I can
confess never a heartbeat as swarming its objectivity. giving so little
expecting so much while affection seemed monstrous. I passed a seesaw I remembered
an uncomfortable smile, like when a person looks broken, trying desperately, if
but skies by torrid clouds. mud flap ethics running in nakedness such as others
were careful.
they want beauty coming into
persistence where nothing is as beautiful as humans.
I touched an elephant. I brought it
home. it became an octopus. trekking sediments a rock in her shoe a check for
eighty-dollars. two weeks work twelve months dying while it gets no better. a
drug to manage, management became unmanageable, a family crumbles to catch
irony. but a man for mommy but a soul for lesbians while we see deeper
sensitivities. some need aeipathy, en-grounded affection, like everything is
its protests.
I can confess never a love
suspending its self-portrait. so keen to steal you, to filch your life, while
asking for more, from soul to brains, from hat to exosphere, into a pond picked
up for a present. it felt special, while doing nothing, where it never took so
much. like seaweed aside grassweed left with a palm of kelp.
I passed a park headed to a beach
with a cover charge. I saw her skating mother was moving a little boy was
seeming like laughter. so young to hide such non-imposition, where others are
taught to take. something they can’t bake, is a world of pride, or pain digging
into us like spurs.
what hope in a soul what useless
anything where everything has purpose! what tossing or turning, before it
became routine, oh how it feels to experience newness! like tears that effect
prior to seeing it too often. worries for souls, kids playing with boxes or a
pigeon coop as fun times. running faster or faster or socially fasting.
oxymoronic arguments. as in satire
popping up. some neat things are said off the cuff. a pocket of pimples, a hive
as a friend, or trying hard to cover the ante. a room with spiders, an attic
with mosquitoes, or grits for dinner with bacon. such harder stories such
wretched pains while a young girl is pregnant. a child having a child, we know
the old adage.
unwet uneasiness, or wet prayers, a
child shouldn’t pray so hard. “Billy’s a good kid, a strong kid, why’d he do
that for?” Billy captured his anger, touched his pain, and beat his father. too
much assaulting too many tears mother cried for a savior. now Billy can’t go
home, the anger is rawer, the father is a swamp. no mayflies! no ladybugs! nor
butterflies!
I can confess never altruism in a
needy California while we call it exchange.
