's
a bit dark those signs or age that’s ripe where sentiments and standards of
existence have settled in; our default behaviors that comfortable us while most
are as ancient women—our best behaviors; the smaller fork those courteous bows
our polite deliberate communication; or gunning fast and rebelling against
everything so torn so exhausted and crashing upon pillows; those watered eyes
those baggy pouches or that nasally deep throated tone; so involved in
something eschewed whether or not we approve; it comes to this, a person
sensing peace, while deeply at war with this ceiling mirror; to turn tables to
relocate churches while rules are very important; such serious strata, our
souls but unheard remedies, at something seemingly impossible; our hearts
vibrating, our tumult flowering, whether or not we approve.
