I
threw self away. a year later, I returned to pick him up. such debauchery. such
unresolved cages. or soil cleaving—it needs to get away. unpleasant honesty.
those vases watching. the bed is sandpaper or sawdust or open bottles. maybe
too many corkscrews, or too much rubber, our minds lapping up sorrow. I reframed my heart. I gave
allegiance to ink. I made paper a mistress. we fraternize. we dive deeper into
presumed paragraphs. we try harder to please standards. it would be reboxed this face that moment to hear
joy is alive again. I must interview. happiness is taking resumes. pain is
relying upon landmarks. over hills to gather berries or
under shadows to see my face. too
much thought. or lazy meditation. while many are problem solving. I palmed a sandcastle. I would remember in
slithers. I looked or sat on a rusty seesaw. nearby
was a baby. he laughed then cried. his mother was frustrated. we see it differently: the diapers the
availability the hours in multiple directions.
a
snail reminded me about issues; it was needle threaded, garment sewn, but
insistence tears the seams. we never count appliances. we never see
dressers. we do know more thoughts.
the mind grows accustomed, quite homogeneous,
while I chase against structure.
