So
much to sit stillness those gates fluttering such aluminum such foreboding. I’ve
tried to unbuild it to divide it into parts if but deeper inspection; but minds
are delicate, reputations are tarnished, plus, dissection looks similar to
pain; so unbuilt so unbolted where screws are missing; to gather ribs plus
nails to understand those graces while denying fallibility.
I
felt a spark followed by interior winds while I sat by deconstruction; our
broken nucleus or our concentrated psychology while we are desperate for
individuality. Those shattered ideologies this proof-system while often it becomes
a dishonest feeling; indeed, one has been thinking so much, for near half a
century, where renegotiation seems delusion; the world is flat, no, the world
is
round, well, let us see! Our
issue is confusing—for we yearn to see—but not much effort is put forward. Those
held views seeming so intimate while disproven under close scrutiny. We become
disgruntle, we imagine a smartass, instead of reevaluating our theories.
Such argumentation—such divine
winds—while few become clarity!
I
was flogged, rebooted, and subjected to negligence; our world was natural, it
became normal, until it was compared: a child has a feeling they are open to
verification and once they see it—it becomes apparent. So little to change where
I see this habit while strong there something is lacking elsewhere; this ride
we make those wheels we select or those idols we adore; to hear my aches or to
evaluate my spirit while too close to particular inadequacies; as never such confession
where we each feel it but something believes others are not aware. I reappear
to self—no need for intentional depression—especially, considering my
mind-frame.
Unbuild the mulatto. Restructure
the mestiza. Tell the hybrid she has found a home.
We
make declarations we forebear the truth or we lie to avoid such realities; such
racial motifs, but exclusivity fits in, where inclusivity is frowned upon; a
small ladybug as it crawls through palms to sudden upon a visceral tear; our
heaving guts our soul-printed minds where we are doing yoga; but congratulate the
quadroon, tell her life is easy, or feel such pitted concern.
It is towering cliché, as
pointing but puppets, while living with an earthquake. This pillar we search
for the faith we put in strangers where a person puts self in harm’s way; those
landscapes, this powerful imagery, if but sold to silence; courtyard psyches,
or graveyard harbingers, at church-grounds seeking something similar; those
huge questions, this construction of meaning, while deconstructing even last
year’s findings. Our belief-system is convoluted, it tends to make little
sense, while hardcore science is alienation. What becomes our balance?
