down a drain I sink,
swirling, I see a gnat, I swat at it—to no avail. pictographs appear, walls
close tighter, the mailman is at the door. I sigh inside, I hear a sentence, an
earbite, I grapple with greenness. air is heavy, nothing is good, frontal lobes
are heaving. I light a cigar, I grip a glass, I kneel to the floor; many
identities, none apropos, if I landed on truth—it must feel a certain way. most
have an idea it feels like a stowaway—we can’t contact certainty. maybe a
flower, balancing on a wire—maybe a frenzy, beneath a basement, an epiphany by
wreckage. I’ll shift topics—in a dear plea, to imagine a deferent aura, a
severed personality, many new characteristics. we know what we see, unless
aberrant, unless overstimulated.
by pain we mean a
feeling. it makes an impression. it realigns us—on a plateau unpleasing to our
perception. certain subtleties—caricature sensories, by casual seriousness. I
have discovered a hermit in a shadow wheezing over analyses; I have reglued a
mirror, mimed a message, it seems color is also noncolor. I’ll shift topics—to discuss
inadequacies, in a land believing in aches pitted in mistakes; maybe a
mandrake, if needing potency, maybe penalty, as self-afflicted; so close it
screams, so sullen, it never mattered, so resentful, it had to become total
disrespect. I arose from the floor, ashes speaking of bodies, outside, a longways,
sat an older man. I grabbed the remaining wine. I took it to him. he smiled gently.
I’ve said so little.
it doesn’t reach its kernel. it’s alarming how we cherish. I’d give more I believe,
as in a vault, vying for vivacity.
