I
imagine therapy—how it activates, where one says, “You got it,” or another says,
“I don’t know how to help you.” by fierceness another says, “I don’t do
therapy,” such pure contradiction. a man is worked on, from day one, in hopes
of creating sensitivities. while one is crossed out, dealing by timidity, where
Love is vicious. I disappear from that or return with issues while days are
intricate confrontations. I would love a woman, purely by instinct, unaware
that some are more compatible. or I would look at structure, as thinking
frigidity, while Love was business suit and passion. so alive those nights, it
was pleasure or fame, as to arrive so late during our majesty. indeed, I disappear
laughing at rules where we’re never certain. one might die with compassion, one
might thrum the streets, or another might need too much; our relaxed souls
where we miss intelligence if but to confess, “We might own ourselves.” such irresistibility
so early on while I pined like Goliath. such an odd reference, but he wanted
power, indeed, to override and torture an entire nation. but Love was satire or
Love was statuesque, or better, a stately woman; as Love was multiple pictures,
or multiple flowers, or skies with faces. forthwith, I was timid, or forthwith,
I was quietude, or struggle and dynamite to walk away while something simmered
for all unknown.
