What
curse is this those worms and maggots and yet you live? A man so equipped with
life but a man so unequipped with life to die and give while demanded for more;
those eggs and grits those toasts with cinnamon while bacon sizzles politely;
our deep argument in a given instance to awaken to unusual kindness; our
nonchalant insanity our regimen for dysfunction our battle to maintain such
innocence; as defeated creatures or managing creatures so equipped to undress
silence; pulling for affection and needing mawkishness if but to enter wisely;
so upfront with requirements to extract something loving by pure positive and
negative behaviors; a man seeing this while repulsed and uneasy where it lives
in most circles; those days with unfulfilled dreams while a man becomes
unsettled where one suggests he is nonresponsive; but butterflies are wonderful
and lemurs are marvelous where in recesses a man is groaning. Those deep moans
evident in countenance where we notice something is askew; where language
doesn’t match and sweet swords seem apparent or something seems to be hiding. What
curse is this where life is rhythms and patterns appear ubiquitous while
face-value becomes overly skeptic? Those loud ashes to meet in screams as banshees
giggle hysterically; or speaking with one quite skilled and unsteady where
chaos seems to appeal to her temperament; where a plan is in place and ladybugs
are upon winds while a gust of memories pursue mirrors—this kind dejection this
lamp on high where something is feeling normal—this chase and running this harp
and flute while a man might be hurting his being; to reject something
neat to reflect something at battle or to live in isolation; this need to
unglue survival this insistence to participate while one sees something where
that person notices recognition; or this eerie feeling as two evaluate where
uneasiness makes one dislike the situation. It was autumn of 1981 the sun was
eclipsed but radiant madness was in our home. Mother was sullen beneath a quilt
and agonizing over lost memory where something unlucky took place. The
television stood witness upon a door-knock, a friend with candy: Let her in,
lock the screen, and make something to eat. Minutes passed to welcome a new
creature insisting upon our stage of normality. Here’s a few bucks, run and
by a kite, and then stay where I can see you. Indeed, such traffic such
renowned happenstance or such spirits laughing over liquor. That silent look I
see it often where one realizes a question is brewing: Do you love me and
why, because you act so distant? This distance essence is a killer; but
this is its result; when feelings and emotions are overloaded. Such froth and
frost, such fraught kilns, such knitted patterns. But a child says words where
he knows they come with requests but awkwardness is not the issue. The kernel
is appeasement the issue is avoiding the issue where honesty is perceived in
bodily sincerity—while uneasiness is spotted and one is alert thence one
utters: You don’t love me like I love you!
The
grass is plush those seas are majestic and the hills are inviting; seagulls are
gathering the sands are horizon and mathematical deliberateness has become
first nature; while a child might learn certain patterns they easily carry over
into realms where they seem inappropriate; but distance is mechanical and we
sense distance while everyone projects quicker than we reflect; this music we
play, at first so resistant, where most are quite vulnerable; those buildings
with skyglass or those senses with spyware so accustomed to the punchline; but
over yonder, they relish in vulnerability and they adjust to both the joys and
the loses.
