the
cursive so flat so anti-cartoons—I need more than its sutures. or polyrhythmic
anxieties or corners so engulfed while a woman was held captive. such kenisic
arguments or a volt for homage at terrible failings; to dig for acceptance or
one so deep where yet so shallow—those hurting sandbags or the toddler’s
sandcastle while skies are so indifferent—or so impassionate while perception
cries where the handshake is with existence: so quiet those screams so loud
such silence where scars became essence or shadows or his dark countenance; polyester
suits or flashy berets while minds are finding such comes to an end. the
cursive walls those cursive ceilings as doors are slamming ever shut where
tomorrow is another conception. our pain says opposites it never tells crystals
where a woman might speak in topaz cursive. the shelter laughing the sweat
screaming or a big face maddened or looking for redemption. to wander spaces
such sartorial sentences where mother wouldn’t understand: the lone wolf those
carnivals while everything becomes tolerable. we need more than sutras or
scriptures or psychology—or psychiatry as it bleeds guts or awakens something
resting while therapy is dormant—those lakes those shores as tigers roam
islands; if but to arrest every memory or to cure in one session while its
intolerable to fathom why I must remember: it causes anger it distresses it
induces loneliness—such deceased wilderness such ashes smoked the crux has been
given to its past; where streetlights are watching or mother is dying such
ruminating hostility where one would empathize or suggest while one is too
disillusioned; to find meaning in something taboo, to need full on acceptance,
while society is turning a shoulder to one’s blight. so awakened to this. but
it isn’t my responsibility. it resides with family or friends. or some cedarchest
cardigan some relic in souls but pain is bigger than its victim.
