some
have purpose or destiny where others have survival or endurance. those sad
tunes or an endless forest—what shall his grave read?
so touched the curve while one dies where
father was abusive or daughter is resentful or son is distant. those familiar
eyes those understanding indifferences while mother kneeled down and said, “Mommy
is an addict.”
such rage fomented such fury stirred—what
is bleeping addiction? […] this rapid animal this island so public those
behaviors, but they must be hers.
at a brown kitchen table or a
standing mirror like, how in hell in there a settee in our ghetto? so divorced
from identity such unthought existence where rest is a form of closing doors.
so soft those years while hardening gradually where one doesn’t fit with too
many. a mahogany dresser a speckled cedarchest or those letters from those
fears.
I closed you out; not because of
you, but because of indicative behaviors. or I loved one more, as some sick
creature, for I saw bipolar energy: so accursed such a vacuum while stressing
enlightenment: such an omen such contradiction while rather with it than without
it.
one hears a ladder fall. one thinks
curiously. or one returns to reading. a little thump. or a maze. where one is
left to his imagination. he ignores it. it happens again. he pauses. (such
needs for you such gray so distressed insomuch as a field of red tape; in
truth, a man sacrifices logic, crucifies reasoning, only to ask, “Why didn’t
it work?”)
[I saw a woman on PCP. I gave her
milk. she poured it out.]
if to look inside, we might see
carnivals or pimps or harlots. we might see teachers, doctors, or friends. we
often see answers. but it took some time. where one has trained like Olympians.
I never quite received it. it took a
woman to depict its contours. while many called us cold; for people act a
certain way, unless altered, but anomaly becomes its focus. (it seems unstable
to create fiction while looking for an authentic response. but actors are in
script, they chime so dearly, where it starts with fabrication, but it ends in
an avalanche.)
trust is poke-a-dots or plaid
patterns or a delicious feeling, plus, a spoon of vinegar. it must be reviewed,
or maintained, where one determines by capacity. if to drift if to dance while
life is its computers. so many signs where most are inconsiderate, while this
speaks to trust. (to have his feelings, to spill his coffee, or to look in
expectation; such a social drum as we desire affectation where one might be
drained.)
broken bed frames. an urban ottoman.
thus, a mattress on its floor. (we overlook love or fantasy or their darkness.
we stand closer to illusion. where we fight, if informed, the arts of delusion.)
to say so little where behaviors are behavioral or false imprints in a mind
aloof to its behaviors. one is discomfort, occupied by negativity, as trying to
discern something offering little evidence. by subtle elegance or eloquent
silence where it becomes a strain; for he had a chance, or he said something
mistook, where he should have given praise. (in life it will reign as true:
some people have too much on the line to care what one says about their
methods: it requires experience, or pleated understanding, or even a walk in
their shoes.)
I feel mother at times. her
personality got into me. and father’s indifference makes its appearance. I see
people I have met. I drift for a second. I return to a given course.
it seems normal to have ideals, or
to feel attraction, (while we accept it, there’s an intrusive line). […] yes. I took that into account.
I
was adolescence. the pictures are foggy. but I see mother.
