some aren’t
satisfied. gravel, mud, sediments—eating, dining, trying not to vomit. in
company of poison, analyzed like it matters, told more than suitable. family
suffering. passion dying. it becomes robotic. some aren’t satisfied. never for
others, never for self.
saw an ant,
watched it zig zag, it looked disoriented … for upon a line, like raiding
gnats, something distresses the line.
so absent, like too far, laughing in a lonely corner.
padded rooms, lost
in brains, society might look like a sickroom—better, a hospital.
we have idiosyncrasies
we never remeasure—others must accept our idiosyncrasies.
a pocket filled
with lint, cemetery linen, a goblin watches his caves.
so much us-verse-them,
like souls tatted verse souls preserving the castle—so pristine, so fortunate,
like hell didn’t strike last night. some aren’t satisfied. like suffering
agoutis. the riddle never changes—it remains with sameness, like flesh observed,
like flesh mangled.
upon a record, in
a small valley, trekking a sad decision. aching like it felt good. damned like
it felt good. at mother hoping father comes.
bad things associated
with good things, how to deal with a paradox? bad money, a good cause,
wondering how he caught a blessing. a television is off, a radio barely
audible, a darkroom she entered.
some aren’t
satisfied. do we mention love? it didn’t complete its task. a man in his mind.
a woman in her skin. their interchangeable.
internal cacophony.
a capella existence. so cold he might say, I can only verify my life.
in truth, do we
see others—how do we verify them? —it sounds absurd!
some aren’t
satisfied.
