I take issue with
life. its embarrassments, or attenuated sociality. I fret over demystification
or disillusion, insomuch, as, a daunting undertaking. I regret intruding,
causing fright, or stirring furor. it seems like tranquil angst or anguish or
some existential augur. I have become an acorn or a beehive or something having
difficulties. a daughter or a woman shouldn’t feel ashamed of loving others;
where a man must direct, dictate and lead an exemplary life. so amendable to
pain, the vessel leading unknowingly, where our souls are first defensive. so
much an island in a city where protagonists are raging over despair. I look
further, so dearly debunked, where a daughter is righteous in her anger. so, a
man writes, he becomes discouraged, where a psychologist points out the young
one is still in deliberation.
by denims or dreams so deceased but peddling forward.
to have died as of lately if but to listen to my eulogy: “Glenn was
complicated. He searched for diamonds in each person. He was existential in
this sense. His nature was inquisitive or abrasive where he needed a definite answer.
He lived in abstracts. He encouraged literary freedom. He saw women as angels,
or sinners, or a complex crosspollination. He was strong in service, a writer,
a theologian. Glenn was an avid reader, resonating with King Jr., Kierkegaard,
& Camus. He was a beloved member of esoteria, a mystic, sudden to love
without provocation. He died leaving behind a few we shall not disclose, for he
wanted it that way.”
not much on the
menu, or eyes have seen light, where many are wresting over new makeup (NARS)
or new Prada bags. I return, a never-ending
saga, addicted to nomadic centuries.
by fury of roses or roaring silence such salient
fevers; where problems multiply or yogis minister peace, or desire is so
over-thrilling it controls human motivation.
