it looks fetching, or appeals to bombast,
or drills the invisible, pneumatic self. it becomes Plutarch where winds pose
messages somewhat uninvited but probing indistinctive senses: so much a knot,
while it tugs the gut-rope, where explanation becomes unreachable.
by
a glimpse or glitter so worn so wrestled while yanking/gnawing at cosmos.
I can’t magnet flying or undress malaise
as destined for the whetstone.
intense
presence by essence where souls struggle to master their words.
I flew in mesmerization I managed secrecy
while playing unfriendly cards.
the
thief in our kitchens the kleptomaniac in our palates or pain in our
jubilation. (I drive differently. I play poison differently. I reminisce by
binoculars.)
it was such treasure or muddy mirrors, its
applaud its absence. to feel goodness over unreality or given to delusion—its sweetness
its caustic soda its loosened metaphysics. where angst might damage into
lockers remaining closed or ideas so antiquated such resisted epistemology.
into a legacy such raw stories while some dislodge from our interiors: such
butterflies such orange-brown butterflies while lungs breakage to push forward
an identical emotion—thus, its pit, its belly, its inside-out decoration.
by
tribal currency or under-soft-particles while souls ponder the bowels of the
sky. (watching our sensitivities waxing in intuition or tiptoeing discernment.
at moments with oneness or under our wits as standing in rain—the movement of
airwaves those in-depth caves or so lost it was beautiful: to locate gravel to
grip exospheres or to feel wet, ashy grass.)
such
rose-watered fires or flames so harmful while hurt it felt like dark
reflection. our naught. our poet-rise or so secluded in a public world walking
suddenly. as knocking passively or desiring determination where a step has led
to another step.
