I aged
early on. I remember a tabby, a dark brown comforter, floorboards, a big cheap television,
beige smoked covered white walls, a furnace, a small kitchen, two rooms, high
running water—some type of bath tub.
it
seems hard to see self. most people never gain coverage. it’s like death where
media forgets about cultures.
church
wasn’t meditated. it’s more of a tailored habit. they were babysitting.
storage
space or storehouses or barnyards. to listen, sense inconsistency, but utter
nothing. we must nod. we still do. anytime we sit for lecture.
I regurgitated,
choked, or recriminated sentences. (where does critical thought happen?) for
many were wrought by emotion, disgusted by commonsense or it seemed absent.
(how
do you tell a person something isn’t clicking?)
we
had a Persian cat. I gave it to granny when it was a month old—I was seven at
the date.
something
aches but undisclosed while a world chases excellence; known as perfection,
adored for comforts, where wildness becomes deliberate entertainment.
I speak
about nothing, or I hit it on its sky, while rain would drop, I would go out
back, taste a bit, feel a bit, but return to sameness. by core we invest by
argument we listen but each is tender tenacity. “I am right, period! to
disagree is to wage war. I must destroy you!”
it
was a woman to fall at an age where I was wintered.
it
was pain mixed with ingredients he compelled a certain adventure.
one
would say, “Don’t leave!” another would say, “Try this.” “If not, someone else
will.”
a mellifluous
tone a static voice so low it seems inaudible.
I speak
of nothing. I say a few things. while a motor is running. some treasured engine
those exhaust pipes while reaching into America. by rage of its possum by
curiosity of its raccoon or stray animals chasing cars. to live in a house, to
find comfort in a house, but never secure in a given house. or traffic lights,
or school campuses, ever, to a degree, alone while moving. people do not nod,
people watch, or cultures entertain their culture. a wise man becomes what is
missing, he’s made into a necessity. one must teach artifice or suffer
invisibility, while most have a saga to share. (but what for little worlds:
jobs, careers, church—why else do we leave our homes?)
we
need groceries. we need clothes. we need a park, a bike, skates, a shikoku(s),
chihuahuas, or a St. Bernard. we need existence, on a baking sheet, where our
turkeys are just right. such ripe persons, studying personhood, fending for a
place at our tables. a heart for communion or voltage for communication where
passion is choking us.
