point
to a chair, unravel a squared piece of paper, remember southern blackness.
uncage linen, examine masks, more of times, more ashamed. so remiss in its
kitchen, a psychiatrist is cooking, emotions are thawed, penalty is sewn, a
sickle to disorder. a resilient linchpin, it’s tested, resistance shows
anomaly, we’d suppose, normality, in chills made fire, never a clue to
penmanship. calligraphy eyes, a soul pressured, a cave where he sits, a chair
is sturdy. a bit of humor, a psychologist is smarter, a therapist is learning
pain. sky vacuums or variegated colors, Larry just got a vasectomy. maybe for
pleasure. it’s reversible. maybe she asked. back to my chair, absorbing my
heat, securing my discomfort. as never smarter than tables, as never so much
gumption, as never a surface for writing. a table sees action, a chair sees
butts, smells, rewashed garments. water runs into silence, a naked body enters
vulnerability, sipping wine, packing a bowl, inhaling gently, coughing up
smoke, giggling for some reason.
a
chair knows much, it hears muffled sounds, it feels movement. far in distance
lies a concerto, a feeling, like a voice to a frightened seed. a desk listens,
atoms continue moving, it makes a sound: creaking, trembling, fretting its
weight. it was a stick on a rug it caught my attention; it was a portrait to a
wall, it made sense. at a fire in simplicity, such short expatiation, I sense
why it went platinum. hickory, even hay, many dear southern secrets.
my
chair is her chair is his chair. impersonal roughness. aggravated analyses. empirical
science. at pseudepigrapha finding nomadic truths, determined by experience. to
suit intelligence, not a microscope, so, it might be jettisoned. too many of
those, not enough of those petals, not normally made so difficult. symbolic
rope, every rope is symbolic for blacks, unless effaced, erased mentally,
ordered to recant.
