side cliffs,
surrounded by trees, a man sits, rethinking his leap. it may come to pangs,
gaining wisdom, unscrewing steel chests. some social biology, the way we see
each other, those grandiose dispositions. holding with strength, magnifying
what disdains you, apologizing over birds vomiting. needing anesthesia for
pain, becoming numb inside, mainly dissatisfying pottery. she looked like
lusts. she stole violence in silence. some powerhouse machine, filled with
false pride, fraught by mudslides. such haven in hate, such heart cannisters,
much care to destroy anything untransparent. an incautious man is foolish, as
he proffers fey, so clear it’s confusing.
much better in
skin, much sin in music, many yogis carry a heaving yoke—so close it’s nearby,
creating inner states, carving leaky caves. the mind sitting, marinating in presence,
at a canal, scratching a smaller skunk. so much gasoline, too much gaslighting,
a man is driven into disbelieving his witnessing—they see, they know, they
concede to ambivalence. more statues, more iron, more delusion.
a glass of torpor,
at apathetic behavior, we wonder, “Why do they need us to care?” maybe, it’s healthy;
it makes things easier; people are more pliable; erstwhile, a soul is
considered divisive—simply by disenchantment. needing to show more, needing to
talk less, needing to taut, untalk, unvent—moving, racing, chasing inky mirages.
