it
seems so ancient those cries in us those engines we oil. to see a pattern some
condition while art still loves. thus, a bleeding musical, a furious
measurement, a scale after solace. I could raindrop or struggle, I’d prefer
become a hermit man. some sick tradition something we must muse while it haunts
over a hundred percent of animals. I called my God. I wedged a wager. we wait
to see. by malaise its storm where souls become anomalies. “I did it for time. I
refused humanity. I acted against consensus.” many gestures aren’t received, or
many are unread, but I spoke to a face looking at its floor. I spoke to a
psychologist. she knows I try. we marvel a little a silent wave. so much an
apricot, dipped in gin, I can’t un-wrestle pain—those violent shivers such raw
trembling to have importance in another life. by alchemic races or a little
more wine while I’ve never hurt so much. — but we must confess, if to raise a
finger, a soul has been its beast; so distressed as discouraged as time tinkles
in a can. it was pure summer or winter but it wasn’t spring or autumn. I sat at
a computer, writing what seemed an opus, drifting into some face by stillness—such
motion such rapture such goodness; to feel like Jesus to feel most holy to
believe in its purpose. I bathed in disbelief but I couldn’t disbelieve, it was
raw or hectic or possessed; some are aware, an old friend may chuckle, a woman
would attest to it was uncertain. could we take its pain? by volume of its
circumference—where a man is so much in his direction? [!]
I would love like silly or courage like graves to sit in bed like
undergoing hospice. so lost asking to feel found while most overlook artifacts.
something was askew, speaking as if past tense, a man better, but un-whole. I
can’t fit there, for time says so, while there is special, so
distinct, so put in order. I left
myself where it blurs those happenings while it becomes unsteady—by voice of
its eagle by rage of its falcon, where one says, “You can’t claim those
experiences!” [!] Alaska is cold. those days of darkness. it
feels like its soul. frozen rivers inside, forced reality checks, damaged
receptors. waterfalls stunned in station as eyes are dry. by tundra or tarot or
talent bleeding. too abstract or so
concrete, while I have failed to love forever. some dear fallacy some dear lie where I wonder
if love has its correlation. eight
months of hibernation or years in public where no one was truly there. what has
it meant? when would one know? as here, at a second, to claim it? [!]
such sunflakes as radiance as gorgeous nature. at twelve months of fertility,
or three years trying, or a decade feeling something is inappropriate. chainsawing
oceans. digging deeper. surrounded by alienation. dippers have travelled, our
souls are indistinct, so we call it by our personalities. so born internally,
as no one might see, to get lost in one, we will survive! [?]
I never measured you. I couldn’t see you. it seems strange to feel you.
such mystery as related to mind where too much concentration becomes its
universe. our Caribbean Moon. our Italian Romances. where something is
reignited. such a moment’s gaze it
means so much where one was thinking of dinner. by Sahara winds so close to us
or so divested it becomes inversion. to listen inside to become meditative
where it wouldn’t matter much. like
an aye-aye watching, I stare from afar, but I will give it to strangeness. to see a flying squirrel as it lands in
some random dirt. such a random creature so aged with time reminiscing on some
terrific terror. cameras are flashing its mind is rummaging or her thoughts
would isolate us. [?] aside a mantis, asking questions, it
leaped away. so much to mania, so much to doctors, where in public—we just can’t
give it credence. while it arrives, it stands out, it notices a lonely inclination.
by a cactus near thickets while souls become unconscious weeds.
