I
would un-die in order to love again while behaviors remained passive. I would
become aggressive as just to see while a woman was receptive. I’d eat marsh,
quaff a six pack, or sit in utter silence. television talked to itself, a woman
sat by absorbed in thoughts, while we expected entertainment. I imagine, and
bear with me, as greeters, behavior is contagious. so she acts it out, we
follow example, as similar responses become normal. a sophisticated/trained
creature, a dignified/nasty creature, while doors protect our dear infatuation.
if two are writers, they vibe differently, where one catches her muse another
is baffled. like gateways or portals hiding or a commission past due.
I have met women, too dangerous to
define, too decent to suspect. both secular or religious or both. a soul is
curious, depth is its audience, where too many words vitiate attraction. like
wedgewood, as it descends, a perfect, audios!
I
have thought in depth for one I cherish while it weakens its own claims.
upon an axiom or a stereotype while
many women are smarter. we ask in ourselves, high chakra or low charka,
deciding on both for golf. what would we do with each other? when would we cry,
grip a palm, and apologize? sweet rich vinegar, a man panders, her smile
reappears. or feeling callous like making sewage where a tender passion effaces
such grayness.
experience is twofold, it conditions
for greatness, it numbs or dulls receptivity.
I loved what was mystery. I placed
unknowingness on a pedestal. I carried my cage. an argent star such pure
astronomy while more to reading than living. a beaut in pain, a barrier in
shame, while I might want but never suggest. if but to die as assimilated to
return as next-door neighbors. to grow as playing games to fall for affability.
such kindness at first, such rhythm by devastation, such a mind at critical
assessments. to need like rapaciously to harbor deeper concerns where a
neighbor becomes an old flame. he’s always there, with niceness as his burial,
until another is seen through a window.
I must be honest, while an octopus
is livid, I wonder deeply of over-possessed spirits. they chime differently,
minds are computing rapidly, where certain cues are quickly processed.
I read contemporaries. I drift into
souls. I see common threading(s). such literature friendship. such tropes as
mementoes. or over their arc into a side in its valley. another I wonder, as in
a pseudonym, for Anguish is quite secretive. a life in hiding, I know its
cadence, while it seduces its feathers.
I heard an antiphon (a verse in
prayer). I kissed a private hiss. I longed to be where I assumed it was safe.
such amazing assumption, just
because of aura, while most might agree, we are desperate for satiation, driven
by ambition, while unlocking where we mourn our past behavior.
some are fortunate. they unlock
others. they destroy by sheer overwhelming passion.
we
desire our horses. we kick goads. we wrestle with something inside: a place for
castles, a dream wailing, a coal severing into unspoken chambers. as to die in
orgasmic agony, or to overreach climatic destruction, with a soul just is passing
through quadrans.
so fierce in fluidity, so cozen we
absorb it, as unzipped creatures never such heaving. more unboxed more a
storehouse to have met a person similar in souls.
I invite us to take a look, to unweave our
peculiarities, to reprint our desperations. to listen to our cadenza to inhale
our orchestra or to unknit our symphony. as asymmetrical beings, inside of our
skulls, where aloneness has become protection. so false in its promise, such
time with fear, while life is racing clearing kilometers. precious intensity,
cautious wires, where most often we look over at ourselves.
