Americans
are so busy. so theatrical. so much color, tone, as described in timbre. opera
is our intensity or classical instruments—such wealth in our suffering. we
admire an artist, we feel to see, we become vicarious agents; but do we know,
with claims like our children, where things are so real, so warm, or icy. some
are tepid as running neither extreme, where life is made flat. some are vets’
others are amateurs or some are too far to reach. a woman was fierce. it felt
like training. it felt like intestinal interrogation. (I hope I didn’t pass.)
I find
it easy to love, as a compassionate person, but it often hurts. I feel pride or
angst trying to adore something hurting me. it sounds like sap, up and until,
we examine our lives: our sunbirds, as in resurrection, or those few keeping us
strong. such a transformation such a change, a few are noticing spirit speak. I
once watched a monocle I was entranced but nothing changed but perception. have
you had that feeling, where nothing is real, while another is crying to you in
something you wrote?
I seem
deeper than I might be. I use me to know you. I am cruelly honest with myself.
my lady just said it, while analyzing my speech, she said, “You often put
yourself down.” it’s not that, I have a disposition, so, I remain humble. it
leaks out. the walls are bleeding. I must find breath, or freedom, or delusion.
I teeter
at gates, or fly into fantasy, it’s a shame we must run to find closure.
I have
no use for flesh. I respond to spirit. someone bright, brilliant, and brave; as
uncertain creatures, finding our path, as done while in dialogue.
some crux is liquor. I often drink. I
have yet to feel totally uncomfortable—but I see it coming. I can’t end quite
yet, without wondering in earnest, can we love like dying intensity? it seems
so casual, it aches in temperament, I keep checking the thermostat—same fever,
a cold fever, while I dream more of my projections.
