tower.
story. hanger. ringing. shrink. aliveness. senses. writing. smoke. chimney.
soot. bells. nets.
what
is fog?
fog is stormy or scented or slosh.
by smoke we feel foggy or we seem clear or we see reality—its color, or tone,
or feeling. fog is musicality, or unfiltered, or a scream under muffling. fog
is murmur or memoir or fragment. so indebted to fog while breaking fog to again
being blocked by fog. fog is redemption or souls in pilgrimage or excellence
befogged by itself. to unveil fog is to redeem quality while fog leaves
uneasiness.
images.
frying
pan. sunset. mildew. Pontic. crossroads. yarn. rocket. journal. rings. numbers.
palm trees.
I am sunrise to seasons so sullen
into happiness. something perceives itself but it doesn’t see itself, where it
excuses itself. some rusty pliers or chips of our undertaking by spinning fan.
soft cotton for a displeased backboard or raw vinegar. to seize his design or
acrylic fire such intense flame. undertone heaters or freezing warmth or bland
salt. such boring complaints at rich blueness where most are undone. such
training wheels as forced into mirrors while one listens for our skies. such
washcloths such language as natural, where most are negotiating crossroads.
what is the main feeling?
the main feeling is a tower, some
screaming, its silence. its story is eastern or western or universal. our minds
see a hanger, we debate our history, we try to rethink those triumphs. the
feeling broadens it seldom reduces where we examine absurdity. such habits to
define feeling or to relocate mandalas. such smoky rings, into rocket-emotion
or to sense creativity. some ingenuity by crazed abandonment or to watch bells
raging in temples. nets for our minds or belts for our sociality, where
identity has become unnatural.
“where was it before you remembered it?”
it was in a closet aside a frying
pan where it was conversing with Irony. it was a darkened sunset the day was
red the horizon was orange. I sat in a Pontiac, disputing our memories, where
mother was cursing. something about golf clubs, or a journal, or numbers
looking like symbols. it was with numerology. or astrology. or some secret only
three would understand.
I sit in a room upon a bed the covering is turquoise. the light bounces, it paints drab white walls, the closet is ajar. a sheet is loose. I use it at night. I leave my feet out. I am in a cocoon or a feeling or pondering some strange imagining. I am at a market, looking at a bad acting soul, reduced to social silence. or I am on a campus, unseen, while missing out on what I perceive. lastly, I am in a portal, feuding with particles, while holding on to oil.
