you see glory by intimacy or realism by
disbelief, to have loved with blinders, to have motion by paradox, with much
hanging in its satchel. I give so little or too much while most mourn loses:
the alien of his country, or a clown without a carnival, or a woman without a
lover. such wild courage such deep raging deceit while most are angered by
resistance. it gives emotion, while we wonder, concerning pure perception. as
never interviewing our behavior, but rather, asserting innocence, while a
little person points at fog. it was love by gradation or disenchant by absence
where those present have filled the void. so great a feat so much antipathy
where reality has taken a backrow agenda. a man reaching, but falling to
silence, where a mother is asserting his disvalue. the seesaw is broken. our
playground is sandless. where children are hurting for guidance.
its
predicament is based on premises where evidence in word of mouth; a pigeon
never leaves a coop a monster never is revealed or too much smarts is harmful:
our assumptions our patterns our physiological responses: as uncontrollable or
managed by ingestion, where we avoid such as understanding. but you will fly
such as to land on high with eagles made of gold. the phoenix in you, such gray
matter in brains, while realization is ever a chore. so faced with difficulty,
or ignoring all shadows, while forced to dislodge from your countrymen. such
sugar in cereal, or sauce with pasta, while we learn things often come in
pairs. with great dis-feeling to exaggerate one’s tolerance while we never
consider one’s self-depreciation.
mother
will always hate me: while I was younger, I noticed a phenomenon, despite
life or its activities, mother was always angry. it never depended on facts, it
was always misunderstood, where it participated in values most often met by
disapproval. it was never wrong, it was hypersensitive, where it was often
caught in fibs. it never took ownership, even while faced by overwhelming
evidence, it would then hold a grudge.
