I feel like a
watchdog, peering at heaviness, trying to man the fence. it’s more than pain.
it sits inside, more than a phantom, we describe it with misnomers. many
overarching terms. many unstitched landscapes. I need to grab a pillow, bury my
face, and meditate for hours. so needled, so many anchors, I skate moving in
3D. I feel like a parable, upon a backstory, feeling and fretting and
fragmented. something is rotting out. something is moving in. this soul is
eating marble. I move slowly. I think of an audience. I have much to say, and
then I arrive late.
dusky wilderness, myrtle
flowers, nightmare diamonds. caves with children, penalties for kindness, there’s
an exorcism in Bethany. many dimensions, violet clouds, unclean heaviness. I rethink
logistics. I negotiate inner logic. I debate with the overseer in us. I merge
through thoughts, lost but located, carrying a new engine. maybe philosophy, or
literature—might shift an interior moon.
many are privy to
sadness, unbuckled in spaces, taking a sickle to a mental garden.
often, pain is on
a pedestal, as a star, as ruling element. so saturnine. so much instability.
not as actions, but interior margins. scraping sap. kneading ambition. sore,
uneasy, filled with toil to breathe. writing to unglue something, maybe a verb
will explode it, maybe insides are nestled in webs.
