…so
arranged this way, so accustomed to flame, while attracted neatly; or alone
with chills, another sample, another terror so gutted so furious; this
intensity while relaxed into fire or friction or damages; this east wind this
young weather this cut-throat universe; to ask for penalty to need closure if
but to hurt me in order to adore me; such acidity so forced to scream while it
was tender or malicious or something to become addicted to—those airwaves this
fury in those eyes this bleeding such flowers those devious eyes; as abused or
dissociative or features dying for normality—those winter hands those ashy
knuckles this light this penalty this gift for my sins; so angled by webs or
aflame a nightmare as some so afflicted without conscienceness; this endangered
character this soul-chase or mother’s infant project….
I must
be a trait, something confusing winds but I don’t act like that; but trauma
into lives where pain constructs its responses; this koan asking or deliberate
or needing its essence. I wasn’t born this wedge. I was nestled in disorder. But
the key is this: they say souls are incorrigible.
I can
imagine watching us, so concerned, while taking notations. It’s never a normal
this, it’s never something redeemed, while we play intimacies; so condemned
this way, while it flusters—if but to study something thirty-years and not
become its literature. It becomes absurd, this dangerous creed, while it has
become legal.
…but
not too much, where we gaze and listen, while I have known you, for I have
understood something must be there….
It was
days into elevation. It was becoming smarter. Where I never understood or expressed
charm. It was asking of nonchalance, a pencil into our thoughts, to see more of
this trait in others. I never controlled much; but this is tricky, for any
resistance—is a play for control. I would giggle but this is my life while this
page holds several feelings; those weird behaviors, this angry countenance,
while no person ever changes. This lived lie, where one is lethal, to have done
a number on that closet. I can’t resist; but try to fathom: if a monk gets
angry, he may say something hurtful. This need to imbalance oceans or this
fierceness against calmness or this necessity to advertise each emotion. This is
normal. It lives in cultures. But Hindus have a custom, it’s alarming, but we
must say, that is normal for that culture. It seems relativistic. And this is a
deep concern, while it must be examined, for America can’t be the sole
backboard.
To build
a theory there must be evidence and it must be irrefutable. I’ll admit a bit of
frustration.
I’ll
admit a little distraction. But something more than that is a bit too much.
How have
the roses bled how have the skies birthed us or how has the millennium frightened
us so?
into
traumas
while never a word but stern fixation. But let’s say, yes, aside for
notification, a little watching, not much is accomplished. So much an
intrusion. Or so much beloved. While reading is somewhat its cause.
Indeed,
nothing
but more to study, nothing but more to endure, and honestly, there isn’t
by fixing.
