I have misunderstandings. I stand
underseas. behavior addles me. the lands have gardens, the deserts have
tumbleweed, humans have caprice or balance or a combination of both. most will
combat critique, steady on a debate, as aware enough to dislike critiques. that’s
enough on that.
oh magnetic source, souls of time,
the waves are crashing on the mountain. silt is moved, designs are uncovered,
spirit is in the air. in the distance—is a torchlight, oils are burning,
concentration is demanded. the skies are neutral, one big gaze, the planes are
fulvous. tender, raw dirt, palms to soil, fruits reaped in season. it seems
important, aside a breastplate, the madness of the scientist—the poet, the
windy clouds. if to see like others, if to see others like me, nothing seems to
appease much; wildwater, wilder hawks, it tends towards mimicry. gunshot
pressure—beautiful street art—but days are filled with cushion. those rising
states, coming to a space, in which, it becomes reclusive, changed, made
complete in silence. maybe an unwedded belief—where it seems evident—with expansion
comes isolation. upon a stone, with sand bearing witness, I give my sandal. an
odd gesture, for a woman’s hand, moving as we endure.
some elements seem normal—the key
is discernment—while centered enough to know differentiation.
