I appear
a dreary observer made privy too soon, if but to unwhisper behavior. a clock
has consciousness or mechanic at same pace no interruption. of course, we call
it inanimate something insentient but it seems to watch, it seems eternal, we
pride clocks and watches. a tree has oxygen it’s able to listen when sadness occurred,
she wept. I ran a finger down a vein into an orchard passed a farmhouse. I saw
a pig, it was communing with a spider, they seem ingenious. pure simplicity
after rawness of prose while a rooster just watches before orbiting … I have
seemed uncouth, some irrational animal, one might say I’m a jokester; another
sees paradox in a satiric universe, where another sees aphorism applicable to
locations. I do apologize if in another region things are ever with solace and
care. I rethink philosophy. I don’t have philosophy. I have pieces of parts
changing rapidly. I learned that. I was ignorant. I see why bad things happen.
in a court of horses, everyone is galloping, but not many are trained. there, in
a right-side corner, stands a dusty old dresser drawer. it has a yo-yo from
1970, a random set of ink pens, and a cup filled with pictures. or there, in
mental oakwood, aside cedarchests, next to an emotion—sits a portrait. mother
is tearless-crying, by rawness of texture, heated over inevitability.
stepfather looked different, it told me to remind him, if but to punish/beat
the seat of my breastmilk. some riddle some classification while it troubles
how we convince self—of mountains treaded with ease, or unheated savannahs, or
pleasant raccoons. I appear calm. I’ve unrattled many. while oblivious to an
aura. by call and response, inside a struggle, one noticed certain returning
fragments. winds were harsh a rose wilted a petal frozen into an iced stick—moonrise
was excellent or her candor was hurtful, I too noticed different realities for
different people—but often, similar screams. one home suffers from addiction,
another molestation, and another, from all above activities. or down afar, on a
beautiful street, even in ghettoes, a family of five are doing well. different
beliefs, even in religion, while some are protected. we dance this music, we
feel unborn, and it must be some cruel joke—played by some crude Artificer. to
wonder over our debates, or to watch a child die, because medicine is seen as
an omen.
